Jane Austen Made Me Do It (11 page)

“You may find me at the White Hart. I breakfast at nine.”

Mademoiselle de la Neuve grasped Harcourt's jacket furiously.
“No!”
she cried. “You will
not
fight him! He will of a certainty kill you!”

“Do not worry your pretty head, my sweet.” The rake bowed with exquisite grace. “The man has not yet been born who may put Harcourt underground.”

A rustle of silk in the doorway brought all our heads around; Eugènie, Dowager Duchess of Wilborough.

“Desirée,
ma chère
,” she called gaily, “we long to hear you! Will you not sing a little?”

The Witch drew a single breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the torchlight with a smile upon her face.

“But of course,
ma tante
. Anything you would ask—for you, who have been so good to me!”

“I think,” Lord Harold muttered in my ear, “we should repair to the library, Jane. Would you care for a few lobster patties and champagne?”

“Is she
really
your mother's niece?” I asked, as Lord Harold closed the library door upon the sound of Mademoiselle de la Neuve's glorious singing, and set a plate of supper before me. I was established on a sopha in front of the blazing fire, surrounded by the rich leather binding of books; the room glowed from the numerous branches of candles the Dowager had caused to be lit. Rain had begun to tap at the windowpanes, and I was alone with the Gentleman Rogue; I was deliciously conscious of behaving in a manner Mamma should not approve at all.

“She is the granddaughter of my mother's oldest friend—who perished in the Terror, along with her parents and brothers,” Lord Harold said. “Desirée was in Switzerland at the time, enrolled in a convent school; she should not have survived else.”

“How does she come to be in London?”

The grey eyes glanced up at me; the Rogue was preoccupied with opening a bottle of champagne. “On a visit to my mother—who, despite fifty years' residence in England, preserves a fondness for all things French. Tho' I must believe the fair Desirée was despatched on an errand of espionage,” he said calmly. “A ravishing girl with a beautiful voice and friends highly-placed among the
ton …
such opportunities do not often fall in Buonaparte's
way! She has been going on exceedingly well, too, until this evening. I have observed her progress these many weeks—and aside from a trifling few articles I have managed to intercept, I should judge that Desirée has set the entire Admiralty by the ears!”

“But how is this?” I wondered. “A girl whose family was murdered by the mob—and she would dedicate herself to Buonaparte's cause?”

“To the
Emperor's
cause,” Lord Harold corrected. “He is quite the darling of the younger set in Paris, you know, and becomes more aristocratic with every successful battle. After quitting her convent, Desirée was raised in the home of Admiral Villeneuve, who was once a friend of her father's. Hence her stage name—
de la Neuve
. She has taken it in gratitude to her foster parents.”

“—And offered to spy for Villeneuve as well?”

“Certainly. That bit of amorous nonsense you observed on the balcony was but a deft manner of passing information.” Lord Harold handed me a cup of champagne.

“The paper Harcourt thrust into her bodice? It was no love-note?”

“I should dearly love to have secured it—but I dare swear it was the latest disposition of Nelson's fleet. Harcourt is secretary to the Duke of Clarence, Jane, who is privy to Naval secrets; and they have been spilling rather frequently to the Enemy of late. Admiral Villeneuve broke the Blockade and slipped out of Toulon as recently as the thirtieth of March; and no one may say in which direction he sails, or what he intends. The great sea is a vast and utter blank. Nelson fears some assault is planned—the invasion, perhaps, of England in the offing.”

He spoke with bleak simplicity; but his words could not fail of a listener. I knew that Lord Harold had recently been consulting
with Nelson at Gibraltar; my brother Frank, in command of the
Canopus
, sailed with Nelson on the Blockade. Our nation's peril was, more intimately, my family's peril.

“She must be stopped!” I cried.

“Hush,” he soothed. “What else were we about this evening?”

“A lover's quarrel,” I retorted. “Your jealous rages.”

“She is a clever minx, is she not?” He tasted the wine and sighed. “But not so clever as Harcourt. That was a piece of brilliance, challenging me to a duel. If he kills me, my suspicions of treason die with me—and he will have no recourse but to flee to France, to avoid being taken up for murder. As France is undoubtedly his object in any case, he cannot have devised a better plan.”

“You will not
meet
him, of course,” I said in horror. “You will turn him over to the Admiralty!”

“—And reveal that a certain fatuous Royal duke has been robbed of Nelson's secrets, by his trusted aide?” Lord Harold's lip curled. “Clarence will not thank me, if I air his dirty linen in pub-lick. Harcourt counted upon
that
, too, when he challenged me tonight.”

I cordially hated the man. “What can be Lord Harcourt's motive for such infamy?”

“He is a gamester,” the Rogue replied indifferently. “Run off his legs with debt, Jane. His is a tragic folly—a once honourable son of an honourable house, who sold his soul at the faro-table. You may be sure Villeneuve pays him well.”

“Have you considered, my lord,” I said slowly, “that killing
himself
, and not
you
, may be Harcourt's object in seeking this duel? The Great World reckons you a deadly shot. A single ball at Lord Harold's hand may be infinitely preferable to a traitor's death on Tower Hill.”

Lord Harold's brows lifted coolly. “I should never do the blackguard the honour of killing him, Jane. I should have to quit England, else. Naturally, I shall aim wide.”

I do not think I closed my eyes the whole of that night; and as I appeared at the breakfast-table looking hagged to death, I won a lecture from my mother—who perceived at an instant that I had
not
partaken solely of lemonade in Laura Place. I ate a little dry toast and tea, and begged leave to throw off my fit of the sullens in an arduous walk up Beechen Cliff—where my mother was certain never to follow me.

In point of fact, I made immediately for Laura Place, despite the appalling earliness of the hour. Lord Harold had expressed the intention of waiting upon Harcourt at breakfast—and if luck was with me, might still be abroad on his errand. I did not wish to meet the Rogue; it was the Witch I was after.

I sent up my card to Mademoiselle; on the obverse, I had written—
Regarding Lord Cecil
. I was not surprised when she received me—in dishabille, before her dressing table, her hair undone and a brush in her hand. She was exceedingly lovely.

“Who are you,” she demanded, when she had sent away her maid, “and what would you dare to say to me of Lord Cecil?”

If I felt a strong desire to shatter her mirror, I may perhaps be forgiven.

“I shall come straight to the point,” I returned. “Harcourt intends to kill Lord Harold Trowbridge tomorrow at dawn—to save himself from the scandal and ruin necessarily involved in the charge of
traitor
. You, mademoiselle, have ensnared the fellow in this web of despicable deceit, and now fear for his life. Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong,” she said in a voice aching and low; “I did my best, me, to shield him—I did not give up the paper—but it
was as nothing! He was
enragé
—he would throw his life away to defend my honour! He does not know that 'Arry will of a certainty kill him!”

“Is Harcourt accounted a good shot?”

She shrugged with Gallic eloquence. “I do not know this. I only know that 'Arry has shot scores of men in duels! He is famous for killing, that one!”

The Rogue's reputation in France far exceeded even his exploits, it seemed; he would be no end gratified to learn of it. But I saw no reason to improve the lady's faulty understanding.

“There might be a way you may save Harcourt,” I said. “Give up that paper he stole from the Admiralty. Tell Lord Harold what his lordship most wishes to learn—the movements of the French fleet.”

She frowned at me warily. “Are you mad? You would trap me! You would see me hanged!”

I sank down beside her and took her hand—the very soft, white article that had slapped Lord Harold so fiercely. “Do you love Harcourt very much?” I enquired.

“To the point of madness!” she cried.

“—And would do anything to save him?”

“
Mon dieu
—but anything!” She turned streaming eyes to mine. “Can it be that you will help me? But
why
? —Why should I trust you,
hein
?”

“Because
I
would do anything to save Lord Harold,” I retorted drily. “Now listen, mademoiselle. Here is what we must do.”

When the two men met on a flat stretch of ground adjacent to the Kennet & Avon canal, at precisely six o'clock yesterday morning, with their Seconds soberly pacing the ground and examining the pistols; with good Mr. Bowen, the surgeon, waiting to turn his
back upon the opponents in expectation of an act his medical oath should not countenance; with a swift curricle-and-four standing ominously in readiness, to bear Harcourt away to the port of Bristol—Mademoiselle de la Neuve and I were there.

The duelists did not see us, of course; Desirée was too adept an Adventuress for self-betrayal, and I was something of a Student of Deception myself. She had paid off the boot-boy at the White Hart to overlisten the Seconds' conversation, establishing the hour and place of meeting; and after that, it was mere child's play. We hired our hacks at the livery-stable in Milsom Street, and rode out to the ground before dawn; tethered our mounts in a coppice, with feed-bags to their noses; and awaited the gentlemen's pleasure. By the time they arrived, both Mademoiselle and I were shivering to the bone—from apprehension as much as the raw Spring weather.

We lay flat on our stomachs, our gowns fearfully crushed beneath us, the cold seeping through our stout pelisses. We were invisible to the combatants; but our view of the ground was admirable.

Lord Harold and Harcourt stood with their backs together, and their pistols raised; at a word from one of the Seconds, they began to pace carefully apart. Lord Harold wore black; his coat was buttoned to his neck; he would offer no obvious target to his killer. Harcourt was more careless; an expanse of cravat was exposed by his broad lapels; and a sudden fear assailed me.
How could he be so sure of taking his man?

I rose up on my knees, and Desirée rose with me. In an instant she was off at a run toward the dueling ground, reaching its edge just as the two men turned.

Their pistols were leveled—the count begun—

Desirée intended to hurl herself at Harcourt on the count of
two
, in the hope of pushing him off balance and out of harm's way. It was her only hope, she believed, of thwarting Lord Harold's deadly aim and saving the life of her Beloved.

It was
my
hope she would foil Harcourt's shot—which I suspected would be straight for his lordship's heart.

I had not calculated on a gamester's risks; upon a man determined to win at any cost. I had not thought a
gentleman
should so demean himself as to
fire in advance of his opponent
.

But on the count of
two
, Lord Cecil fired.

I saw Lord Harold thrown back—saw him spin, and fall to the ground—saw Bowen the surgeon leap forward to tend his patient—and saw Harcourt raise his second pistol.

He meant to despatch Lord Harold like a dog
.

Even as I ran toward the Rogue in a fever of despair, Desirée hurtled into her Beloved—and the pistol discharged harmlessly into air.

I confess I did
not
take a turn on the Gravel Walk this morning.

The quelling personage who served as butler in Laura Place informed me that Her Grace was not at home to visitors; and when I enquired for Lady Desdemona, the reply was the same. I must be content with sending in my card; but as I turned away, the door was flung wide, and I perceived Desdemona's anxious face.

“Miss Austen!” she cried. “Come in at once—Uncle is asking for you!”

I hurried up the stairs in her wake. “How is he?”

“Better—the fever has broken, and he is able to rest a little. The doctors do not now despair of his life. But only think of it—
Uncle
fighting a duel over Mademoiselle de la Neuve, whom I did not believe he cared a particle for! It is beyond everything! And
Kinsfell is certain she is gone to the Continent with Lord Cecil—Kinny was Uncle's Second, you know, and witnessed the whole! My poor grandmother has taken to her bed!”

“She has had a great deal to bear,” I murmured.

Lady Desdemona scratched at a bedchamber door, and peeped around it carefully. “Uncle! Are you awake? I have brought Miss Austen to you! Do not overtire him,” she warned me. “It is vital that he rest.”

I nodded, and heard the door close behind me.

The Rogue was propped up on a wealth of pillows, his left shoulder bound in a bandage. His pallor was considerable, and the lines on his face had deepened overnight—but when his eyes fell upon me, they were as cool and clear as ever. He held out his right hand imperatively. I went to him.

“I have some memory of you on the dueling ground,” he said, “tho' you cannot have been there, Jane. Was I dreaming?”

“You were not, my lord.”

“A lamentable contest, I fear.”

“Harcourt fired before the count!”

“Blackguard,” his lordship said carelessly. “And so they are off, then? To the Continent?”