Page 103 of Tremaine's True Love
* * *
“No wind,” George said. “That’s a good thing.”
The lack of wind was a matter of indifference to Tremaine. “What’shedoing here?”
Herewas a clearing in the Belle Maison home wood, one apparently denuded of deadfall and brush by the enterprising Chalmers lads. Patches of snow alternated with bracken and bare, frozen ground.
“Horton is the only physician in the neighborhood,” George said, “and you’ve agreed to face a fellow over a pair of loaded pistols. When you’re through dispatching Nash, you might consider shooting me. Nicholas is the magistrate and takes a dim view of ritual murder because it upsets his countess.”
Other people had woes and worries. Tremaine recalled that as he passed his coat to George. The cold air would wake Nash up, which struck Tremaine as fair, if loaded pistols were involved.
“What would the lovely Mrs. Nash have to say about your demise?” Tremaine asked, passing George two gold sleeve buttons and rolling back a cuff.
“As long as you kill Edward first, Digby will inherit Stonebridge, so Elsie would manage. I’d like to survive until my wedding night though.”
“I thought as much,” Tremaine said. “Will Bellefonte truly be upset with you?”
George draped Tremaine’s coat over William’s saddle. “He’ll be upset that he couldn’t be here and must instead bide at home with the womenfolk, pretending he’s not worried to death about you. Nash is not accounted any kind of shot.”
“He’s no kind of man,” Tremaine said, “though I won’t be his executioner. Did you know his youngest brother had taken liberties with your sister?”
A man facing death lost his tenuous grip on the niceties of polite conversation. Then too, George was apparently a friend willing to waive those niceties. Across the clearing, Nash was bouncing around as if boxing with an imaginary sparring partner.
“Norton Nash was a handsome charmer,” George said, “but he’s a dead handsome charmer. Nita never said a word, though Addy Chalmers’s situation bears consideration. Addy was a decent girl until she turned up with child shortly after Norton joined up.”
“And we’re told life in the country is boring,” Tremaine said.
He was not afraid to die. Every shepherd stranded in the high pastures in the midst of an early winter storm came to terms with death. A businessman impersonating a Frenchman on a Continent wracked by war attended to the same reconciliation.
But Tremaine St. Michael did not want to die. He did not want Nita burdened with his death, and he did not want to give up hope that somehow, he and Nita might come to terms.
“I’ll see if your opponent is done impersonating Gentleman Jackson after a few pints too many,” George said, clapping Tremaine on the shoulder and crossing the clearing.
Tremaine had no patience with the aristocratic lunacy of “the field of honor.” Life was precious, and he’d no more blow Edward Nash’s brains out over a few stupid words than he’d drive his sheep into the sea.
And yet, Lady Nita Haddonfield’s good name could not go undefended any longer. Her brothers were bewildered by her, her sisters fretted for her, but none of them defended the honor of the only woman Tremaine knew who battled death with no thought for herself. Horton’s criticisms, the vicar’s snide sermons, Nash’s sneering condescension were unacceptable.
Ingrates, the lot of them.
Nash’s heir might be dying of lung fever but for Nita Haddonfield, her courage, her generosity, and her command of medical science.
As George conferred with Nash’s seconds—he had two who apparently knew little about the entire undertaking, because they’d had to consult Dr. Horton frequently—Tremaine was smacked by an insight.
He was risking death because of a stupid slur to Nita’s good name. When Nita risked death,she at least did so in the name of restoring some helpless soul to good health.
Though Nash would delope. The bad shots always deloped rather than expose their lack of skill.
“Gentlemen, take your places,” George said.
Tremaine went to the middle of the clearing and turned his back to his opponent. When Nash took his place, Tremaine could smell rank sweat and ranker spirits, and the entire undertaking acquired a pathetic quality.
Tremaine might want to shoot the scoundrel, but Nita wouldn’t appreciate that.
As the count slowly progressed, Tremaine paced along, sorrow and sweetness walking with him. He might never kiss Nita Haddonfield again—“five”—never hold her again—“seven”—never argue with her again—“ten”—never see her smile again.
Sorrows, all of them.
But he had kissed her—“twelve”—held her—“fourteen”—argued with her, and beheld her many smiles—“sixteen.” God willing—
