Page 25 of Dishonorable Gentlemen (Bennet Gang #1)

The Duel

Darcy’s valet, Patrick, woke him into the chill of pre-dawn. He stoked the fire to life as Darcy rushed through his ablutions, due to the cold rather than any need to hurry. He’d instructed Patrick to wake him with ample time to prepare.

Feeling it incumbent upon him as Bingley’s second, Darcy looked over from where he shaved to where Patrick was setting out coffee and dry toast to ask, “Bingley is awake?”

“He is, sir, and if I may offer the information, his man is in quite a state. He is certain that Mr. Bingley will not return from this duel and he will be out a very good gentleman.” Patrick met his gaze in the mirror and added, “None of us want to see any harm befall Mr. Bingley, sir.”

“Bingley will be perfectly well,” Darcy replied, though to reassure himself or Patrick, he did not know. He returned to shaving, taking extra care to keep his hand steady. Perhaps he should have permitted Patrick to assist him for once, as his valet repeatedly offered to do.

Once he was properly groomed and dressed, Darcy sat down to coffee and toast by candlelight, reflecting that while they’d managed to keep news of the duel from reaching Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, the entire staff obviously knew. In truth, he’d wager all of the local populace did.

He didn’t encounter Bingley until he reached the stable, where a groom bearing a lantern waited to accompany them to the mouth of the valley. Beneath his hat, Bingley’s face was sheet-white, and the smile he greeted Darcy with faltered, but he appeared grimly determined as he took to the saddle.

They set out, the light from the groom’s lantern illuminating snaking tendrils of fog as they started along the track that led between fields and trees. To the east, the sky lightened to a more cerulean blue, prophesying the sun. Watching wisps of vapor cling to his mount’s legs, Darcy realized they were fortunate the weather had been so steadily cool. If a fog such as the one in which he’d first seen Elizabeth rose this morning, they would need to reschedule this entire ghastly affair, putting Bingley through another night of waiting.

Elizabeth. He dared to think of her that way now, and he knew it for daring indeed, for she had not agreed to accept his courtship. Nor declined to, which gave him hope. A thread, at least. One to which he could cling because he did not believe she simply sought to put him off kindly. He took her at her word that she required a day.

He had no other choice.

They reached the end of the valley in good time, the darkness of night having receded to cover less than half the sky. They took the lantern but left the groom and their mounts, proceeding on foot.

“This is the place, then?” Bingley said, turning in a slow circle. “This is where I may spend my final moments.”

Darcy cast him a quick, assessing look. “These will not be your final moments.”

Bingley dropped his voice to a whisper to ask, “What if Miss Bennet was telling the truth about the assassin?” His gaze darted about, but nothing could be discerned in the inky darkness beneath the trees that covered both sides of the valley and dotted the far steeper end where the lower ground abutted the hill.

Nor could Darcy make out the cleft down which he and Robert Collins had come the day they’d inspected the place, but he meant to keep much of his attention there. Were there an assassin, his most likely hiding place would be among the rocks and trees at the steep end of the valley, the cleft offering the quickest retreat.

“I will be on the lookout,” he said by way of reassurance. “If I advise you to run for cover or duck, do not hesitate.”

Bingley nodded but the glumness pervading his features didn’t ease.

Color came slowly to the valley, chasing away the blues and grays of night as the sun inched up somewhere behind the line of low hills to their east. Bingley continued to pace, fidgeting with his watch as was his wont. For once, his incessant checking of the time didn’t aggravate Darcy, who could not help but consider how much he would miss the aggravating habit if Bingley were gone.

A distant creak of springs alerted them and Darcy turned to glimpse Mr. Collins’ garish cream and gold carriage inching past the mouth of the valley. A moment later, a figure stood at the head, William Collins by the bulk. He started into the valley. Before he reached them, Robert Collins also appeared, burdened with the pistol case. The younger Collins raised a hand in greeting, then hurried to join them in the center of the dell.

“Good, you are here,” Mr. Collins said by way of greeting. “I feared we would need to wait. Punctuality is an admirable characteristic, even if you are punctual only to the sight of your demise.”

Darcy stared at him. Was that his idea of intimidation? Why would Collins bring up the laudableness of punctuality when, if anything, he was late? Darcy shook his head.

“Yes, well.” Bingley cleared his throat. “Let’s get on with it.”

Collins smirked. “In a hurry to die, Mr. Bingley?”

Robert Collins winced.

Bingley’s face went red.

“There is no need to offer additional insults,” Darcy said in a tone of command. “A challenge has been issued and accepted.” He turned formally to Mr. Collins. “Are you willing to make your apologies, to Mr. Bingley and to Miss Bennet, and to publicly denounce the rumors you have been spreading so that we may forget this duel?”

A sneer formed on Collins’ face as Darcy spoke. “I am not.”

Darcy nodded to Robert Collins.

“Ah,” the younger man stammered. “Um, Mr. Bingley, will you accept my brother’s words as true and admit as much in public, whilst accepting the label of coward?”

Darcy appreciated Robert Collins’ phrasing, for Bingley snapped to his full height, shoulders back and eyes bright as he said, “Certainly not.”

“Then let us inspect the weapons,” Darcy said.

Darcy drew Robert Collins over to a large, flat-topped rock he’d long since sighted for the purpose, and the younger man opened the case to reveal two walnut-handled, brass-inlaid dueling pistols. They appeared to be fine weapons but Darcy lifted the first free with care. He checked that it wasn’t loaded and then began his inspection, starting with the barrel.

As he worked, he asked, “I assume Mr. Jones waits in your carriage?”

Robert nodded. “With a warming stone, a rug, and a book.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Bingley had returned to pacing and where his older brother stood scowling and, in a low voice, added, “I sent your man for Forster. With any luck, no shots will be fired before he arrives to break this up.”

Darcy tried to contain the surprise that ricocheted through him, aware that William Collins watched them. “Why?” He made a show of inspecting the hammer, pan, and frizzen, which all looked to be in order .

“I do not trust my brother. He has been too…gleeful this morning.”

Darcy replaced the first pistol and took up the second. He appreciated Robert’s candor, and his tactic, but would honor be satisfied? Certainly, Miss Bennet would declare it so. She did not want Bingley to duel at all.

“Well?” William Collins said loudly from where he waited in the center of the valley. “Are you going to spend all morning fondling those pistols, or are we going to duel?”

“I will load both, if that is acceptable, and give your brother his choice of weapons.” Darcy spoke louder than he had been, to ensure the men behind them could hear.

Robert nodded.

Once the weapons were loaded and allocated, Darcy extracted a coin from his waistcoat pocket. “The winner has his choice of sides,” he began.

Before he could ask for a call, Collins’ arm swept out in a dismissive gesture. “No need. I will face into the sun.” He offered another sneer. “I don’t need an advantage to vanquish this pup.”

Worry went through Darcy. Not at Collins’ boast, but his confidence. “Very well. Back to back, then twenty paces.” He gestured to Robert. “Mr. Collins will count off the paces, inquire as to the readiness of each of you in turn, and then count down to the first shot.”

That earned him surprised looks from all three men, but Darcy needed to be free to study the surrounding trees and slopes. Something was amiss. Collins should not be so confident. His gaze went again to the steep closed end of the valley.

Was that a glint of metal?

Whirling back, Darcy grasped Robert Collins by the arm. “Count as slowly as you can,” he ordered with low intensity, then released him.

Fortunately, William Collins had already turned his back in preparation for his strides away from the sun, but Bingley cast Darcy a questioning look. He gestured to the cleft leading out of the dell, took in Bingley’s gulp and Robert’s air of determination, and started up the valley.

Long, hurried strides carried Darcy quickly to the far end as Robert began his slow count to twenty.

Darcy raced up the cleft, halting about halfway, where he’d seen that telltale glint beside the narrow trail. Sure enough, an even smaller path branched off, easily missed were he not seeking it. He turned, peering between a tree trunk and a large, moss draped stone. He could see a low flat area beyond, and a black-clad, masked form as someone knelt before a large rock, peering through a spyglass. Beside the man rested two rifles and a rapier.

Plunging forward, Darcy pressed between the trunk and rock, and came out into the flat area to the point of a sword at his throat.

“And what have we here?” A familiar, mocking, French accented and artificially deep voice asked.

“Azile.” Darcy spat the name like a curse.

From his position behind the rock, Enaj cast them a quick glance, then returned to his spyglass. Below, Robert Collins reached fifteen. Mr. Collins’ grumbled complaint about the slow count echoed through the dell.

“How dare you?” Darcy snarled, livid. “You would gun a man down? For what? How much did Collins pay you? I will double it and stand aside to permit you to depart.”

“You mistake us, monsieur,” Azile replied. “We come to safeguard Monsieur Bingley.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I see him,” Enaj cried. “In the trees there, on the northeast slope.”

“Nineteen,” Robert Collins’ voice said from below.

“See who?” Darcy demanded.

“Enaj, toss Monsieur Darcy the spyglass, if you will,” Azile called.

Enaj’s annoyance was clear even masked as he was, his thin mustache practically vibrating with agitation. With hardly a glance, he tossed the spyglass, arcing up into the air, and reached for a rifle.

“On my count of three,” Robert called below.

Darcy caught the spyglass, and threw it at Azile’s head. The moment the metal cylinder left his hand, he lunged for Enaj.

“One.”

With enviable speed, Azile dodged the projectile, diving between Darcy and his fellow bandit, colliding with him. Light as Azile was, the way he spun, making their meeting a glancing blow for him, flung Darcy aside. He stumbled, almost toppling, and dropped to a knee to catch his balance.

“Two,” Robert cried.

Shots echoed through the valley. Too many shots, one of them Enaj’s, followed hard by another from below.

Azile, sword in hand, charged Darcy. Enaj reached for his second rifle as Darcy pushed off from the ground, lunging for the selfsame gun. Men’s voices cried out below.

Enaj fired again. Darcy came to his feet with the Frenchman’s rapier, the only weapon he’d succeeded in grasping, as Azile reached him. They met in a clash of blades .

“He had two pistols,” Enaj cried as he abandoned his spent weapons, running for the cleft.

Darcy made to intercept but Azile was there, pushing him back with several wild swings. Teeth clenched, Darcy swung at the lad’s middle. He didn’t have time to play at swords with a French youth. Yelling continued below. He must get to Bingley, and stop whatever Enaj planned next.

But Azile parried easily, adding a feint of his own. Darcy lunged. Azile dodged, not back but to the side. Circling, seeking an opening. Turning with him, Darcy struck again. Azile deflected his blade with ease.

Darcy attacked in earnest.

It took mere moments for him to ascertain that Azile did not merely play at swords. He had considerable skill. A few feints more brought the realization that Azile was as good as he was. Darcy would not concede that the youth might be better.

They danced about the small flat space, blades flashing. Insofar as Darcy could tell, they were evenly matched. He had the reach on the young Frenchman, and the advantage of height and a grown man’s muscles, the lad before him obviously not having yet attained that. But Azile was quicker, his reflexes honed to the point of blurring speed, and agile. Nearly acrobatic in his dodges and attacks.

Their blades crossed, Azile giving a small twist of his wrist to lock Darcy’s sword with his as he cried, “Monsieur Bingley may require our assistance. We fight for nothing, monsieur.”

“You cannot think I will believe that?” Darcy used his greater strength to twist his blade free and attacked.

Azile flicked his blade aside, dodging to Darcy’s left. “As much as this bout entertains me, monsieur, and you truly cannot know how much so, we squander time.” He made a feint and leaped back as Darcy countered.

Darcy swung at him, but Azile never seemed to remain in the same place long enough for Darcy’s blade to find him.

“Kill them,” William Collins’ voice cried below, reedy and nearly too weak to reach them. “Kill that Frenchman. Kill Bingley. I am paying you to kill them.”

“I must assist Enaj. You will pardon me, monsieur.” Azile lunged in close.

Darcy made to parry, but Azile didn’t attempt to land the blow Darcy saw coming. Instead, the tip of his blade jabbed into the handle of Enaj’s rapier. The weapon tore free of Darcy’s hand, spinning through the air. Somehow, it came down in Azile’s gloved grasp.

With both weapons now, Azile whirled, darting between the mossy rock and the tree. Without Darcy realizing, the youth had turned them until he fought nearest the path. Darcy cursed as Azile disappeared from view.

He spun, taking in the two spent rifles. He had no powder and no lead. His gaze fell on the spyglass. Yanking it up, Darcy rushed to the rock behind which Enaj had hidden. He brought the spyglass to his eye.

Bingley sat on the ground, Robert Collins beside him, assisting him with his arm. Mr. Collins lay propped against the large rock atop which they’d examined the pistols. Mr. Jones crouched over him, pressing bandages to his chest. Collins’ mouth still moved, but he didn’t seem able to bring enough breath to project his words as he had earlier.

Beyond them, at the edge of the trees, Enaj grappled with a man, presumably the one Mr. Collins had shouted to. The man had a knife and, as Darcy watched, he flung Enaj back, sending the youth flying. The man whirled, charging, his aim obviously to reach Robert Collins and Bingley.

Darcy recognized him the moment he turned. George Wickham. Darcy’s jaw hinged open, shock rendering the rest of him immobile as Wickham barreled across the short distance that separated him from Bingley, knife raised.

And then Azile was there, still wielding both rapiers, a slender shadow of darkness in Wickham’s way.

Darcy whirled, smashing the spyglass closed and shoving it into his pocket as he ran. He squeezed through the narrow opening that led to the cleft, the fabric of his jacket tearing. Reckless, the anger coursing through him augmented by his fear for Bingley, he plunged down the hill.

He reached the valley floor to the sight of Wickham being menaced by Azile. Robert Collins, standing now, had positioned himself between them and Bingley. Clutching his left arm and limping slightly, Enaj skirted the fight, seeking to reach Darcy’s friend.

Deciding that Azile and Enaj were, for whatever reason, sincere in their efforts to assist Bingley, Darcy ignored the limping Frenchman and ran for Wickham. He skidded to a halt beside Azile to growl out, “Wickham.”

Azile, rapiers weaving menacingly, asked lightly, “A friend of yours, monsieur?”

“Hardly that.” He narrowed his eyes at his erstwhile companion. The man who had attempted to elope with Georgiana when she was but fifteen, in equal parts to spite Darcy and to gain his sister’s dowry. “What are you doing here, George?”

Wickham crouched slightly, ready to lunge, and held his knife low. “Darcy. Is that any way to greet an old friend? Your father’s godson? ”

Darcy could feel the suspicion that welled in Azile but didn’t dare look away from Wickham. “It is precisely how to greet a cad and an opportunist.”

“And here I had hoped we could be friends.” Wickham lunged at him, knife jabbing.

Azile flashed between them, knocking the blade aside with one of his own, and getting in a slash down Wickham’s right forearm. Wickham roared in pain. He yanked his arm back, launching the knife.

Darcy cried out in warning.

Azile knocked the blade from the air, unperturbed, as Wickham pulled another free of his boot. “You drove me to this, Darcy. You and your vaunted pride. If you had just given me—”

A loud, shrill whistle sounded once, then again, then in three quick bursts.

“Azile,” Enaj cried from behind them.

“Entertaining as this is, I cannot remain,” Azile said.

“Running?” Wickham sneered. “Afraid I’ll get back some of my own? I already got your friend.”

For the first time, real anger sparked in Azile’s eyes. Below his mask, his jaws clenched, but all he said was, “Monsieur Darcy, for you.”

Enaj’s rapier flipped through the air to embed, tip down, in the ground at Darcy’s feet. Grasping the hilt, Darcy pulled it free.

The whistle sounded again, coming from the hilltop at the closed end of the valley. At the open end, behind Wickham, a horse appeared, a redcoat atop. The rider twisted in his saddle to wave a signal.

“You have him, monsieur?” Azile asked.

“The day Darcy can best me is the day I deserve to die,” Wickham sallied with his usual misplaced confidence.

Darcy eyed Wickham, who sneered, and silently applauded Azile for giving no indication that the militia troops had found the valley. It would do no one good to chase Wickham through the forest.

“Azile,” Enaj cried, his voice a bit desperate.

Azile flashed Darcy a final, quick grin, nearly as cocky as Wickham, and whirled away. Darcy didn’t dare turn to watch the two bandits depart, keeping his attention on Wickham. Nor did he miss the fact that they had a third member of their gang hidden somewhere atop the hill. He wondered if the third Frenchman had been about the day Azile and Enaj had robbed them, hidden nearby in case of need. It would explain some of their confidence, although having seen first-hand Enaj’s skill with a gun and Azile’s with a blade, he grudgingly admitted that confidence was their due.

“Want to put down that sword and I will put down this knife, and we can make this fair?” Wickham asked. Heavy mocking in his tone, he badgered, “Or are you afraid you cannot best me without an advantage?”

Darcy straightened, lowering his blade. As Wickham’s eyes went wide in surprise, Darcy replied, “No. I want to watch Colonel Forster order his men to apprehend you.”

Knife raised, Wickham whirled.

Redcoats streamed into the dell. One called, pointing, and Darcy looked to see Azile and Enaj reach the cleft. Horses charged after, but their riders would need to dismount to give chase. The remainder of the troop, following Colonel Forster, converged on Darcy and Wickham, dismounting. Colonel Forster strode forward.

“Colonel Forster, thank heaven you have arrived,” Wickham cried. “Those two Frenchmen hid on the hillside and shot at Mr. Bingley from afar.”

Robert Collins stepped up beside Darcy. “You shot at Mr. Bingley from afar,” Robert countered. “All the Bandits did was stop you.” He pointed into the woods. “You will find his pistols in there. The Boney Bandits shot them from his hands.”

“I was shooting at those bandits,” Wickham countered. “I am certain you will find their guns up there.”

“You five, search the forest for Mr. Wickham’s pistols,” Forster ordered several of the men massed about them. “You, go search for the Bandits’ weapons.”

They would find them, Darcy realized. Enaj and Azile wouldn’t have time to reclaim the rifles. Would that incriminate them? He looked down at the blade in his hand, a finely wrought French rapier.

Forster studied Darcy, Robert Collins, and Wickham for a moment. “Mr. Darcy, what have you to say? Any notion why the newest member of my troop is even out here? And why did you not come to me with news of this duel, Lieutenant Wickham?”

Wickham frowned at that.

Wickham was a redcoat? The idea was laughable, but Darcy was grim as he replied, “Mr. Collins appears to have hired Mr. Wickham to hide in the forest and shoot Mr. Bingley, thus ensuring Collins would win the duel. I believe, if you ask Mr. Phillips, you will discover that this is the selfsame tactic Mr. Collins’ father employed when he dueled General Oakwood, albeit with a different hired assassin.”

“But, I believe, with a similar result,” a voice said to Darcy’s left. Mr. Jones strode forward, wiping his hands on a bloodied cloth. “At least, when it comes to Mr. Collins. I am afraid I could not save him. A ball took him in the chest, ruining a lung.”

Robert Collins turned to him, all color leaving his face. “M-my brother is dead?”

“I am afraid so,” Jones said with little emotion, before turning back to Colonel Forster. “I also believe, though I did not witness the actual duel, that Mr. Darcy’s recounting of the previous Mr. Collins’ demise is accurate. Like father, like son.”

Robert stared at him, his features slack with shock.

A wave of sorrow passed through Darcy on the younger man’s behalf. No matter what sort of brother Collins was, it must still hurt to lose him, and to learn that your father and brother were so very despicable as to hire men to win their duels for them.

Forster rubbed at the back of his neck. “Am I to understand that Mr. Bingley has killed Mr. Collins?”

“I did not witness this duel either,” Mr. Jones said crisply. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Bingley is wounded and requires my care. A ball took him in the shoulder.” Without awaiting a reply, he turned away.

“Mr. Darcy, did you witness the duel?” Colonel Forster asked. “Did you see Mr. Bingley shoot Mr. Collins, or see Mr. Wickham shoot Mr. Bingley?”

Wickham cast him a hard look.

“I did not,” Darcy admitted.

Colonel Forster raised his eyebrows at that but had the good sense not to accuse Darcy of lying.

“And you, Mr. Collins?” the colonel asked Robert.

“I was looking that way,” Collins said dully. He pointed into the forest, where even now Forster’s men sought Wickham’s weapons. “I saw Mr. Wickham stand up and shoot. He was aiming here, into the valley, not up there where the Boney Bandits were. He shot once, but his gun went flying from his hand as he did. He picked up another and aimed, and it went flying before he could shoot.” Robert swallowed, a greenish tinge to his complexion. “If you will excuse me? I should…that is…” Giving up on words, he walked away.

Forster frowned. “Wickham, remain here.” He cast a look at several of his men who, their expressions ranging from grim to sheepish, converged on Wickham. “Mr. Darcy, with me.”

Forster led the way to where Bingley sat, Mr. Jones checking his left shoulder. The wound didn’t appear as bad as Darcy feared, though Bingley was white with pain. From what Darcy could see, the ball had gouged the outside edge of Bingley’s upper arm. It had likely been meant to take him in the heart.

He looked up and asked wearily, “Did I hear right? Collins is dead?”

Darcy nodded.

“Mr. Bingley, did you shoot Mr. Collins?” Colonel Forster asked in a firm, commanding voice.

Bingley cast Darcy a panicked look, but Darcy was not overly worried. The law, at least law that wasn’t Mr. Collins, was generally lenient when it came to duels, and Darcy had influence. More than that, Bingley couldn’t come before the local magistrate until there was one. Not that Darcy espoused corruption, but if Bingley purchased Netherfield Park, as the largest landholder in the region, he would put up the name for the next magistrate. He could even seek the position himself.

Darcy gave Bingley another nod, urging him to speak.

“Collins shot on two,” Bingley said, indignation coloring his voice. “But there were more shots than that.” He winced as Mr. Jones applied fresh bandages to his shoulder. “The pain hit me and I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger. When I opened them, Mr. Collins was on the ground.”

“Do you mean to tell me that no one knows who actually shot Mr. Collins?” Colonel Forster asked, sounding exasperated.

Darcy offered him a bland look.

Forster rubbed at the back of his neck again, then sighed. “I will take Mr. Wickham into custody for the time being. I will need official statements from all of you, including you, Mr. Jones.”

The apothecary, busy securing Bingley’s bandage, merely grunted.

“I will take a statement from Mr. Phillips as well, and get to the bottom of all this,” Forster added.

“Will tomorrow be soon enough?” Bingley asked as Mr. Jones came to his feet. “I must go assure a certain lady of my lack of demise.”

Bingley reached up and Darcy offered a hand, gripping Bingley’s good arm to help him to his feet. He swayed once, gritted his teeth, drew back his shoulders, then winced. It wasn’t until Bingley turned back that Darcy realized his ruined jacket lay on the ground beside where he’d sat.

“Allow me,” Forster said, suddenly solicitous, and scooped up the bedraggled item. He held it out. “Yes, certainly tomorrow will be soon enough. You may all go now. Statements are needed, though, and we must determine if the Boney Bandits are responsible for Mr. Collins’ murder.”

Darcy turned then, and sighted some of Forster’s men coming back down the cleft, not a bandit in sight. He felt certain Enaj had saved Bingley, not murdered Collins. In that moment, he decided not to mention that the weapon he held was the bandit’s, nor his suspicion that Enaj had been injured and thus might be easier to find. Though he would not admit to as much aloud, he hoped Forster and his men had no success in apprehending the two.