Джорджетт Хейер - Regency Buck

“You will hear from me, sir,” promised Farnaby thickly, and strode out, still holding his reddened handkerchief to his nose.

Mr. Fitzjohn, breakfasting in his lodgings in Cork Street next morning, wore an unusually sober expression on his face, and when his man came in to inform him that a gentleman had called he got up from the table with a sigh and a shake of his head.

The gentleman’s card, which Mr. Fitzjohn held between his finger and thumb, told him very little. The name was unknown to him, and the address, which was a street in the labyrinth lying between Northumberland House and St. James’s Square, did not impress him favourably.

Captain Crake was ushered into the room, and Mr. Fitzjohn, with a shrewdness belied by his cherubic countenance, instantly decided that his military rank was self-bestowed. He was displeased. He had been brought up by a careful father with a nice regard for etiquette, and one glance at Captain Crake was sufficient to convince him that he was not one whom any gentleman would desire to have for a second in an affair of honour. The first duty of a second was to seek a reconciliation; it was evident that Captain Crake had no such thought in mind. He came only to arrange a place and a time of meeting, and to choose on behalf of his principal pistols for weapons.

To this Mr. Fitzjohn agreed, but when the Captain, assuming Mr. Farnaby to have been the injured party, stipulated for a range of twenty-five yards he unhesitatingly refused to consent to it. Such a range must be all in favour of the more experienced duellist, and however many wafers Peregrine might be able to culp at Manton’s Gallery, Mr. Fitzjohn felt reasonably certain that he had not before been engaged in an actual duel.

He would not consent, and upon the Captain’s attempting to take a high hand with him, said bluntly that he could by no means agree that Mr. Farnaby was the injured party. Sir Peregrine had indeed struck the blow, but the provocation had been strong.

After some argument the Captain gave way on this point, and a range of twelve yards was agreed to. There could be no further hope of reconciliation. Mr. Fitzjohn, well versed in the Code of Honour, was aware that no apology could be extended or received after a blow, and Captain Crake’s attitude now convinced him that, however much Mr. Farnaby might know himself to have been in the wrong, no dependence could be placed on his tacitly acknowledging it on the ground by deloping, or firing into the air.

When Captain Crake had been shown out of the room Mr. Fitzjohn did not immediately resume his interrupted meal, but stood instead staring gloomily into the fire. Though not particularly acquainted with Mr. Farnaby, he knew him a little by repute. The man was a hanger-on to the fringes of society, and was generally to be seen in the company of raw young men of fortune. His reputation was not good. Nothing was precisely known against him, but he had been mixed up in more than one discreditable affair, and was known to be a crack shot. Mr. Fitzjohn did not anticipate a fatal outcome to the following day’s meeting: the consequences would be too serious, he thought; but he was not perfectly at his ease. Farnaby had not been drunk, nor had there been the least sign of foul play in the Cock-Pit. It looked suspiciously as though this quarrel had been thrust on Peregrine. Yet he could find no object in it, and was forced to conclude that he was indulging a mere flight of fancy. As soon as he had finished his breakfast he picked up his hat and gloves and set out to walk the short distance to Brook Street. Arriving at the Taverners’ house he sent in his name and was taken immediately upstairs to Peregrine’s bedroom.

Peregrine was still engaged in the arduous task of dressing, and was anxiously arranging his cravat when Mr. Fitzjohn came in. He said cheerfully: “Sit down, Fitz, and don’t move, don’t speak till I’ve done with this neck-cloth!”

Mr. Fitzjohn obeyed, choosing a chair from which he could observe his friend’s struggles. Having guessed that the next morning’s meeting would be Peregrine’s first, he was very well satisfied with his careless unconcern. It was evident that he would have nothing to blush for in his principal; the lad was game as a pebble. He was not to know with what desperate courage Peregrine had forced himself to utter his cheerful greeting, nor how many sleepless hours he had spent during the night.

The cravat being at last adjusted Peregrine dismissed his valet, and turned. “Well, have you arranged it all, Fitz?” he asked.

“To-morrow at eight, Westbourn Green,” said Mr. Fitzjohn briefly. “I’ll call for you.”

Peregrine had the oddest sensation that none of this was really happening. He heard his own voice, surprisingly steady, say: “Westbourn Green? Is that near Paddington?”

Mr. Fitzjohn nodded. “Are you a good shot, Perry? The fellow’s chosen pistols.”

“You have seen me at Manton’s—or have you not?”

“I haven’t seen you at Manton’s, but I’ve seen Farnaby,” said Mr. Fitzjohn rather grimly. “You’ll keep a cool head, won’t you, Perry, and remember it’s everything to be quick off the mark?”

There was an unpleasant dryness in Peregrine’s mouth, but he said with a good attempt at nonchalance: “Of course. I shan’t aim to kill him, however.”

“No, don’t,” agreed Mr. Fitzjohn. “Not that I think he means to make it a killing matter either. I can’t see why he should. He’d have to make a bolt for it if he did, and I fancy that wouldn’t suit him. What are you doing to-day?”

Peregrine achieved a shrug of the shoulders. “Oh, the usual round, my dear fellow! I am engaged to dine at the Star, I believe. I daresay we shall look in at the play, and sup at the Piazza afterwards.”

“You’ll do,” said Mr. Fitzjohn approvingly. “But see it ain’t a boozy party, and don’t sit up too late. I’m off to engage a surgeon now. I daresay we shan’t need him, but he’ll have to be there. I like that waistcoat you have on.”

“Yes, I flatter myself it’s uncommonly handsome,” replied Peregrine. He moistened his lips. “Fitz, I have suddenly remembered—do you know, I believe I have no duelling pistols by me?”

“Leave that to me, I’ll see to it,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, getting up. “I’m going now. I’ll call for you at a quarter-past seven to-morrow.”

Peregrine smiled jauntily. “I shall be ready. Don’t oversleep!”

“Never fear!” said Mr. Fitzjohn.

He let himself out of Peregrine’s bedroom and descended the stairs to the hall. Here he rather unfortunately met Miss Taverner, who was dressed for the street, and had just come out of the breakfast-parlour.

She looked a little surprised to see him so early in the morning, and glanced laughingly at the clock. “How do you do? Forgive me, but I did not think you were ever abroad until midday! As for Perry, he is a sad case: did you find him in his bed?”

“No, no, he is up,” Mr. Fitzjohn assured her. “I had a little business with him; nothing of importance, you know, but I thought I might call.”

Miss Taverner, who was holding a very pretty buhl snuffbox in her left hand, flicked it open, and took a pinch with an elegant turn of her wrist. “I think it must have been important to bring you out before noon,” she said.

Mr. Fitzjohn, watching her manoeuvers with the snuff-box in a good deal of astonishment, said: “Oh no, just a trifling question of a horse he had a mind to purchase. But Miss Taverner—don’t be offended—in the general way I don’t like to see a lady take snuff, but upon my word, you do it with such an air! It passes everything!”

Miss Taverner, who had spent a week in practising the art, was more than satisfied with the effect it had produced on her first audience.

Mrs. Scattergood appearing at that moment at the head of the stairs, Mr. Fitzjohn took his leave, and went out of the house into the street. He paused for a moment on the steps, considering which surgeon he should engage, shook his head at a couple of chairmen who were signalling their readiness to carry him anywhere he pleased, and after staring abstractedly at a shabbily dressed lad who was lounging against the railings of an adjacent house, set off in the direction of Great Ormond Street.

Arrived there, he ran up the steps of Dr. Lane’s establishment, knocked loudly on the door, and was soon admitted. He came out again presently with all the satisfied air of one who has successfully accomplished his task, called up a hackney, and drove back to Cork Street.

Half an hour later a tilbury drove up Great Ormond Street, and stopped outside Dr. Lane’s house. A second gentleman knocked on the doctor’s door, and was admitted. His visit lasted a little longer than Mr. Fitzjohn’s, but when he at length emerged he, too, wore the look of one perfectly satisfied with the success of his mission.

Meanwhile Peregrine, when Mr. Fitzjohn had left him, finished his toilet with less than his usual care, and tried not to think too much about the morrow. His thoughts, however, showed a disposition to creep back to it, and he found himself recalling all the fatal duels of which he had heard. Happily none of these were very recent. The only recent duels he could call to mind were the Duke of York’s meeting with Colonel Lennox (which had taken place three years before his own birth), and Lord Castlereagh’s late affair with Mr. Canning. Neither of these meetings had proved fatal, but Peregrine could not but acknowledge that there might have been a score of others between lesser persons of which he had never heard. An exchange of shots between himself and Farnaby would, in all probability, end the quarrel, but the possibility of a more serious outcome had to be faced. With a sigh and a heavy heart Peregrine went down to the saloon to compose a letter to his sister.