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The door to the library was partially ajar and Ferdy could see Lord Flambard leaning back in a chair, with what must be the wronged Count standing over him, his pistol at Max’s head. Ferdy knew he only had one chance to disable the aggressor’s weapon; getting it slightly wrong might end with his friend’s brains being blown out. With this terrifying thought, he advanced on the lightest of feet towards the figures. Flambard had seen his friend out of the corner of his eye, but his face was an inexpressive mask.
In a furious sotto voce, the Count was haranguing Lord Flambard in French. ‘Espèce de chien immonde ! Fils de pute ! Je vous castrerai pour votre perfidie, pour avoir traîné ma femme dans la boue !’ Madeleine’s schoolroom French allowed her to understand the less offensive parts of his threat. It seemed Lord Flambard’s despicable behaviour, dishonouring both the Count and his wife, meant there was nothing for it but to kill the blackguard English lord in a duel when he got him back to Paris.
Ferdy was grateful for the Count’s fury as it made him less alert to danger. His Gallic expressiveness confused his aim, the pistol wavering as outrage flooded through his veins. Max Flambard was bargaining for his life and thus endeavoured to keep the incensed husband talking. The Frenchman was singing the praises of French law that did not deem a fatal shooting in a duel a murder, as was the case in Flambard’s own benighted isle.
Ferdy’s cat-like strength and grace bore him in good stead. When he had crept close enough to strike, he flicked his wrist, with an almost imperceptible movement, but with great speed and force. The rapier blade caught the trigger guard and flipped the pistol from the Count’s grip. It clattered noisily to the floor.
Taken by surprise, the Frenchman roared, ‘Sacrebleu!’ but he was a seasoned duellist and fighter, and his left hand went straight to his left pocket and pulled out a second pistol, which he aimed at Mr Shilton’s head.
Without hesitation and in the blink of an eye, Ferdy lunged forwards, his arm and rapier at full extension. Almost too quick for human sight, his blade came to rest half an inch from the Count’s throat. The pistol was discharged and the bullet missed Ferdy by a foot, but Madeleine felt it ruffle her hair as it skimmed her head and smashed into the wooden pediment above the door where she had taken refuge.
The sound of the gunshot had brought all the servants bursting into the hall, Billy’s crying expressing the general alarm. When it was clear that their master was unhurt, Maltby summed up the situation and ushered everyone back into the kitchen.
Madeleine barely had enough strength to stand and relied on the wall to keep her upright, white-faced with the realisation of how close Mr Shilton and his friend, and even herself, had come to losing their lives. Determined not to break Mr Shilton’s concentration, she did not move and uttered not a sound, while Lord Flambard sprang to his feet and removed the second pistol from the Count’s grasp, then retrieved and unloaded the first.
Ferdy Shilton was speaking calmly, his rapier tip still at the Count’s throat. ‘It’s Count de Montpellier, I presume?’ The man’s eye flickered in assent. ‘Well, never enter this house again. If I were to kill you now, by the laws of our land, I would be justified in protecting myself, my friends and my servants from your lethal assault. However, if you were to kill Lord Flambard in this country, in defence of your honour, you would be deemed a murderer. And as a Frenchman, in the current patriotic fervour, you would surely be hanged. This is not the law in your country, and I cannot allow you to kidnap my friend so you can kill him with impunity on French soil.’
Mr Shilton’s eyes had turned steely as he held the Count’s dark, sullen gaze. With an upward flick of his rapier arm, he nicked the Frenchman’s cheek with the tip of the blade and blood started to flow. ‘That’s to warn you never to try such a murderous trick again on me or my friends.’ And tossing the Count his own fresh linen handkerchief, Ferdy grabbed him by the collar and propelled him towards the door. Only then did he see Madeleine, her face ashen, holding onto the door jamb. His eyes widened in shock at her presence, but he was intent on making sure the Count de Montpellier left his house as fast as possible, and he handed him over to Maltby.
The old butler had spent many years when young on the door of a less than respectable London club and he knew what to do. He grabbed the Frenchman by the scruff of his fine coat collar and propelled him so fast down the front steps to his waiting carriage that his feet barely touched the ground. The Count scrambled in, holding the blood-stained handkerchief to his cheek, and his coachman drove the horses away at full tilt.
With the crisis over, Ferdy Shilton was himself pale and shaken, and he took Madeleine’s arm. ‘I’m very sorry you had to witness that, Miss Rose. I did ask you to stay in the kitchen, you know.’ Then he saw the bullet lodged in the door jamb just above her head and cried out, ‘You could have been killed!’ Overcome by emotion at the thought, he clamped her to his chest to reassure himself that her heart was still beating. Shock and relief gave way to hot anger. He said through gritted teeth, ‘Why didn’t you do as I asked, Miss Rose, and remain with the others? Why must you always know better?’
Madeleine extricated herself from his vice-like grip. She was also alarmed by the danger they had all been in, and ashamed of her recklessness, but she tried to explain. ‘You see, Mr Shilton, I had to follow you. I can’t write of things that I do not know.’
In utter exasperation, he expostulated, ‘You are impossible! Why so heedless of your safety, why so headstrong? Remember Vauxhall.’ Then as his humour slowly returned, he smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you intend to have an attempted abduction and assassination in your story, Miss Rose?’
She smiled too and blood flowed back into her ashen cheeks. ‘I might indeed. It was very dramatic and you could have been killed.’ Madeleine’s voice was suddenly subdued. ‘I could not have borne to see that happen.’
‘It was my foolish mistake in not thinking he might have his second pistol on him. I risked my own life, and yours.’ His hand moved to take hers and he squeezed it. ‘I would never forgive myself if anything I did, or did not do, harmed you.’
Lord Flambard had also recovered some of his good spirits. ‘Ferdy, I hope you couldn’t forgive yourself either if any omission of yours risked my life too. For a moment, I thought I was lost. If he had noticed you approaching, I believe he would have pulled the trigger without a second thought.’
‘Well, that would have solved my most pressing problem.’ Ferdy’s smile was wan. ‘I hope you now know, my friend, why I cannot have you continuing to live here. You are too much of a risk to everyone I care about.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m off tonight to Paddy Trahearn’s rooms in Albany. You have been more than a good friend to me. Thank you, Ferdy. I’m sorry this has happened at your house.’ Then Lord Flambard chuckled. ‘But look! Some compensation at least. The Count’s very fancy pair of duelling pistols. They’re Boutets.’ He held out a pair of pistols much embellished in silver and gold inlay with jewels on the butt, sparkling in the afternoon sun.
‘You keep them, Max, as a souvenir of your reckless amatory escapades and a warning,’ Ferdy said severely. ‘Pistols like those are useless in a duel, they’re all show. Coruscating in the grey dawn light, they provide an unmissable target. I much prefer my Mantons, discreet, English-made, efficient with the minimum of fuss.’
Madeleine looked up into his face with a pallid smile. ‘I must collect Dot from the kitchen and set off back to Grosvenor Street.’
Ferdy bowed. ‘Do you require my arm to lean on while I escort you home?’
‘No, Dot will be all the support I need. But thank you, Mr Shilton. And good day to you, Lord Whiley.’ She smiled, finding it hard to believe what peril they had just survived.
Ferdy Shilton walked with her and Dot to the front door and opened it. ‘If you’re sure you’re well, then I will go and see to my servants. Tonight, I visit my dear friends, the Wolfes, who are back in Brook Street. Everything will now be right with the world.’
6
NOT JUST A DANDY
Madeleine walked back to Grosvenor Street feeling shaken and a little unsteady on her feet. A lumpy quilt of cloud had descended from the sky to settle on the rooftops, sealing the road from the rest of the world. Gusts of wind buffeted her as she passed the mews and she put out a hand for Dot. Having not witnessed the alarming incident in the library, Dot was cheerfully chattering about Billy and the excellence of Mrs Porton’s fruit cake and did not notice how pale her mistress had grown, or the fact she leaned rather heavily on her arm. Madeleine was shocked at how close to murder the dispute had come, and she shuddered.
Violence and murder in fiction were very different from seeing them enacted in real life. If Lord Flambard had been killed in front of her eyes, it would have been fearsome enough, but her heart would never have recovered from the grief if that bullet that skimmed Mr Shilton’s head had been but a few inches lower. The realisation of how much he mattered to her was alarming; how vulnerable she felt now that she was no longer just an island in an impersonal sea.
Even more remarkable to her was the thought that she mattered to Mr Shilton too. How her pulse quickened at the realisation that this dandy and highly refined human being would do what was necessary to protect those in his care, even if it involved breaking the ultimate taboo and killing another. Madeleine could barely believe this ruthless protective spirit was also extended to her. To have one’s life so important to anyone was a feeling she had not known since she was a girl. She felt safe at last and no longer quite alone, for in him was a true friend. Mr Shilton would marry another, but she had him to herself in her fiction and her dreams. Surely that would be enough? That he existed in the world was enough.
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