Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1) Read online

  Sauce for the Gander

  Jayne Davis

  Copyright © 2019 by Jayne Davis

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or copied to other people. If you would like to share this book, please buy an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not buy it (or it was not bought for you as a gift), then please buy your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Development editing: Antonia Maguire

  Copyediting & proofreading: Sue Davison

  Cover design: SpiffingCovers

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my critique partners on Scribophile for comments and suggestions, particularly Alex, Daphne, David, Lynden, and Violetta.

  Thanks also to Beta readers Dane, Helen, Marcia, Tina, and Trudy.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Afterword

  Also by Jayne Davis

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday 17th June, 1777

  William Charlemagne Stanlake, Viscount Wingrave, put the final touches to his neckcloth as he stood before the looking glass in his small bedroom. Getting out of bed before dawn was quite a novelty; he normally only saw a sunrise on the way home from a club or gambling hell. It was shaping up to turn into a glorious summer’s day—he should appreciate that, even if it turned out to be his last.

  “My lord!”

  Will’s valet entered, eyes wide and mouth agape. His crooked wig and loosely knotted neckcloth indicated he had dressed in haste.

  “What is it, Ferris?”

  “You said the duel was tomorrow!”

  Will’s eyes narrowed, the suspicions he’d harboured for some time surfacing. “What does it matter? As you can see, I’m quite capable of dressing myself.”

  “But I told—” The valet closed his mouth with a snap.

  “Told my father it was tomorrow, did you?”

  Ferris paled, his eyes sliding to one side.

  “No matter. As you are also in my father’s pay, you won’t mind that I haven’t the blunt for your wages this quarter.”

  Will glanced at the pile of tradesmen’s bills on the chest, topped with the list of IOUs he’d written the night before last on his misguided drunken gambling spree. His quarterly allowance from his father was due; if he survived, he’d use it to stake some card games—sober ones this time. With his normal mix of skill and luck, he’d soon have enough to redeem his vowels and pay off most of the bills. He’d managed to supplement his meagre allowance that way for several years.

  “But my lord, I—”

  “We can discuss this later, if Elberton doesn’t kill me. Hand me my waistcoat.”

  The valet picked up the deep blue waistcoat, its silver buttons glinting even in the indirect light. Will took hold of it, but Ferris did not let go.

  “My lord, shiny buttons and… I mean, it’s said they make it easier to aim…”

  Ferris’ voice tailed off at Will’s glare, and he mutely held the waistcoat out. Will put it on and fastened the buttons.

  “Coat.”

  The valet handed the garment over without argument.

  Will ran his hand through his short hair. “Wig.”

  “Very smart,” a new voice said. “Morning, Wingrave.”

  Harry Tregarth, Will’s friend since their schooldays together, stood in the doorway, his face sober in spite of the cheery greeting. He, too, was dressed smartly but not ostentatiously.

  “Tregarth, come in.” Will straightened his wig. “I’m ready for a bit of breakfast.” He turned to the valet. “Take yourself off, Ferris. I don’t want to see your conniving face again today.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Ferris bowed deeply and left the room. Will heard the clatter as the valet took the stairs at a run.

  Tregarth raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s off to send word to my father that the duel is this morning, not tomorrow,” Will explained.

  “Ah. You knew he’d tattle. Marstone would try to stop it?”

  “Undoubtedly. After all, if his heir is too precious to join the army, or even go on a Grand Tour, risking life and limb in an affair of honour is no better.”

  “Good job he’s in Hertfordshire, then.”

  “Ferris has likely gone to Marstone House to get some brawny footmen to come and restrain me.” Will picked up his hat. “Breakfast?”

  Tregarth followed him down the stairs and out into the street. “You don’t seem worried by the prospect of being stopped?”

  “Ferris thinks we’re heading to Hyde Park.” Will smiled—there was some small amusement in the situation. “I hope he enjoys the morning there.”

  “Ha!”

  They walked on, weaving between delivery carts and street-sellers calling their wares, before pausing outside a chop house. They’d be out of place amongst clerks and traders taking early breakfasts, but food was food. “This do?” Will asked.

  Settled at a small table, Will ordered a small meal of ham, eggs, and coffee, surprised to find he had an appetite.

  “I tried to present your apology again, via his second,” Tregarth said, as he cut up his meat. “Jaston said he’d been instructed not to accept it.”

  Will shrugged. “I expected that, but thanks for trying.”

  “I’ve been asking around,” Tregarth went on between mouthfuls. “You’re not the first she’s convinced that her husband neglects her, and doesn’t care what she does.”

  “She’s a good actress, I’ll give her that.” Will recalled again Hetty’s big blue eyes swimming with tears, her lips trembling. He was angry with himself for believing her lies. He’d learnt his lesson with Sally, ten years ago, and had largely abstained while he was at Oxford. Even in Town he’d been sure to only dally with widows or married women whose husbands were complaisant.

  He recalled Lord Elberton’s expression too, as he walked in on his young wife, half dressed, in Will’s arms. His shock and anger had been clear but also, Will thought, his hurt. Hetty had started to cry, sobbing that Will had forced his way into the house, at which point Will had grabbed his discarded coat and wig and left.

  His lips twisted in wry amusement. It could have been worse; Elberton could have walked in ten minutes later.

  “Jaston’s found a doctor,” Tregarth said. “He’ll meet us near the Grey Coat School.”

  Will nodded, his mouth full of ham.
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br />   “He’s organised a coach as well, with a driver who knows the way to Dover.” Tregarth put down his cutlery, and met Will’s eyes with a sober face. “Will, he means to kill you. He refused first blood, although he did not insist on à l’outrance.”

  Not fighting to the death mattered little when a bullet wound could kill you slowly. He’d be just as dead.

  “I did cuckold him,” Will said. “The fact I thought he wouldn’t mind doesn’t change that.” He pushed his plate away.

  Tregarth shook his head. “In truth, I’m amazed you’ve got this far without duelling someone.”

  “I’ve been in plenty of arguments, but the only two that reached the point of a challenge were…” Will’s gaze fixed on the far wall of the chop house as his words dried up. “Damn him!” He slammed a fist on the table, making the plates and cutlery jump. “I’ll lay money my father bought them off! I’m twenty-five years old and still he’s treating me—”

  “Wingrave!”

  Recalling where he was, Will took a deep breath.

  “Are you saying that your father paid people to apologise?” Tregarth asked.

  “Not apologise, no. But Lathom agreed to settle the affair by target shooting. I did duel with Benhurst, but the seconds negotiated swords and first blood only. Possibly not paid, either, but an earl can bring pressure to bear, or promise patronage.” He got to his feet abruptly, tossing enough coins on the table to pay for five such meals. “Come, let’s be away.”

  Outside, he stalked off down the street, Tregarth having to almost trot to catch up with him.

  “He may as well just wrap me in wool and suffocate me,” Will muttered.

  “Not before you’ve got an heir of your own,” Tregarth said, between breaths. “That’s why he’s doing it, isn’t it?”

  “Apparently. He was like this even before Alfred died. He wouldn’t buy me a commission, nor fund a Grand Tour. I was to take no risks until Alfred had produced a couple of heirs, he said. Although I’ve never understood why he’s so concerned. Even if I get myself killed, there’s Uncle Jack to inherit, with three sons of his own.”

  A mist rising from the Thames added a chill to the air as they neared the meeting point at Tothill Fields, although Will could see blue sky above.

  The doctor awaited them by the school, and followed them into the fields. Lord Elberton was already pacing back and forth, his grey wig and coat giving the impression of a ghost. Nearby stood a small table, incongruous in this setting, with another man beside it.

  Will stopped twenty paces away, while Tregarth and the doctor went to confer with Elberton’s second. Hands in pockets, resisting the impulse to pace like Elberton, Will watched as the two seconds examined the pistols. Tregarth even squinted down the barrels.

  He wondered what Uncle Jack—Colonel Jack Stanlake—would say if he were here now. Something short and to the point about keeping his breeches buttoned, no doubt, but reprimands from his uncle had never put his back up the way his father’s rantings did. Would things have been different if Uncle Jack hadn’t left for India when Will was only nine?

  The seconds paced out the requisite distance, sticking swords in the ground to mark each point, and returned to the table. Will’s lips twisted at the irony—his father’s obsession with the succession had led to this. If Will had had his way he might still have faced death, but death on a battlefield in service to one’s country was surely a more honourable end than duelling over an unfaithful wife.

  But the past could not be undone, and the future was out of his control.

  Tregarth waved Will over, and he and Lord Elberton converged on the little table. Elberton’s lips were pressed together in a thin line and he glared as he gestured for Will to choose a weapon.

  Will took the nearest, checking there was enough powder in the pan.

  “You will take your positions, gentlemen, and turn to face each other,” Jaston directed. “On the drop of my handkerchief you will fire. If the matter is not resolved at that point, you will remain in position while we collect the pistols and reload them.”

  Jaston looked at Will, waiting for his agreement before turning his gaze to his own principal. Elberton nodded, and strode off to his mark.

  Will took his place, breathing deeply of the damp air. His heart accelerated, but aside from that he felt remarkably calm. The click of the hammer moving into position as he cocked the pistol was loud in the stillness. Turning sideways, he presented his right side to Elberton, keeping one eye on Jaston’s handkerchief. As it fluttered to the ground, he raised his arm and fired well above his opponent’s head, the shot ringing in his ears.

  He felt nothing; glancing down, there was no blood to be seen. He had only heard one shot, so Elberton must have fired at exactly the same time, however unlikely that seemed.

  Elberton’s shout of rage gave him the true explanation—his opponent’s pistol had misfired.

  A feeling of lightness spread through him, making him aware how tense he’d been. Fate was kind, he thought, turning his face up to the warmth of the sun.

  Tregarth called him back to the little table as Elberton stalked over to his own second, anger in every line of his body.

  “Jaston, what the hell did you—?”

  “Both pistols were loaded correctly, Lord Elberton,” Jaston said, not reacting to what was, in effect, an accusation of misconduct.

  Elberton thrust his pistol towards his second. “Load it again. Now.”

  Will stood to one side, exchanging a quick glance with Tregarth.

  “Lord Wingrave deloped, Lord Elberton. That is normally the end of the matter.” Jaston did not take the proffered pistol. “To demand another shot goes against protocol.”

  “Damme, due to your incompetence, I haven’t had my first shot!” Elberton thrust his face forward. Jaston took a step back.

  “Nonetheless, sir, it will do your reputation—”

  “Damn my reputation, sir, I demand satisfaction.” He turned and glared at Will. “Do I have to strike you, sir, to make you face up—?”

  “Take your shot, Lord Elberton,” Will said. He turned to walk back to his point, but Jaston’s voice stopped him.

  “This will be a second exchange of shots, Lord Elberton. I insist upon it. I will not damage my honour by agreeing to such an improper proceeding as you suggest.”

  Will turned back and handed his own pistol to Tregarth to reload.

  Tregarth kept his voice low. “Wingrave, you cannot delope again. Let him know you will aim properly this time, else he’ll have too much confidence. He will kill you if he can.”

  “No,” Will said, loudly enough for Elberton to hear. “I will do as I did for the first exchange. Lord Elberton made a valid challenge, and it was not his fault the pistol misfired.” Whatever the rules said, he considered it an act of cowardice to rely on a misfire. A stupid opinion, quite possibly, but one he intended to abide by.

  “Wingrave, your—”

  “Tregarth, do not invoke my father!”

  His friend sighed, but returned to the table to load the guns. This time Elberton chose; Tregarth brought the remaining gun to Will, and Will walked back to the sword stuck in the ground.

  Chapter 2

  Connie knocked on the half-open door and stepped into her father’s study. Beyond the windows, what had once been her mother’s rose garden was now merely an expanse of grass, backed by the line of beech trees marking the side boundary of the gardens. Drops of dew glittered in the morning sun; the day would be warm again.

  A portrait of the first Mrs Charters and her two daughters hung above the fireplace, the brass plaque on the frame giving as much prominence to her father’s rank of baron as it did to her own name. There was no trace of Connie’s mother in the room.

  Bartholomew Charters sat at his desk, sheets of paper with pressed flowers spread across its surface. He was halfway through writing a letter—to one of his aristocratic acquaintances, no doubt. Connie had always thought he bred new strains of snapd
ragon only because it gave him an excuse to correspond with earls and dukes keen on plant collecting.

  “You asked to see me, Papa?” She smoothed the apron over her skirt. Being summoned to his study invariably meant he had found some fault in her management.

  Charters looked up, the usual furrows forming between his brows and beside his down-turned mouth. “Why is there no snuff in my jar?”

  Because you only allow me in here once a week to dust and check your supply.

  An apology, even if she didn’t mean it, could prevent an argument developing. “I’m sorry, Papa, I didn’t know—”

  “I’m not interested in excuses. It should be a simple enough matter to ensure my snuff jar is not empty. If you cannot even—”

  “I will order some, Papa.”

  “I want it today!”

  “Mr Fancott may be able to let you have some, Papa,” Connie interjected, before he could work himself up into too much of a temper. “You could write a note to send with Fanny or Charlie.”

  “Go yourself.” His lips thinned. “And make it clear this is your fault.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  Connie hid her smile as she left the room—as she’d hoped, he’d chosen the option that involved the least effort for him, and also avoided having to personally ask a favour from someone as lowly as the vicar. Upstairs in her room she untied her apron and donned her hat. She picked up her book of sermons, quickly checking to make sure it was the correct copy before retying the ribbon that held the cover closed.