“It’s a lie,” she muttered, her eyes now on her lap. Her neck and face had flushed a dull, angry red.

“You told me yourself that you intended to profit by your knowledge. When the mistress considers of the sto- ries I might tell, she’ll make it worth my while.”

“But she didn’t, did she?” The girl looked up; the blue eyes flashed. “She turned me away without a character, easy as tipping her hand. My mother’s that anxious about the little ones, and how they’re to be fed, now I’ve lost my place — it’s driven her right wild. But I never wrote no letter.”

“Very well. If that is your story—”

Barr_0553584065_3p_all_r1.qxd 3/4/04 2:36 PM Page 243

Jane and the Ghosts of Netley ~ 243

“I never wrote no letter,” she insisted with a look of defiance, “because I never learned my letters — and where I’d be like to get a bit of paper and a pen—”

A sound from the doorway drew both our heads around, and with an expression of relief in her voice, Flora said, “You’ve come at last. Thought I’d have to wait all day, I did.”

“Forgive me, Miss Austen.” Orlando glanced at the girl, and his brows lifted in disdain. “I had no notion you were waiting upon his lordship. If you would be so good as to pass through to the stable yard, I am certain he will be delighted to see you.”

“Flora is before me,” I said equably.

“Flora,” the valet returned, “will have to content herself with me.”

A giggle escaped the maid’s lips.

“Miss Austen — if you will be so good—”

He turned on his heel as though Flora had ceased to exist; and I was reminded again of the various skills required of a gentleman’s valet: dogsbody, defender, spy. Orlando had mastered them all. I rose, and with one final speaking glance at the girl, quitted the room.

He was standing in his shirtsleeves at the far end of the yard, his body canted sideways, his right hand extended. In his long white fingers was a gleaming silver pistol with ebony mounts. A large black and white target of concentric circles had been painted upon a board, which was established near the broad coach-house doors.

Two of the Dolphin footmen, in breeches and powdered wigs, stood behind Lord Harold, their countenances deliberately devoid of expression. The stable lads had gathered at the gates, which were closed to carriage traffic; from time to time, when a ball sang home and the target’s wooden face splintered agreeably, a cheer went up from this serried rank.

“Lord Harold, Miss Austen,” Orlando said quietly. He bowed, and melted back into the safety of the inn; I hesitated on the edge of the yard, unwilling to disturb his lordship’s activity.

One of the footmen took the spent pistol from Lord Harold’s hand, and commenced reloading it with powder, wad, and ball; the other offered the second weapon, and as he reached for it, the Rogue’s eye fell upon me. His expression did not alter. He turned back to the target and steadied his aim. No trembling in the wrist, no hesitation as he pulled the trigger — but perhaps it should be different when he stared at the face of a man.

Seven more times the ritual was repeated; and then, when the target’s black centre had been cloven in two by the pounding of lead balls, his lordship blew the smoke from the pistol’s mouth and said:

“Come here, Miss Austen.”

I stepped forward, my mouth suddenly dry. He was so much more like the man whose acquaintance I had made years before — inscrutable, remote, dispassionate — than the one I had lately known, that I was afraid of him.

“My lord?”

He lifted the freshly-loaded pistol from the footman’s grasp and placed it in my gloved palm. The barrel was warm with firing; the grip smooth as an egg. I nearly dropped the thing, and was glad when I did not; for such foolishness must disgrace me.

“Wrap your other palm around the butt just so, and extend your arms.”

He stood behind me, his hands at my shoulders.

“Steady. You must turn your body side-on to the target, Jane — otherwise your opposite will tear open your heart.”

I drew a ragged breath and did as he bade. His cheek brushed my own.

“Steady, ” he muttered. “More blood is spilled from sheer lack of nerve than from wanton malice; for it is a poor coward who cannot aim true, and prick his opponent as he chuses. Where do you intend to strike? Which part of the rings?”

“At the height of a man’s shoulder,” I said, “there, in the outer black.”

“Then align the pistol mouth and gaze without fear the length of the barrel. Fire at will — a gentle squeeze upon the trigger, no more.”

I felt my heartbeat suspended — and in a moment of clarity saw nothing but the edge of black where my ring turned white. My forefinger moved. An explosion of sound, a jolt up to my shoulder, and I stepped backwards, amazed.

A cheer went up from the assembled ostlers. The target showed a gaping hole at its furthest extent — well beyond the tight cluster of circles Lord Harold had made. I felt no small pride in my accomplishment; but I was newly aware of the difficulty inherent in aiming and controlling such a weapon. Years of practise must be required to command the sort of skill Lord Harold exhibited; and the knowledge of his precision forced a little of the fear from my soul.

“Did you come to me this morning on an errand of persuasion?” His looks were intent. “Did you think to put an end to this affair by stratagems and pleading?”

I shook my head, and handed him the weapon. I had made my decision — I would not go in search of Percival Pethering. “When is your meeting?”

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

“And where shall you do it? Porter’s Mead?”

He smiled thinly. “The ground there is flat enough — but too close to the magistrate for comfort.”

“I should like to witness the duel.”

“But you must wear black, Jane — and I confess I find the colour... disheartening.”

“I shall sport any shade you command, my lord,” I answered clearly, “provided you will allow me to be present.”

“To save my life?” he enquired ironically, “or James Ord’s?”

Chapter 24

Last Rites

Friday, 4 November 1808

The seconds — Orlando and the Conte da Silva met yesterday evening at the George Inn to lay out the rules of engagement.

The principals in the affair — Lord Harold and Mr. Ord — were both of them at Netley Abbey, the former securely hidden behind a tumbled cairn of rock, and the latter at Mrs. Challoner’s side. As dusk fell and the hour of meeting came and went, no blackmailer appeared. Perhaps, Lord Harold wrote last night from the Dolphin, the girl was frightened off by the appearance of the American.

Orlando and the Conte fared better in their purpose. The duel was to be tried at dawn — perhaps forty minutes after six o’clock — and the ground they chose, a place called Butlock Common, northeast of Netley Lodge.

I thought of hack chaises, and the difficulty in procuring one at five o’clock in the morning; I thought of lead balls and how they splintered wood — or flesh — despite acute precision; and then I went in search of my brother.

Butlock Common is a small, open field that serves as grazing land for the livestock of Hound. A lane runs along the eastern edge, and here in the crepuscular murk Frank pulled up our hired gig and said, “I wonder, Jane, if your man intends to meet this morning. It’s all of four bells, and not a carriage in sight!”