Page 97 of A November to Remember

Mrs Bennet, hovering near the main doors with her sister, let out a gasp. She seized Mrs Philips by the wrist, pointing at the whole cavalcade of wealth and consequence heading for the front steps, and dragged her forward to join the rear of the train.

The procession spilled out behind Boodles, forming an overdressed, confused audience.

At the foot of the front steps, illuminated by the light of the carriage lamps, Lord Pembroke was waiting.

The man was made of fury and brandy. He was large, heavily built, and swaying with the unpredictable motion of a ship in a squall. His moustaches bristled with righteous indignation, his face the mottled purple of an overripe damson. He stood alone, save for a coachman huddling on the driver’s bench, and he held one black boot against his chest.

Pembroke threw his head back, his voice tearing through the night.

“I have been looking for you the length and breadth of this miserable, mud-soaked county!” He shook the boot at the Netherfield façade, unaware of the people gathering on the steps. “You blackguard! You libertine! You degenerate defiler of ornamental wicker!”

Mrs Bennet let out a piercing, high-pitched shriek, clapping both hands over her ears. Mrs Philips gasped, clutching her chest as if suffering a sudden palpitation.

Pembroke blinked, his bleary eyes struggling to focus on the crowd assembled. He squinted at the pastel silks and white gloves. He lowered the boot, swayed to his left, and offered a sloppy bow. “Beg pardon, ladies. I did not realise the scoundrel was entertaining. My apologies for the profanities.”

He hiccupped, then he straightened up, his fury returning with renewed vigour. He thrust his free hand forward, pointing an accusatory finger at the crowd.

“This scoundrel!” he roared. “This treacherous snake in the grass will meet me at dawn!”

His finger was pointed at Mr Bennet’s nose.

Mr Bennet took a sip of his port. He lowered his glass, gazing at the furious lord with a bored expression. “I assure you, my lord, my wicker-defiling days are far behind me. I am too fond of my knees to risk them.”

Pembroke blinked again, his arm wavering. He shifted his aim three feet to the left, his finger finally pointing at the true wicker-defiler.

“You!” Pembroke jabbed his finger at Robert. “Keathley! You will meet me at dawn!”

Miss Mary peeped around Richard. “Dawn is at half past seven, sir. It is not yet ten. I do not believe you will remain upright for nine and a half hours.”

Pembroke stared at the severe young woman, momentarily at a standstill. He shook his head, clearing the confusion, and raised the boot high into the air.

“Then he will meet me now!” he bellowed.

Robert walked down the wide stone steps until he stood three paces from the furious lord. He smiled, but not his rakish grin, nor his practised beam. It was a polite, calm expression.

“My lord Pembroke.” He inclined his head gracefully. “What a pleasure to see you in Hertfordshire. Your complexion is quite... volcanic. I trust the journey from London was agreeable?”

Pembroke spluttered, a spray of saliva landing on Robert’s sleeve. “I demand satisfaction! I will not be made a fool of in my own home! Name your seconds, Keathley!”

Silence descended on the driveway, the only sound that of the wind howling through the bare branches of the surrounding trees.

Mr Bennet moved to stand next to Robert. “I shall be your second, Lord Keathley. It has been a very dull evening, and I have never had the privilege of seeing a viscount shoot a peer of the realm. It sounds entertaining.”

Mrs Bennet grasped the stone balustrade, her eyes wide with pride. “Yes! Yes, my husband shall be the viscount’s second! Oh, Hetty, do you hear? A duel with a lord! The prestige of it!”

Darcy moved next to Mr Bennet. “I will be the third.”

Richard followed, taking his place on Robert’s other side. “I will be the fourth. I possess excellent aim, should the principals miss each other.”

Boodles straightened his spine. “Fifth.”

Jane Bennet moved, stopping beside Robert, refusing to look at the drunken man, keeping her eyes fixed on the viscount.

“I will be the sixth.”

A stunned silence swallowed the driveway. Mrs Bennet swayed dangerously, threatening to swoon for the second time that week. Miss Elizabeth let out a peal of laughter, delighted by her sister’s ferocious rebellion.

Pembroke stared at the line of defenders. He saw the older man, the glowering gentleman in the dark evening coat, the calm colonel, the stoic valet, and the beautiful woman in blue silk.