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The second, less enjoyable, instalment of Edward’s repentance came when – his mouth beginning to swell, and the ache in his chest beginning to imply that beneath the bruising, there was a cracked rib – he summoned Hedge to his study. 

Now, summoning Hedge was something Edward tried to do about as often he summoned Mephistopheles, the man having the disconcerting habit of filling a room with a miasma of disapproval that might have driven a weaker man to embrace Methodism. Edward had told Peaches that she needn’t be there to face the stewardly displeasure but, jewel of a girl that she was, she had elected to join him for moral support and because she suspected he’d make a terrible mess of it if she wasn’t there to supervise matters.

And maybe she was even feeling a touch guilty for her own part in the whole sordid affair. Relieved – even blissful – as he was to be reconciled with her, he could still not shake the image of Dickie Thornton, luminous with anger as he scrambled out from the clutches of the Watch with blood streaking his face. He could still hear the brief, fatal percussion of the pistol which had shattered that morning in to a hundred, thousand shards.

To think I might have been free by now. 

Instead, every damned day brought thoughts of Dickie, of how easy he had been in that mastery which Peaches always half-refused to take, of how – prig though he might be – he had rebuilt his fortune from utter ruin, and how now, because of Teddy, he was a fugitive and a criminal.

Edward had wanted to shoot the man for years, but would sooner have emptied his own pistol in the air and taken the bullet than have had things end like this. 

But, no, no, he must smile, must say that it was all a jape. And if that was so then, well, what harm was there in marrying Serafina and rescuing her from the parental toils? 

That she saw him – pasteboard villain that he had portrayed – as an escape told him more than he wanted to know. 

You could have had her, Dickie, with my blessing. It never was about her.

Yet now here he was, affianced, and as the odious Mr Tooting was positively radiant at his daughter’s catch, it was a definite breach of promise suit if Edward tried to back out of it.

Still, there was always the hope that Hedge might insist.
 
Edward sat at his desk, and tried to feel the gravity and importance of the Forthenby estate bearing him up and empowering him. Peaches stood at his shoulder, still and silent - not like a servant should be, but with that quiet, watchful stillness that you sometimes got in rough taverns when you said the wrong words, or dropped a name that had fallen from favour.

He wondered if she still carried her shiv.

After a reasonable wait, there was the sound of Hedge’s heavy, deliberate footfalls upon the stairs. The man could glide like a spectre when he felt like it, but generally chose to convey the burden of his responsibilities by audible motion. Which was, now Edward thought about it, something of a relief. He pretended to be busy with a book of accounts or some such blither. The important thing was not to show his nervousness – like with dogs.

A knock at the study door.

He made himself count to ten before saying, “Enter.”

Hedge opened the door, a middle-aged man with stern grey hair and a stern grey face that didn’t change expression, even when the hand connected to it were busy firing a gun, or displacing your carefully laid plans. “You asked for me, my Lord.”

It was like being called before the headmaster. 

It mattered not at all that Edward was the one with the comfortable chair and the grandiose desk, merely facing this man in an antagonistic setting made his buttocks clench in expectation of a birching - and not the enjoyable kind. 

“Yes,” he said, trying to keep his voice disinterested and without emotion. “Minor business matter to discuss with you, Hedge.”

“Naturally, my Lord.”

“I’m to be married.”

Hedge blinked. 

He had quite a blink on him. It was a blink that covered the whole range of possibilities from the fact that you were a rogue, a blithering idiot, and a disgrace to the honour of the Forthenby estate. 

He said, “My congratulations, my Lord.”

Behind him, Peaches fidgeted, not quite imperceptibly. Evidentially, she was not being spared the Hedge scrutiny. Edward glanced down at some papers, trying to make it seem as though he were not avoiding his steward’s eyes.

“Will that be all, my Lord?” Hedge asked, in a voice that sounded quite calm, but betokened murder.

“Well, obviously there will some sort of preparations to be made. I’m rather a novice in these matters.”

“As you say, my Lord.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you, Hedge.” He made a faint dismissing motion, which was bound to provoke the man.

“If I might be so bold,” the redoubtable steward asked, “might I ask the fortunate lady’s name?”

He took the bull by its proverbial horns, “Charming young thing,” he said, “I get the impression you have seen her.”

Hedge said nothing.

“A Miss Tooting.”

Hedge said some more nothing. 

Really, quite impressive quantities of nothing.

“Thank you, Hedge,” said Edward, looking down at his desk once again. The ponderous steward did not move. Counting to five and, attempting not to tremble, Edward did his best to look up with an air of mild surprise. 

Hedge remained, immovable and impassive.

Come on, man. Protest.

Disappointment poured from that solemn, passive face. Edward, it appeared, had not merely disgraced himself again, but had bought irremovable tarnish to the sacred and ancient name of Valance, and the whole estate of Forthenby.

“Is something the matter?” he asked, in the airy, unconcerned tone most likely to needle such dull and priggish types.

 But Hedge never liked to move openly against his masters. “I would merely inquire after Miss Tooting’s family, their title, and their estates.”

Edward smiled. He knew damned well that Hedge was fully informed of the particulars surrounding the charming Serafina Tooting. After all, the man had practically engineered this state of affairs with his bloody meddling. “Yes, actually, if you wouldn’t mind looking in to all that for me. Probably more your department than mine. Doweries and such-like.”

Hedge’s face took on an even more distinct hue of grey, as though all of his blood had been replaced by stale porridge. “I hope my Lord,” he began to say, then stopped himself. “I do hope my Lord is entering in to this in full consciousness of the seriousness of a contract of marriage.”

“Why, naturally, my good man. Absolutely. And I’m wild for her, aren’t I, Peach? What other possible reason could Dickie have for being so upset with me.”

Hedge said nothing.

“An old-fashioned romantic rivalry,” he grinned, challenging, “Perfectly decent. And a marriage is such an auspicious end to a sad affair, dontcha think?” And he found that he was more than able to meet Hedge’s eyes this time, to enjoy this little moment of revenge.

“As you say, my Lord,” said Hedge, in a fashion that indicated anything that came out of Edward’s mouth at this precise moment was likely to be folly, slander, or flat-out heresy. 

Bitter pill, eh? 

“And if I don’t marry the girl, there is no saying what unfortunate construction people might put upon the matter. Speculation about what other reason Dickie and I might have had to quarrel. Terribly bad for the Forthenby name, wouldn’t you think?”

“As you say, my Lord.” He did not say it though gritted teeth, but there was still the impression that the words were being yanked out of him with fish-hooks. 

“So that wraps up the business rather nicely, doesn’t it?”

Hedge said nothing, not threats or protests. Not even a gracious admittance of defeat.

“That will be all, Hedge,” Edward said, turning away again.

“If I might,” there was a faint catch to the steward’s voice, as though he were forcing himself to speak through pain, or else thick phlegm, “if I might, my Lord, trouble Henry Peach for a moment of his time?”

“What?” he glanced up and felt – for the first time since he had seen Dickie stare at him with that bloodstained hate, the pistols drawn between them – a sparkle of real mischief, of triumph and devilment. Oh, but he had missed this. “No, I’m afraid that’s impossible. I require him. Thank you, Hedge.”

He was sailing close to the wind, he knew it, but then, that was always where he had been happiest. 

He waited. Now was the time for it, either direct defiance, or sullen withdrawal.

“Good day, my Lord,” said Hedge, and bowed.

“Wait a moment,” said Edward, “are you not going to offer your congratulations again, now you know the name of the gentlewoman with whom I’m seeking conjugal bliss?”

Hedge looked as though he had attempted to swallow not merely an egg, but an entire chicken. Feathers and all. “My congratulations, my Lord?”

Edward decided to be cruel, “Yes, to the fortunate bride and enamoured bridegroom.” He extended his hand across the desk.

Hedge took it and bowed, “I am sure she is sensible of the honour that is being done her.”

“I’m sure she is as well, Hedge. Thank you. That will be all.”

Once more, the steward bowed and departed. Edward interlaced his fingers and smiled. 

Well, there was blood drawn, and an injury accounted for - you couldn’t always settle things in the field. Not when you weren’t dealing with a gentleman.