by Lisa Berne
“Evidently not.”
“Goodness me. Honestly, I think I could do a better job than he does.”
“I quite believe you could, dear sister.”
“Thank you for your faith in me, dear brother. Oh, I’m going to miss you! How long will you be gone?”
“According to Prinny, we’ll be in Brighton for about a week. Maybe longer.”
“And what will you be doing while he’s inspecting chandeliers?”
“Oh, the usual. Wine, women, and song. And the occasional parade.”
“Percy,” Gwendolyn said, “is this how you envisioned your life as a soldier?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes I’d like to see some real action, I’ll admit, but this suits me for now. I say, here comes Helen with that damned French fellow. Why is he holding on to her elbow like that?”
Gwendolyn turned. She wasn’t surprised that Monsieur de Montmorency was still very composed, very urbane, but she was rather startled to see that Helen seemed to have not only fully recovered from her ordeal but was also looking quite cheerful. What remarkable powers of persuasion Monsieur de Montmorency must have, she thought. Just at that moment the footman reappeared with the glass of water she’d requested, and so she went forward to meet Helen and Monsieur de Montmorency, then held out the glass.
“Here’s your water, Helen.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Oh.” Gwendolyn stood holding the glass and feeling rather foolish.
“Perhaps,” said Monsieur de Montmorency to Helen, very gently, “you ought to accept the water as a courtesy to Mademoiselle Penhallow, who has made the effort to procure it on your behalf.”
Helen looked up at him. “Do you think so? All right, I will.” She took the glass.
“You can let go of her now,” said Percy to de Montmorency, who calmly returned Percy’s rather belligerent gaze, then with a small, pleasant, entirely affable smile he released Helen’s arm.
It was late in the evening when Christopher arrived at the Albany. He looked through his correspondence, feeling absurdly—painfully—grateful not to find any wedding invitations amongst the notes, circulars, and newspapers. There was, however, another sort of invitation from the Earl of Westenbury: an offer to come join him, as he had mentioned on the day they first had met, at Jackson’s Saloon for a few rounds of boxing; he was, he said, to be found there most mornings around eleven.
Christopher looked at the Earl’s note for a few moments, then carelessly tossed it on top of the Almack’s vouchers and also a notecard which was, he realized, his invitation to the Prince Regent’s Carlton House fête. Which was, he further realized, tonight. He’d forgotten all about it.
How shocked the Earl would be at such a cavalier attitude, he thought with a wry smile.
A lowly commoner disregarding a royal invitation.
Shocking indeed.
Of course, if he had left Nottingham sooner, he might have arrived in time for the fête. But there had been so much to do, so much he wanted to do there—spend time with Father and Cora, hold little Jasper in his arms, explore Nottingham with Father, visit with Diana and her husband, a rather serious young barrister who adored his lively, chattery wife, who, in turn, was devoted to her very different husband.
Christopher was glad he had arrived with gifts, which had been received with pleasing acclaim. Father liked his book and Cora the pretty pearl necklace he’d gotten for her at Rundell and Bridge, and the silver wedding-goblets as well. For Diana and her husband, similar goblets, the book he’d purchased for her, and also a trio of slender gold bracelets which she had at once put on and declared her intention never to remove.
His conversations with Father—of which there were many—had been so different from the way they used to talk with each other. It took effort to break their old patterns, but, grateful for this second chance, they each of them tried very hard to listen and not judge; to accept and admire the other for who they really were. And by the time Christopher left, new patterns had begun to form—the promise of a new relationship that was healthy, resilient, affectionate.
He hadn’t forgotten about Gwendolyn, or about writing to her. There was a great deal he wanted to say to her, so much news to share with her about his family and about Nottingham, and other things, too.
The sheer quantity of it all wasn’t what stopped him from writing, though.
He hadn’t written because he wanted to see her again, one last time. That was why, without pushing himself to think too hard about it, he had kept his lodgings at the Albany.
Father had asked him if he’d like to stay in Nottingham with them. For a while, or maybe forever.
It warmed him so much to hear Father say that, and to have Cora eagerly add her entreaties as well.
Christopher didn’t know what, precisely, he wanted to do.
Except that—
He looked at a package from Rundell and Bridge which he’d left here on the desk. Inside it was a third pair of silver goblets, as expensive and elegant as those he’d gotten for his father and Cora, for Diana and her husband.
It was a wedding present for Gwendolyn and the Earl.
Not very imaginative, but at the very least, appropriate.
He had come back to London to give Gwendolyn her gift, and say goodbye to her in person—goodbye again, and this time, in a final way. Having no better idea just now, he was going back to Nottingham. He hoped she wouldn’t mind that he didn’t attend her wedding, but in point of fact he would rather be torn apart by wild horses—and have his mangled body parts thrown to wolves—than have to sit in St. George’s watching the woman he loved marry the Earl.
Yes, he loved Gwendolyn.
He knew this now.
It had come on rather gradually, moment by moment, conversation by conversation, day by day.
But it wasn’t till Cora had said to him during a quiet, private talk together, Is there anyone special in your life, Christopher?—it wasn’t till then that it hit him with all the force of a runaway carriage that the answer was yes, a thousand times yes.
Gwendolyn was special.
Special, wonderful, spectacularly so.
He liked her, he respected her, he valued her intelligence, and he enjoyed her sense of humor. He found her intensely desirable. He wanted to be with her—for all his days and all his nights—and he wanted to grow old with her.
Yes, he loved her.
Through thick and thin, trouble and joy, come what may, his heart belonged to her.
But she was going to marry the Earl, and that was that.
Christopher sat at the desk and wrote Gwendolyn a note. He had returned to London, and could he call upon her at her convenience?
A few simple words which conveyed nothing that he felt, nothing that he longed for. But it would be selfish to say more, and he was determined—above all—to do nothing to bring her distress.
He folded the note, went downstairs, and gave it to the night porter to pass along to his colleague in the morning, who would have it delivered to the Egremont townhouse.
Then he went back upstairs and looked around the front room. He’d start packing tomorrow. It wouldn’t take him long. He glanced again at the package from Rundell and Bridge. In his mind’s eye he saw Gwendolyn and the Earl, drinking from the silver goblets. Happy and smiling. Clinking the rims in a toast. Married. Gwendolyn, lost to him forever.
For a few agonized moments Christopher wanted to take the package and throw it out the window. Toss it in a fire. Let wild horses tear it apart. Instead, slowly he went back to the desk, and looked again at the Earl’s cordial note. Inside him he could feel the promptings of what was decidedly not his better self.
Bitter and black they were, too.
And already he felt himself yielding to them.
Chapter 15
The carriage had brought them home from Carlton House well after midnight, and when Gwendolyn, the Duchess, and Helen came into the entry-hall they found Tyndale waiting for them, wit
h two footmen standing nearby.
“Your Grace, an express has arrived for you.” He came forward, a single letter placed with meticulous precision in the exact center of the silver salver he carried.
“From Hathaway Park?” said the Duchess, moving quickly to meet him. “Is it from the Duke?”
“No, Your Grace. The messenger has come from Great Yarmouth, and his directions are, apparently, to await your reply. Also, he’s expecting payment. I thought it best to pay him from my purse, Your Grace, and send him to the kitchen for a meal.”
“Yes, yes, quite right, thank you, Tyndale,” said the Duchess, rather absently, as she opened the letter and scanned it. “Good God!” she exclaimed, and Gwendolyn came near, saying anxiously:
“Cousin Judith, what is it?”
“It’s from Philip. My grandson. He’s—”
“From Philip?” interrupted Helen, her tone contemptuous. “Well, that explains why the messenger wasn’t paid. So he’s washed up in Great Yarmouth? How much money is he asking for, Grandmother?”
The Duchess glanced up from the letter. “Be quiet,” she said, with so much sternness that Helen’s scornful expression gave way, briefly, to a look of abashment. “Philip is very ill—in a hospital there with a bullet in his chest. It’s very close to his heart, he says, and they won’t perform the surgery unless they know they’ll get paid. He used the last of his money to flee Vienna after being shot by—oh, Philip, how sadly typical!—after being shot by a jealous husband. He had seen the English newspapers from time to time, he says, and knew to find me here, rather than sending the express to Hathaway Park. Well! We must be grateful for small favors! The news might well have sent the Duke into an apoplexy.”
“Oh, Cousin Judith, I’m so sorry to hear this,” said Gwendolyn, hating to see how distraught the Duchess looked. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll leave for Great Yarmouth at first light. This is all most unfortunate, but you and Helen must remain quietly at home till I return. And under no circumstance are either of you to tell Almira where I’ve gone, or why. She’s far from well, and I’m absolutely in earnest when I say that her fear and anxiety for Philip could easily set her back, and quite possibly put her in very deep peril. Do you both understand me?”
“Of course, Cousin Judith,” answered Gwendolyn at once, and Helen said:
“Yes, but Grandmother, what if Philip’s made all this up just to get money out of you? I wouldn’t put it past him. Why not just send the messenger back with a cheque?”
The Duchess looked at Helen, in her kind, weather-beaten face not just sternness but also a painful sorrow. “You’re not wrong, Helen, that Philip could be capable of such duplicity. But that you would risk his life on the chance that he is, this time, telling the truth, speaks to some kind of—some kind of lack in you. You may not be close to each other, but he is, after all, family.”
Helen flushed, then shot a resentful glance at the Duchess, but made no reply.
“Have the messenger come here, Tyndale, please,” the Duchess went on. “I should like to hear his report as to Philip’s health.”
“Immediately, Your Grace,” and Tyndale dispatched one of the footmen, who shortly returned with the messenger, a laconic but amiable man in a long mud-splashed greatcoat. In response to the Duchess’s questions he confirmed the truth of Philip Thane’s letter, having received it from Philip’s own hand, and made no objection to accompanying the Duchess on her journey within just a few brief hours.
After he had returned to the kitchen to finish his meal, Gwendolyn said, “Shall we tell Lady Almira that you’ve had a slight relapse, Cousin Judith, and don’t want to risk the possibility of reinfecting her?”
“Yes, that’s fine. Tyndale, I’ll want our fastest curricle and team ready to depart at dawn. You do, I am sure, grasp the complexities of this difficult situation.”
Tyndale nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. You may be assured of my discretion, and I will instruct the staff accordingly. I’ll send a message to the stables right away.”
The Duchess gave him a slight smile. “Thank you, Tyndale. I really don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Think nothing of it, Your Grace. I know I speak for the entire staff when I say that we’re anxious to do whatever we can.”
“I am too,” said Gwendolyn. “How can I help? Would you like it if I came with you, Cousin Judith?”
“It’s very kind of you to offer, m’dear, but I shouldn’t dream of dragging you along. I’ll bring my maid Hawkins with me. She’s a very capable nurse and has known Philip since he was a boy—knows his constitution and, moreover, is entirely resistant to his wheedling ways. I’m going to try and get a little sleep now. You and Helen ought to go to bed as well.”
Everyone dispersed. Gwendolyn managed to doze for a few hours but was up again and downstairs in time to see the Duchess off. Helen was nowhere in sight. “Just as well,” sighed the Duchess, and then she and Gwendolyn hugged, and Gwendolyn said, “I’ll be thinking of you both, Cousin Judith,” and shortly after that, the Duchess climbed briskly into the waiting curricle, a grim-faced Hawkins at her heels, and was gone and on her way to Great Yarmouth.
“A few words, gentlemen, as to the rules of sparring,” said John Jackson, the tall, strapping proprietor of Jackson’s Saloon, in a pleasant voice. “No kicking, biting, gouging of the eyes, pulling of the hair, grabbing below the waist, ripping of the clothing, or spitting.”
Christopher stood on the sanded plank floor facing the Earl of Westenbury. They both wore the knee-breeches and white high-collared shirt which were, apparently, de rigueur for a nice high-society fistfight—and which Mr. Jackson kindly had provided for him, the Earl, of course, having brought his own, including a dazzlingly white shirt which was monogrammed with his crest and initials. The Earl was nodding, smiling, comfortable and confident, so utterly at peace with himself and the world that Christopher found himself regretting these various prohibitions against the lower forms of violence. He wondered if the Earl would look less at peace with a black eye or a bloody nose.
“Would either of you care for mufflers?” asked Mr. Jackson.
Christopher tried to shake himself free from his dark thoughts. The bitter promptings from last night had returned, it seemed, and in full force. What the hell had he been thinking, to come here this morning? Was he here to prove something? And if so—no matter how bad an idea—could he? The Earl was taller, broader, and had, he’d casually mentioned not five minutes ago, been training with Gentleman Jackson for over a decade.
Christopher said, “Mufflers?”
“Padded gloves, sir, to protect the knuckles.”
“Ah.” Christopher looked to the Earl. “I defer to you, sir.”
“Well, there’s something more pristine without them, I’ve always thought. But only if that suits you as well, Mr. Beck.”
“I’m fine without them.”
“Very well then,” said Mr. Jackson. “Fists up, gentlemen, head and shoulders forward, and bend your knees just a bit. Excellent. Begin!”
The Earl danced forward, his fists held high, and when he got close he gracefully threw some jabs, landing two or three hits to Christopher’s chest and shoulders. “You can retreat, Mr. Beck, there’s no shame in that,” he said, and landed another hit to Christopher’s shoulder.
Christopher tried not to laugh—laugh in an ugly way. He had deliberately kept his guard down, wanting to assess the Earl’s fighting style and ability. The Earl was certainly light on his feet, but these were the jabs of a butterfly. Or maybe he was just testing him. He tightened his fists, shifted on his feet, but let the Earl land another light punch near his collarbone. And another. Christopher could almost feel the Earl relaxing, maybe even anticipating the easy win. So casually he shot his left fist out, right against the Earl’s jaw.
The Earl wasn’t expecting it and staggered back, looking surprised.
“Well done, Mr. Beck,” remarked Mr. Jackson from the sidelin
es. “Very cunning.”
The Earl came at him again, hitting out with more force, but Christopher easily evaded the blows, ducking and sidestepping. The Earl wasn’t quick; his movements were fluid, but too studied. As if he were an actor playing at fighting. Lightning-fast, Christopher broke through his guard, hit him again, on one of those broad shoulders, and the Earl’s body twisted back, leaving the other shoulder open and defenseless. Christopher punched it too—not too hard, but just enough to effectively disorient.
The Earl swayed backwards. It took him a few moments to recover his balance, and then he came back toward Christopher, swinging his heavily muscled arms a little less carefully. Christopher stood his ground, parrying the blows, watching as the Earl got rather winded, his perfect face turning extremely red. It would be easy, Christopher thought, to deliver a stunning blow to the Earl’s solar plexus which would hurt a great deal and also send him reeling to the floor. Did he want to do that?
Well, he rather did, to be honest. Within him was dislike—an utter lack of respect—revulsion—and a savage, tormenting fear for Gwendolyn’s happiness. Altogether a nasty, vigorously boiling cauldron of black emotion.
But—
What good would it do? Aside from the brief satisfaction of seeing the Earl lying at his feet, would it change anything?
No.
The Earl would get up, he’d get his wind back, he’d soon be his affable smiling self again, and Gwendolyn would still be engaged to him.
Damn it to hell.
Christopher dodged several more jabs—aggressive but ineffectual—from the Earl. Well, he could at least have a bit of satisfaction. So he went in fast, purposefully, toward the Earl. Who, red-faced, perspiring, rattled, promptly backed away. Which didn’t surprise Christopher at all. He stopped and lowered his fists. “No shame in retreating, sir,” he said politely. His breathing was normal, easy, he hadn’t even broken out in a sweat. “I’m done here. Thanks for the match.” He nodded at the Earl, and at Mr. Jackson, who was regarding him with a distinct twinkle in his eye, and walked away.
