Everything a Lady is Not

by Sawyer North

The grit of her teeth caused her jaw to tremble. “Now I know why Sir Hugh is here. So, what is your dastardly, traitorous plan? Did you bring enough rope for a high branch?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Of course I don’t understand! How could I possibly understand that the one person in this entire world whom I believed would protect me has instead stabbed me in the back?”

  He held up both palms. “Listen. James told me to either deliver you to him or hand you over to Bow Street. As I said, I had no choice.”

  She stabbed a finger into the metal menagerie dangling from his neck, driving him back another step. “That is where you and I differ, Mr. Almighty Beaumont. I believe that the choice is always mine, no matter the circumstances. You, on the other hand, allow yourself to be cast about by the winds of fate and console yourself with the lie that all choice is robbed of you.”

  He winced at her accusation, regrettably the truth. Then he shook his head. “But there is more to explain. If you will but give me the chance.”

  She withdrew her finger as her anger cooled into a refined blue flame. “There is no more to explain. You promised to keep my secret. You promised to help me. But I see now that your promises are like the ridiculous jewelry you wear now—gaudy and impressive but ultimately without meaning.”

  “But Lucy…”

  “Go now, Henry.” She spun on her heel to return to her chamber. “You have made your choice. Do what you must.”

  The door slammed with what should have been a satisfying thud. However, her anger left room for only bitterness, regret, and worry for the end of all things.

  …

  Henry faced the door through which Lucy had disappeared, perhaps forever. She had accused him of the vilest of betrayals. And she was not wrong. Sir Hugh’s presence was a direct result of his actions. Without conscious thought, he found his feet moving swiftly through the guest wing and down the south hallway to escape the house. Sir Hugh intercepted him just short of the exit.

  “Henry. Where are you going in such a—”

  Henry brushed past him and burst through the door onto the front steps. He paused only long enough to determine how best to erase what he had done. His hand wandered up to grip the medal around his neck. He eyed it angrily. Empty, indeed. With a growl, he tore it from his neck and let it dangle for the space of several breaths. Then he set a course for the creek where he had kissed Lucy earlier, intent on throwing the blasted thing into the current. What had been a source of amusement for Lucy now symbolized his utterly vile character and his inability to halt his slide into darkness. Until now, he had blamed his steady fall on his association with the ward of a criminal, glibly finding Lucy at fault for his moral conflict. But now, he saw the truth as clear as a crystal reflection. She was not to blame. She was pure, and forthright, and trustworthy, and altogether wonderful. If anything, his association with her had lifted him to a higher plain. Despite that, he had become his grandfather. He had bowed to his brother and, after one pitiful attempt to convince Steadman to clear her name, had broken every promise he’d ever made to her. To his best friend. To the woman he had fallen in love with. He was no less a cutthroat than his legacy demanded.

  As he approached the creek, he clenched the medal tightly in his grip. After coming to a halt, he hauled back his arm to heave it into the water. A hand gripping his wrist interrupted his intent.

  “Henry! Stop, for God’s sake.” The voice belonged to Sir Hugh. His breath was ragged from apparently running to catch him. Over his shoulder, Lord Garvey was approaching with a sheaf of papers in his hands, hurrying as fast as a man his age could.

  Henry pried Sir Hugh’s hand from his wrist. “Leave me alone.”

  Sir Hugh held up a palm of restraint, his face a map of alarmed puzzlement. “Why would you throw away something so precious?”

  “Precious?” Annoyance boiled over in Henry and he thrust the medal beneath the knight’s nose. “This is just a medal. Just an overwrought concoction of gold and silver as meaningless as the one who wears it.”

  Sir Hugh clasped Henry’s clenched fist with a gentle hand and shook his head in disbelief. “You really don’t know what this is, do you?”

  Sir Hugh’s bafflement infected Henry. He peered at his Bow Street associate with narrowed eyes as Lord Garvey arrived, breathing hard.

  “What are you talking about?” Henry asked.

  Sir Hugh carefully removed the medal from Henry’s grip and held it up with both hands while mouthing silently the Portuguese words of inscription. Then his eyes met Henry’s. “When I saw you rush by with this displayed on your chest, I was initially surprised. Then I recalled what you had told me of your responsibilities in France. I called immediately for Lord Garvey to bring his documentation and then chased you here.”

  Henry’s bewilderment deepened as he eyed his medal. “You recognize this awful thing?”

  Sir Hugh held the medal briefly to his chest before returning it to Henry. “I do. What do you think it is?”

  “Just a commendation for saving the life of a worthless Portuguese duke. They also gave me a letter, likely filled with flowery but empty phrases. I don’t read Portuguese, though.”

  A smile split Sir Hugh’s face. “Well, sir, I do read Portuguese. I served Lieutenant-Colonel George Elder during the Peninsular campaign. He received the same award and the same document, as did a few others of the British army. This is not ‘just a commendation.’ This medal that you seem to so despise is in reality the Portuguese Royal Order of the Tower and Sword.”

  Henry repeated the words with skepticism. “Portuguese Royal Order…”

  “Of the Tower and Sword. Yes. And what you describe as a mere ‘letter’ is not just that. It is a certificate of patent.”

  Henry continued to stare in confusion. “What does that mean, man?”

  “It means,” said Sir Hugh, “That in appreciation for your service to their family, the King of Portugal appointed you as an official knight of the Portuguese realm.”

  The words of explanation tumbled through Henry’s brain. King? Royal order? Knight? He cocked his head dangerously to the right. “What does this mean?”

  Lord Garvey stepped forward. “It means, Mr. Beaumont, that you are the holder of a royally bestowed title, and therefore, eligible to vie for Lady Margaret’s hand.”

  Henry blinked five times. “But not a British title.”

  “That does not matter.” Lord Garvey held up the portion of the late duke’s will explaining the conditions of the dowry. “The suitor must be British and hold a royally bestowed title. There is no stipulation that the title itself must be British.”

  The rush of information threatened to overwhelm Henry. He shifted his gaze repeatedly between the two men, hoping for a lifeline. However, they just watched him drown in silence. He gazed again at the medal before catching Sir Hugh’s eyes.

  “What should I do?”

  Sir Hugh placed a hand gravely on his shoulder. “You are a knight now, Henry. You should begin behaving like one. And you may start by not throwing away precious things.”

  He bowed and left with Lord Garvey in tow. Henry stood rooted to the earth, as if a tree awaiting the turn of a season.

  …

  Rapping on Lucy’s door prodded her again into motion. Had Henry come back? For an instant, her spirits lifted before she remembered his betrayal. She clenched her fists.

  “What do you want?”

  Whispering behind the door gave her pause. Then Charlotte’s voice sounded. “We wish only to inquire of your well-being.”

  “We?”

  “Her Grace and I.”

  Lucy closed the gap to the door and flung it open. “My apologies, Your Grace. I was expecting another.”

  The duchess swept an appraising eye over her rumpled dress and tear-stained face as alarm dawned. “What has happened, gr
anddaughter?”

  She froze, wondering where to begin. The truth, she decided. All of it.

  “Please come and sit, both of you. I have something to tell you.”

  The duchess and Charlotte entered and settled on the sofa, their eyes curious and wary. Lucy perched against the edge of her bed. “Though I have been honest about my childhood and my time with Steadman, I have been less transparent about my initial meeting with Henry.”

  “He rescued you from Sir Steadman’s gang, did he not?” asked Charlotte.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. However, I am not so innocent.”

  With that enticement, Lucy shared in detail the events of Shooter’s Hill, her capture of the pursuing Henry, and their agreement to return the stolen gold. The duchess blanched as the story unfolded, and Charlotte’s hand became a permanent fixture over her open mouth. When Lucy finished the tale, she realized that her gaze had locked onto her knotted fingers. She cut her eyes up at the duchess.

  “So, you see, Your Grace, I am a criminal. My actions have not only endangered my life, but they have cast a stain on House Huntington that cannot be cleansed. For that and more, I am desperately sorry and do not deserve even a shred of your forgiveness.”

  The duchess opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it as her gaze wandered to the curtained window. Lucy did not blame the woman if she never spoke to her again. However, the duchess recovered and reengaged Lucy.

  “Mr. Beaumont agreed to lie for you?”

  Tears began leaking from Lucy’s eyes. “He did, but then during his recent return to London, he informed Bow Street of my actions at Shooter’s Hill. He betrayed me.” She sniffled, and a stuttered breath climbed her throat to escape in the form of a heaving sob. “But that is not the worst of it. I have fallen in love with him, stupid girl that I am. And what did he do with my heart? He sold it to save himself.”

  She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes to wipe away the flood of tears. The bed shifted as Charlotte settled next to Lucy and pulled her into a motherly embrace. “There, there, Lucy.”

  Charlotte allowed Lucy to collect her unchecked emotion before gently pushing her away and grasping her hands. “I am a bit bewildered, though, by what you say of Henry.”

  Lucy glanced at the duchess, who watched with a stony expression before looking again at Charlotte. “About his betrayal of me?”

  “Yes, that.” She pursed her lips in apparent thought. “When I was eighteen, I fell in love with a dashing officer of the Royal Dragoons. I knew Father would not approve, but I wanted to be wanted. One day, he came to our estate in Father’s absence and made a show of asking for my hand. When I rejected him, he struck my face and laid hands on me.” She placed a hand to her right cheek, seemingly feeling again the blow. “Before I could say a word, Henry was there. Though just a boy, he threw his body at the officer and knocked him to the ground. By the time the man could escape the wrath of my younger brother, his pristine uniform was stained with blood. He mounted his horse and fled with Henry shaking his fist after him, crying justice. Within a month, I met my future husband. I have Henry to thank for the preservation of my honor.”

  What Charlotte described unfolded in Lucy’s mind. She had already heard his version of the event, but now saw it through his sister’s eyes. “Why did you tell me this? To improve my opinion of your brother?”

  “No, not that.” Charlotte smiled softly. “I wanted you to know how hard Henry fights for those he loves.”

  Lucy blinked rapidly at her. “Henry loves me?”

  “He does.”

  “How do you know?”

  Charlotte gently shook her head. “Oh, Lucy. I raised him. He is cautious about giving his love to anyone, but when he does, it is obvious. To me, anyway. And now, he has given his love to you, even though he knows the futility of offering it.”

  Lucy ingested the insight, confused and awed by it. “What does this mean, then?”

  “It means that he must have a plan. That what looks like pure betrayal is more complicated than it seems. Give him a chance. He would do the same for you, and more.”

  Lucy’s mind whirled with chaos before logic brought it structure. Perhaps Henry did have a plan. Had he attempted to explain it when she’d slammed the door in his face? If Sir Hugh was here to arrest her, why would he allow the courtship to continue for days, putting the honor of a half-dozen noble houses at risk? Why would Henry persist in helping her if all hope were lost?

  “I have decided.” The voice of the duchess drew Lucy from her self-interrogation.

  “Your Grace?”

  “I lost you for twenty years. I will not lose you again for another day. Regardless of what happens, I will bring all the authority of House Huntington to bear in protecting you. I will seek the return of every favor, leverage every connection, and lodge every threat necessary to preserve your freedom. I am not a woman to be trifled with.”

  A wave of indebtedness rippled through Lucy. She wanted to rush to her grandmother’s side and embrace the woman. However, given proper decorum, she merely stood and curtsied deeply. “You have my undying gratitude and devotion.”

  “Nonsense. Come give an old woman a hug.”

  Lucy sailed into her grandmother’s arms and clenched her fiercely. Though she worried that every suitor would reject her when they learned the truth, she was determined to follow through. Choosing was the only path to a husband, a husband the only path to the dowry, and the dowry the only path to caring for the duchess. And though the thought of choosing anyone but Henry crushed her, she vowed to sacrifice herself.

  “I will choose tonight. For all of us.”

  The duchess leaned away from the embrace. Concern pricked her features. “Who will you select?”

  Lucy’s eyes fell again. “I do not know, Grandmother. I do not know.”

  …

  As dusk fell, Henry remained ensconced on a fallen tree—the one he had shared with Lucy days earlier following the world-shifting kiss—and questioned his entire existence. Since he was old enough to understand his place in the world, he had been nothing but a killer. Of his mother. Of his dog. Of his father. Of his family name. Of everything decent, honorable, and noble. James had taught him what he was. His father had not countermanded it. Charlotte had been silenced on the matter. And so, he had remained a killer who walked the path of those who destroy—toward corruption and ruin and death. His single-minded pursuit of lawbreakers had been but a desperate attempt to avoid his inevitable fate. Then, when he fell into association with Lucy, he had abandoned even that. He had deliberately hidden her actions at Shooter’s Hill, willingly carried forth the ruse that would likely destroy them both, and enthusiastically fallen for her along the way while simultaneously engineering her destruction. He had become an abased character, befitting his heritage.

  But now, he was a knight.

  A knight!

  How could he possibly be a knight? The knights of legend were noble and decent and honorable—everything his mind dictated he was not. The knights he knew personally were courageous and faithful and sacrificial. James had never ascribed any of those traits to him. His father never had, either. In what world could he ever pass for a knight? How had the Portuguese king been so deluded as to point to a killer and say, “There stands a knight!” In the throes of dissonance, he recalled his actions in France, one by one. Of charging thundering French batteries because his Portuguese duke had lost his way in the smoke. Of fighting off a half dozen men on foot with nothing but a saber to allow the man to flee. Of pulling the duke from beneath his dying mount as shot hissed through the air past his ears, and then carrying him to safety even with shrapnel lodged in his thigh.

  Odd. He had forgotten the details. Put them from his mind. Dismissed them as unimportant, until now. His actions did not align with those of a man with a debased character. They seemed more…knightly. Courageous
. Faithful. Sacrificial. He massaged his temples as the discordance wracked his thoughts. How could he, at the same time, be what his brother claimed and what his knighthood declared? That question consumed him until a striking revelation froze his hands.

  He had earned his title.

  Unlike his brother, who had been given his. Henry had earned it! Not even James—the all-important Earl of Ravensheugh—could claim that. And what Henry had earned could never be taken from him for as long as he lived.

  Never.

  He was a knight, now and forever.

  What had Sir Hugh told him? To begin behaving like a knight? Then what would a knight do? He stood and began to pace while wrestling with that very question. Within seconds, answers began coming to him. A knight would not be indecisive. A knight would not blame fate for his actions. A knight would not betray a friend. A knight would certainly not forsake the woman he loved. He would never turn her over to the same tormentor who had tried to ruin him. He would never allow her to stand alone in her hour of greatest need. He would never abandon the fight for her freedom for as long as he lived.

  Determination rose within Henry. He would be a knight. He would become her knight. He would sweep aside all distractions and ask for her hand in marriage. If she saw fit to accept, despite his deep unworthiness, he would spend every waking minute of the rest of his life loving her, and defending her honor, and clearing her name. He would begin by tracking down Steadman again and not accepting “no” for an answer. That is what a knight would do. That is what he would do.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lucy stood on the edge of a razor-thin precipice with deadly plunges waiting on either side. Before her were the doors to the ballroom, a place now occupied by men determined to either have her dowry or clap her in irons. Behind her was escape, and a path to a secluded life in hiding where she would wallow in misery after abandoning the duchess. And where was Henry when she needed his counsel most? That’s right, she thought. I sent him away. Though her wound of betrayal remained raw, she regretted not allowing him to explain. Now, she could only guess what he might have planned. But he was not here, and the moment of choosing had come. She gathered her pluck, prayed for deliverance from the hangman, and pushed open the ballroom doors.