‘Yes. Summers in Cornwall have always agreed with me,’ she answered with equal politeness, waiting for him to announce the purpose of the conversation.
‘I am assured that you are not carrying the Prince’s child. That is some consolation.’ Dove blushed furiously, bowing her head. Was she allowed no privacy if even the most intimate aspects of her life were now under scrutiny?
‘You have ruined yourself, Dove, and shamed us in the process. You do understand that? No one will have you now. No one of merit. I have begun looking for suitable gentlemen. It’s possible I find a few who might consider you. Men of a more local bent who don’t care for the London gossip.’
Dove’s head shot up. This was a new wrinkle. ‘Mother said there would be no more men.’
‘That was before we weren’t certain if you were breeding. You seem to have recovered from your ordeal.’ The last was said with the hint of a question as if he dared her to contradict him. Dove saw the trap. If she argued she was not ready to marry, she would return to invalid status, all the privileges she’d worked so hard to secure taken away. Her fate would be sealed. If she claimed full health and wanted them to revoke her status as a fragile female in a delicate condition, she had to marry. The game had not changed, only the suitors.
Her father cocked his head. ‘What do you imagine your fate is, Dove, if you don’t marry? What are you waiting for?’ He opened his desk drawer and pulled out several sheets of paper, throwing them on the desk. ‘I had Jeannie search your room for these.’ All drawings of Illarion. The ones she’d done in London as she’d contemplated her decision. She considered them her best work.
‘Those are private!’ she protested, not caring in the moment if she seemed overwrought. Illarion was naked in some of those. No wonder her father had been so bold in his conclusions.
‘It’s time to say goodbye, Dove.’ He took out a flint and struck a match, setting the flame to the edge of the papers.
‘No!’ Dove cried, watching the pages burn in horror. She couldn’t reach for them, couldn’t appear mad. Her father dropped them into a metal can.
‘This is for your own good. Your Prince won’t come for you, Dove. It’s been a month, you should stop holding on to the fantasy.’ He was so certain it made Dove wonder what he knew. Why didn’t Illarion come? What had happened on the duelling field?
Chapter Twenty-One
Outskirts of London—dawn, one month earlier
Illarion stepped out of the carriage into the damp of the early morning. He breathed the cool air deeply. It would be hot later today, summer had come to London. Across from him, Percivale stepped down from his carriage as well. He had to give Percivale credit. He had shown up. Illarion had half-hoped he wouldn’t, but Percivale’s honour was on the line and that meant something to a man like him. Illarion knew, because honour meant something to him also. It was why he was here.
Illarion was ready for him. It had been his choice of weapon after someone had pulled Percivale off him in the Hathaways’ ballroom. He’d chosen pistols. He was taking no chances today. He wanted to control every aspect of this duel and pistols were his best shot.
Nikolay stepped out behind him, all business, in his cavalry uniform, denoting him as a member of the Royal Kubanian guard. Illarion’s case of duelling pistols was in his hand. ‘I’ll meet with his second and confirm the details.’
Illarion nodded. ‘Check the weapons again.’ They were in good order, he’d seen to them himself, but one did not treat duels in a cavalier manner. Life was on the line. Protocol must be followed. Accidents could be deadly.
Illarion flexed his hands. It might be his fifth duel, but the tremor of excitement and dread still filled him. One never felt closer to life than when the end was possible. Would Percivale shoot to kill? Would Percivale be in enough of his right mind to control his shot? Anything could happen, regardless of intentions. If this was end, was he ready? He’d spent the night making sure he could exit in an orderly fashion.
Stepan emerged from the carriage with Ruslan. They’d all come with him, despite Stepan’s lectures. Lectures were just Stepan’s way of saying, ‘I love you. You are a brother to me.’ Stepan’s hand was on his shoulder. ‘Nervous?’
‘Only a fool isn’t,’ Illarion admitted. His thoughts needed quieting. He needed to focus on the duel, on those twenty steps, on the quick pivot, the side angle of his body, presenting the slimmest target he could, the cocking of the gun, the aiming of the shot.
‘Will you delope?’ Stepan asked.
‘Yes, most certainly.’ Percivale had insulted him and he’d insulted a woman under his protection, perhaps goaded to such lengths by pressure from Heatherly and others who weren’t brave enough to confront him directly. In other circumstances, such action meant to court vengeance of the most violent nature. But Percivale had acted out of a misguided sense of honour and hurt.
‘Do you think Percivale will?’ Stepan was not entirely comfortable with the idea of being defenceless. Deloping left one without any protection.
‘I do not know,’ Illarion said solemnly. He did not know if he would if he’d been Perivale. True, Percivale had behaved abominably last night in words and deeds. But it was Percivale who was defending his honour on the field today because Illarion had called him a liar. Striking Dove had been an accident, but it had certainly added to the gossip. Illarion could still see those moments in slow motion: Dove’s head going back so hard, he’d feared for her life. She’d not been braced for the blow and her head had snapped ferociously. She’d crumpled into his arms, unconscious as she fell. He’d held her for a few precious seconds before she’d been taken from him. Percivale had leapt for him then and fisticuffs ensued. Illarion had no compunction about defending himself. He’d landed a few blows before Hathaway had intervened.
His first thought then, his first thought this morning, had been for Dove. As soon as the duel was over, he would go to her. He would demand entrance, he would take it if need be. Nikolay would go with him. He pushed the thoughts back. He could not let them run ahead of the moment.
‘All of my papers are in order.’ He turned to Stepan. ‘There wasn’t much.’ It had been relatively simple, much easier than the last time he’d duelled in Kuban. There had been palaces and fortunes, and things to account for. ‘There was only the money. I’ve given permission for Ruslan and you to handle my account.’ He reached into his coat pocket and passed an envelope to Ruslan. ‘This is for her. The deed for the town house is in there.’ If he fell, Dove would have somewhere to go.
‘I’ll hold it for now.’ Ruslan transferred it to his pocket without any protestations over how unnecessary the preparation was. Ruslan understood duels were always serious. ‘She will be taken care of, I promise. Stepan and I will see to it.’
Illarion nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice. He’d done the best he could for Dove. No matter what happened this morning, she need not marry Percivale, need not feel forced to it. He’d given her freedom. With luck, she wouldn’t have to fight to claim it. With more luck, he’d be there to claim it with her.
Nikolay came back across the green, his step purposeful. ‘The second has asked one last time for your apology. If you choose to apologise, the challenge will be withdrawn.’ This was all protocol, of course, proof that one last effort at peace had been made.
‘No,’ Illarion said smoothly before Stepan could be tempted to argue for it. ‘However, if Percivale would like to apologise to me, I would be happy to forgo the duel. I have pen and paper in the carriage for him to write out his retraction of the rumours.’ Nikolay bowed respectfully and went back across the field. It was an exercise only. He was back a minute later. As expected, Percivale had refused. A man’s honour was a damnable thing.
Illarion shook Ruslan’s and Stepan’s hands very formally. Anything more and the emotion would undo him. These were the best friends a man could ask for. They stood by him even when he�
�d cost them their country, even when they might disagree with his choices. He walked out on to the field. He gave Percivale first choice of pistols. Percivale chose swiftly, confidently, his gaze solemn and steady when their eyes met over the duelling case. Illarion tried to read the other man. What did that gaze mean? Would Percivale aim to kill? To maim? Or would Percivale delope, feeling honour was satisfied simply by showing up? But there was something else in Percivale’s gaze that Illarion recognised all too well: the need to protect Dove, the need to vindicate himself and society.
Percivale spoke in low tones, checking his weapon one last time. ‘I would marry her, even now with the scent of scandal about her.’ Would. That most telling of words. It spoke volumes. Percivale had given up his hopes. He knew Dove was beyond his reach, that she would never have him now and, even if he could in some way possess her body, he would never own her soul, never own her mind. He’d come to realise those things mattered. ‘She is too good for you.’
Illarion did not flinch. He was not without empathy for the man. Percivale had simply fallen in love with the wrong woman. ‘She is too good for most of us.’ Percivale was a cool fellow indeed, his confidence commendable even if he was out of his depth. Men like Percivale did not fight duels more than once in a lifetime. They probably shouldn’t fight them at all. They hadn’t the experience for them, only the honour, and that would be their undoing. That was the damnable thing about it. A man could never back away, even if it killed him. Honour once lost was not easily regained.
Nikolay took the case and the count began. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen... Illarion’s mind began to clear. Percivale might die for honour, but not today. His thoughts centred and narrowed to the next few actions. Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen... He would be fast, he would turn first. It was imperative so that Percivale might take his cue from him. Illarion would raise his gun into the air, firing harmlessly at the sky, encouraging Percivale to follow suit, honour satisfied. Five, four, three, everything would be over in the span of seconds...two, one...pivot, cock. The world slowed.
Turn: he sighted Percivale at the end of field.
Pivot: he positioned his body sideways in the classic narrowing stance of a dueller attempting to make the smallest possible target.
Cock: his thumb pulled back the trigger. He raised his gun into the air and fired too late or was it too soon? The timing was delicate if a delopement was to work. One’s opponent had to see them do it and Percivale had not seen him. Dear God, Percivale didn’t understand the shot had been to the sky! Inexperienced and slow, Percivale’s turn had been too late to see him delope. Percivale knew only that the shot had been taken, the sound of the bullet reverberating in the quite morning air. His brain couldn’t register the import of that shot, his body still in motion, his brain concentrating exclusively on making a shot. The shot. It was too late for him to choose otherwise.
Percivale meant to shoot. Illarion imagined he could see Percivale’s thumb pull back the trigger, imagined he could see the ball dropping to the chamber. He would not flinch. He would not try to run. He would stand his ground and let Percivale take his shot. He drew a breath. His last? He wondered. He forced his eyes to stay open, to meet his death honestly. He heard the gun fire. He fixed his thoughts on Dove. She would be the last of his thoughts. He felt the wind of the bullet as it passed. Close, so damned close. But not close enough. He would live.
It seemed surreal that the duel was over, the ending abrupt. One moment he’d been contemplating the end, and the next, he had the future to look forward to. Illarion closed his eyes, allowing the relief of being alive wash over him. He would make good use of that future. At the other end of the field, Percivale had gone into shock, the gun falling to the ground as he realised what had happened.
‘I am sorry! I didn’t see, I didn’t understand.’ Percivale’s apology was an incoherent string of words. The import of what he’d nearly done overwhelmed him. Illarion saw him sag against Heatherly, his words becoming mumbles of disbelief, ‘He deloped, he deloped and I...’ Tried to kill a prince. The horror of that was too much for Percivale.
Illarion could not go to him. Protocol and pride—Percivale’s pride—didn’t allow it. It would only shame Percivale. He will let Ruslan handle that, Ruslan was good at those things. As for himself, he had other business to take care of. He walked straight to the carriage, gesturing for Nikolay to come with him. He would call on Dove as soon as it was decent. He had to know she was all right.
* * *
He waited until ten, although the wait was torture. If it was up to him, he would have gone straight there and awakened the house at six. But there’d been enough scandal already. It was a decision he regretted immediately. He sensed something was wrong the moment he mounted the steps of Redruth House. The door confirmed it. The knocker was gone.
Illarion banged his fist on the door. There was no answer. He banged again. And again. Someone was home. The house had been full yesterday. One did not simply pack up an entire town house, staff and all, in the course of a night. He banged again, louder this time. Then he began to shout, drawing stares from those who were out early. ‘Open up, dammit. I know someone is in there!’ He was fuelled by desperation and by fear. Was Dove all right?
Beside him, Nikolay put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We can try around back.’
‘Like a servant? We are Princes, we will not go the servants’ door.’ Illarion was angry now. His head was starting to spin. The world was fuzzy at the edges. He hit the door again and this time it opened. A harried footman stood there, barring the way. The door was open, but the path was shut. Illarion would get no further than this without force.
‘I am here to see Lady Dove.’
The footman’s face was blank. ‘She’s not here. The family has gone.’
His face felt strangely wet at his temple. The world spun again. He saw black at the edge of his vision. ‘Where have they gone?’ Illarion had the impression he was running out of time. He needed answers. Fast. He grabbed the footman by the pristine collar of his livery. ‘Tell me where’s she gone and why.’ Beside him, Nikolay fingered his sword.
‘C-Cornwall, sir. They’ve gone to Cornwall,’ the footman stammered.
‘And Lady Dove, is she all right?’
The footman hesitated and Illarion shook him hard. The hesitation confirmed Illarion’s fear that not all was right. ‘I don’t know, sir. That’s the truth, she was carried out in her nightclothes, sir, all wrapped in blankets. All I know is that there’d been an accident.’ His eyes darted wildly between Illarion and Nikolay’s blade.
Illarion released him, his own strength wavering. He tugged at his waistcoat. ‘Thank you.’ There was nothing more to be got here. They were gone. He would follow them. He made the carriage, stumbling only once, Nikolay catching him and helping him inside.
‘Cornwall,’ he called up to the driver.
‘Are you nuts?’ Nikolay exclaimed. ‘Cornwall is four days away.’ He leaned forward, touching Illarion’s temple, digging through the thick depths of his hair, his hand coming away red. ‘You, my friend, are going home. You’ve been shot.’
‘Grazed,’ Illarion corrected, putting his own hand to his head for proof. ‘I didn’t realise.’ He had not felt it at the time, but he felt it now, heard it in the slur of his speech. ‘It’s just a graze,’ he murmured before he slumped forward.
But grazes bled and often looked worse than they were. This one leaked and looked deceptively better than it was. After a day of unrelenting dizziness and a continuous drip of blood, Illarion allowed Stepan to call the doctor. He was no good to Dove, if he couldn’t sit a horse or at the very least ride in a carriage. One could not get to Cornwall if one was unconscious.
‘Shrapnel is what I’d call it, if this was military action,’ the doctor deduced after painfully poking around Illarion’s head. He was a white-haired veteran of medicine known for his discretion and who
had come highly recommended by a friend of Nikolay’s at the stable. ‘Since there’s no military action around these parts, perhaps you gentlemen might tell me what really happened?’
‘It’s possible it might be a shard of lead bullet,’ Nikolay supplied.
The doctor raised an eyebrow at Illarion. ‘Duelling, were you, son? You ought to know better.’ He bent forward and took another look. ‘Well, it’s on the surface and we can get it out with tweezers. It’s not deep, but I’m not saying it won’t hurt.’
It was, however, deep enough to require cutting away a patch of hair at his temple, dousing his head and himself with some of Stepan’s homemade samogan for sterility, stitches, wrapping his head in an enormous white bandage and committing him to rest and absolutely no travel for a week. Cornwall was out of the question.
He was the world’s worst patient. As soon as he could sit up, he begged for writing materials and when that was denied, he resort to having Ruslan write for him. If he couldn’t be with her in person, he’d be with her in spirit. When he wasn’t begging for letters, he was begging for news. He hated being trapped inside, unable to go to the club for the latest news, and Stepan made a terrible gossip.
It was Ruslan who brought the first real news of use. ‘I talked to a maid from Redruth House. I tracked her down to her sister’s inn in Cheapside. The house is entirely closed now.’ He offered the details, removing some books from the spare chair in Illarion’s room. ‘I’m not sure you’ll want to hear this, though. She said Dove was unconscious when she left the house.’ He paused and Illarion waited for more. That was not news. They’d been told as much by the footman. ‘She had a fever and she’d been given laudanum for her nerves. Apparently, she had an outburst and had to be restrained.’ Ruslan hesitated.
‘What? Tell me, man?’ He was genuinely worried now. Dove had been ill, been restrained. The very idea concerned him, plagued him with guilt. He’d been the cause of it, he and Percivale with their notions of honour.
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