Now Playing on Outworld 5730

by R. T. W. Lipkin

  As she lay on the mattress beneath him, her knees bent, her hands clasped behind his neck, he let her guide him into her. Yes.

  One last time. Tomorrow this, and everything, would be over. Tomorrow he’d finally face down his traitorous friend and no doubt lose his life in the process.

  He pushed gently into Violet, her tight, warm fluids surrounding him, embracing him, urging him forward.

  He pushed harder, stroking her, his hand between them.

  “Rafe,” she said, and he wished she’d call him Ephraim, but she didn’t know his name even though she must have heard Wyatt this morning. To her, though, he was Rafe Blackstone, not Ephraim Croft. To her he was a foolish nobleman—or, even more foolish, a majestic player—and this was a dalliance only.

  He felt her legs as they wound themselves around his back, and he lifted her hips underneath him and drove into her as she pushed herself onto him.

  There was something primal here, something he’d not had with Charlotte, who’d always kept a part of herself held in check. The part she was saving for Wyatt, no doubt.

  His tempo increased, and he and Violet struggled to match each other, heaving in the too-thin atmosphere of the outworld.

  “Come back,” Violet said from far away. He poured himself into her then, feeling her spasm, hearing her gasps beneath him.

  His release extinguished even its own sensations.

  If this were love, said the wind that crashed into the walls of the hut, how could it be revealed. If Violet were the truth and not an actor in a play, said the streaks of lightning that streamed outside the windows, where was the certainty.

  He lay on top of her, their sweat merging, slick, both ice and fire.

  “Rafe,” Violet said in a whisper, her breaths caressing his neck.

  “Charlotte,” he said as he fell into a deep sleep.

  An hour before dawn, when he awoke, he was alone in the hut. If Violet had been there last night . . . yet there wasn’t a trace of her left. As though she’d never existed.

  But he did exist, at least for another hour. He gathered his things and strode quickly back to the manor house, sure that Etterly, ever the dutiful valet, would have readied all that was necessary.

  At least it had stopped raining, although Trevelton wasn’t sure that more rain wouldn’t’ve been to his advantage. If he could have any advantage.

  He quietly opened the front door to the manor house and leapt up the grand staircase three steps at a time. As he’d known he would be, Etterly was awake and had laid out everything Trevelton needed, but insisted he bathe before the duel.

  “So I’ll die a clean man?” Trevelton had said.

  “Yes, my lord,” said the humorless Etterly. “As befits a man of your stature.”

  Trevelton stopped himself from laughing uproariously at such a statement. He didn’t want to wake anyone in the corridor where his rooms were. But, to shut Etterly up, he bathed and put on the clean, pressed, pristine outfit that Etterly had chosen, letting his valet tie the cravat the way he liked. As though he were Beau Brummell himself, on his way to visit the Prince Regent. And not Ephraim Croft, preparing for his last morning.

  Through all the planning he’d done, working toward and in anticipation of this very day, Ephraim had never quite gotten to the point of confronting the finality of it. He’d relished the thought of destroying Wyatt. He’d basked in the reflection of what he imagined Charlotte’s fury and distress would be. He’d felt his sword piercing through Wyatt’s tainted flesh.

  But until the moment that Etterly tied his cravat, he’d never faced the truth of it—that today would be the end of either himself or his former treasured friend. Or possibly both of them.

  Etterly fussed with the complicated knots he was making, and Trevelton let him.

  “You’ve never looked more impressive, my lord,” Etterly said when he’d finished.

  A fine corpse I’ll make, Trevelton thought. A fine, well-dressed corpse.

  Chapter 49

  Violet hadn’t been able to wash Trevelton off herself. She’d bathed once, dried herself off, then refilled the tub with cold water, scrubbing herself even harder. But no matter what she did, she still smelled Rafe’s masculine scent on her, still felt his sweat fused into her pores, still felt his mouth on her flesh.

  Charlotte. Their last night together, and that was the name he’d uttered. Not Violet. Charlotte. And then he’d fallen asleep.

  She’d gotten out from under him, dressed, and left the tree house. No need to be quiet, as the storm was louder than any noise she could possibly make. Miraculously, led by the same instincts that had guided her and Lady Patience in the maze, and helped along by the occasional eruption of lightning, she made it back through the forest and into the manor house.

  Her plans to convince Trevelton to cancel the duel had fallen away, replaced first by her passionate needs and then by a fury she’d previously felt only toward Booker Holm. Booker, the dead liar. Trevelton would soon be dead as well. Her certainty on that point was stronger than it had been earlier.

  She hadn’t slept, but sat on the side of her bed for the remaining few hours until dawn. She’d abandoned her plan to offer herself to Saybrook in order to stop the duel. Let them duel. Let them kill each other.

  When she heard stirrings in the servants’ quarters, she left her room and went down to the kitchen. The staff had already been up for a while, she saw, since there was fresh bread, and Rosie was laying out platters to be taken to the hillside, where the lords and ladies would gather to watch the proceedings.

  “A picnic?” Violet said to Rosie.

  “It’s like a party,” Rosie said under her breath.

  “We’d best have breakfast now. There won’t be time later,” said Mr. Calvert, and everyone sat at the big table and helped themselves to the servants’ spread, which was as generous as what had been prepared for the players.

  “I can’t possibly be this hungry,” Violet said to Rosie as she reached for yet another piece of toast, buttered it, and devoured it in three bites.

  Rosie made herself a sandwich of spiced ham that Cook herself had cured in the smokehouse, putting the delicately sliced meat between two thick hunks of fresh bread.

  “I know,” Rosie said as she chewed. “But it’s all so delicious. And I seem to be hungrier than usual.”

  Violet was too, even though she hated herself for it. Yet she ate with abandon, as though she’d never see food again.

  Mr. Calvert also was eating more than usual. Mrs. Allman was present at the breakfast table as well, even though she often ate in her office. She, though, wasn’t as ravenous as the rest of the staff, taking only small bites of a plum tart, her favorite, which Cook had made specially for her.

  Johnny was deep in a conversation with Harriette, who was in eternal danger of being fired as she still hadn’t proven herself useful at any task, and Nell was busy telling Etterly how he had to be careful, he might be out of a job in an hour or two.

  “If you say so,” Etterly said. He cut his ham into precise rectangles and ate each piece slowly, chewing quietly and deliberately, as though he counted each mastication.

  Cook sat with the group, too, even though she was usually bustling about the kitchen, taking her food in tastes and samples only. But this morning she’d filled a plate and was rushing through the mound of food, forking it into her slim body, pausing only to take an occasional drink of the pear nectar that she was famous for. Mrs. Allman also sipped at her glass of pear nectar, which was usually reserved for the players.

  Yet today the customary routine had been thrown off. The duel had changed the regular rhythms at Hollyhock Manor, and the shift of those two or three hours had created an almost partylike atmosphere.

  “I couldn’t convince him,” Violet whispered to Rosie, leaving out that she hadn’t really attempted to. Leaving out that she’d made love to him. Leaving out that he’d wanted Charlotte and not her.

  “It’ll all work out,” Rosie said.
“And you’re well rid of him. Remember that.”

  “Are you going to eat that roll?” Johnny said to Rosie. She drew her plate closer and put her hand on the roll.

  “Yes. It’s mine,” Rosie said.

  “I only just asked,” Johnny said.

  “It’s time we proceeded to the hillside,” said Mr. Calvert as he stood from the table. “Dawn will be here soon.”

  Yet it was still so dark out when the group, carrying baskets of breads, preserves, cured meats, cold leftover pheasant pie, salted fish, flagons of the blissful pear nectar, and stacks of linens and utensils out onto the manor’s grounds, that they’d had to bring lanterns with them to light the way.

  Violet’s lantern swayed in her hand, her other hand clutching a pile of heavy cloths that would cover the ground where the players sat. She watched the flame flicker and then grow horribly brighter, illuminating the black surround of mortality.

  “Don’t let me cry,” she said to Rosie.

  “I would stop you, Vi,” Rosie said, “only no one could.”

  “I wish I’d never come here,” Violet said.

  Rosie didn’t answer. They’d reached the gentle slope where the players would gather momentarily, and everyone was surprised that they’d been preceded there by an unfamiliar group.

  “Thalia,” Mrs. Allman said as she approached the large, tall, broad, weighty, solid woman who seemed to be in charge of the gathering.

  “Jewel,” Thalia said. “I was hoping to see you this morning.”

  “Whatever are you doing here?” Mrs. Allman said.

  “The same as you are, I’m sure,” Thalia said. “Attending the most exciting event of the season.”

  As if on cue, both Trevelton and Saybrook arrived then, approaching from different directions, and everyone gasped as sunlight broke onto the horizon.

  Chapter 50

  The hillside filled up quickly. The players from Hollyhock were all in their places on the ground cloths as the dim partial light emerged in front of them. It had turned even colder overnight, and condensed breaths fogged the grim atmosphere.

  The duchess approached Saybrook first, since he was Edgar’s friend. Nicholas’s friend.

  When she’d arisen this morning, she’d felt fine for the first time in days and chided herself for thinking there was any possibility she was pregnant. Of course the water here must be treated the same way it was everywhere in the galaxy. One could only become pregnant by ingesting the antidote, which she most certainly hadn’t. It was only her longing for Nicholas that was causing her body so much distress.

  “Ah, Your Grace,” Saybrook said as she approached. Sophia was wearing a dark burgundy dress with a lighter burgundy pelisse over it. It was cold out, colder than it had been since she’d arrived.

  Saybrook himself was wearing a white shirt, no cravat, and dark brown breeches, as though he’d just returned from a ride, which perhaps he had. His dark blond hair was in a careless tousle and his cheeks were ruddy with the cold.

  “I need to speak to you,” the duchess said.

  “Of course, Your Grace. But perhaps it could wait for another few minutes, as I have a task to attend to.”

  “I must speak to you now, you fool. This can’t continue. It’s one thing to go about and do as you please, but it’s quite another to deliberately plan to execute another man.”

  “I’m afraid you’re quite wrong about that, Your Grace,” said Saybrook, who was staring over her shoulder at Trevelton, whose fine outfit made Saybrook look like a peasant.

  “What do you mean?” Sophia stared at Saybrook, who seemed to need no protection against the cold. Because he himself was so chilly?

  “I planned nothing, Your Grace.” As polite and correct as he was, she nevertheless sensed that he felt superior to her and to everyone.

  “Nevertheless,” she said firmly. “I forbid it. This has to stop now.”

  “Really?” Saybrook said, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Forbid away.”

  “Hollyhock Manor is my house and I won’t have a duel taking place here. They’re against every law known to man.”

  “Yet they occur anyway,” Saybrook said, broadly smiling now. “As does everything else prohibited by law.”

  Sophia pulled her pelisse tighter around her. Did Saybrook know of her crime? She shivered against the thought, and for the first time that morning the nausea rose again.

  “You absolutely cannot do this on my grounds,” Sophia said, making one last attempt to stop him.

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to go over to Brixton,” Saybrook said with a sneering sigh. “But I’m sure no one will mind.”

  Sophia put her hand on his forearm. “Saybrook, listen to me. You simply cannot do this. This isn’t a game.”

  “No, it’s not,” Saybrook said. “It never was.”

  Jewel Allman joined them then, hesitating before saying anything. Sophia, though, was relieved to see her and hoped that she could achieve what she herself had failed at.

  “Mrs. Allman,” Sophia said. “Maybe you can talk to Lord Saybrook. He won’t listen to me.”

  “My lord,” Mrs. Allman said. “Please reconsider your actions. I beg of you.”

  “Beg away, Mrs. Allman,” Saybrook said.

  “Are we almost ready?” Calvert said. He’d come up behind Jewel, and she jumped, startled. Calvert was holding a large box, which Sophia feared held the pistols.

  “Maybe you can clear the area, Calvert,” Saybrook said, and the two men nodded to each other.

  “Let’s go, then, Mrs. Allman,” Sophia said, taking Jewel’s arm. “It’s a lost cause.”

  As they turned to go back up the hillside to the viewing area, Sophia saw Trevelton, pacing a path back and forth in front of his valet, Etterly. Trevelton glanced up at her for a moment, and she felt as though she were staring at a ghost, his pale skin and pitch-dark hair dissolving into the morning vapor.

  On the hillside, Sophia took a seat next to Lady Patience, who shook her head in despair. “It’s impossible then, isn’t it?” she said to Sophia.

  “I’m afraid so,” Sophia said. “I couldn’t even dare talk to Trevelton. He’s unapproachable. Look at him.”

  “Like he’s dressed for his own funeral,” said Lady Patience. “And I’ve never seen anyone angrier. Not even close.”

  “He seems doomed,” said the duchess, and Lady Patience nodded her agreement.

  Chapter 51

  “Etterly,” said Trevelton in his lowest tone. “Give this to Violet Aldrich. Afterward.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Etterly as he took the envelope from Lord Trevelton.

  “Afterward, Etterly. And only if . . .”

  “Of course, my lord,” said Etterly, who placed the envelope in his breast pocket. The two men had their backs turned to the waiting crowd, so no one saw this exchange take place.

  Trevelton looked up the hillside at the huge spread laid out for the players. Refreshments. He thought back to the last food he’d eaten, then caught Violet looking at him from her perch next to Rosie.

  He looked away and addressed Etterly again. “Don’t forget, man, whatever you do.”

  “No, my lord. I’ll do everything as you’ve directed. You can count on me,” said Etterly.

  “Good man, Etterly,” said Trevelton.

  Calvert was standing midway between the two duelers. “Are we ready, gentlemen?” he said in his rich baritone. Everyone in the crowd stopped breathing as Saybrook and Trevelton approached Calvert from either side.

  Calvert had enlisted Johnny’s assistance, and the footman stood next to him as Calvert handed him the box containing the pistols.

  “Please excuse me, my lords,” said Calvert. “But we must attend to the formalities.”

  Saybrook and Trevelton nodded.

  “My lord,” Calvert said to Saybrook, who took his shirt out of his pants and pulled it off, showing his bare chest as the shirt hung gracelessly from his right wrist and trailed onto the perpetually damp gro
und.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Calvert said. Saybrook pulled his shirt back over his head but didn’t tuck it in, and the fabric rippled in a momentary breeze. Calvert turned to Trevelton.

  Trevelton took off his jacket and was about to throw it down when Etterly appeared, so he handed it to him instead as the two men nodded to each other.

  Trevelton lifted up his shirt. His chest was also bare underneath, as expected, but it was tradition to show that it was, in case anyone had gotten the idea to wear body armor.

  Etterly, with Trevelton’s jacket neatly draped over his arm, disappeared up the hillside as Calvert retrieved the box from Johnny, who scampered away. Calvert opened the lid and showed the contents to Saybrook and Trevelton, who were standing in front of him, next to each other, their arms almost touching.

  “My lord,” Calvert said, addressing Trevelton. “Please choose your weapon.”

  Trevelton reached into the box and with a trembling hand took the pistol that was closest to him. Calvert presented the box to Saybrook, who took the other weapon, his motions as casual as if he were picking a fresh handkerchief out of the drawer.

  “My lords,” Calvert said. “I must make one final plea for your disagreement to be settled without violence. I’m a fair and impartial judge and will mediate the proceedings, doing everything in my power to ensure a reasonable, satisfactory outcome.”

  On the hillside, Violet grabbed Rosie’s hand and leaned over to whisper, “Let this end now.” Rosie gripped Violet’s hand as she nodded vigorously.

  Lady Patience spoke quietly to the duchess. “I knew Calvert would come through. He’s a good man.” The duchess said, “Yes.”

  In front of Calvert, Trevelton and Saybrook breathed out their condensed breaths. The dim glare of the sun inched up, casting its breathtaking pale gold across the lawn.

  Calvert, still holding the box, although it was closed now and at his side, waited.

  Violet pulled Rosie’s hand into her lap and bit her lower lip. The duchess put her arm through Lady Patience’s. Jewel Allman swallowed the air in her throat. Thalia Rivers looked over at her players and smiled her most appealing, ingratiating smile. Johnny scooted closer to Harriette, who moved closer to Johnny. Etterly stood in the back of the crowd, gently stroking Trevelton’s jacket.