by Darcy Burke
“He admitted it to my face. I demanded satisfaction.” Beck stared at her father with scorching heat. “You mean to tell me that if a man killed your sister and got away with it for sixteen years, you wouldn’t want satisfaction?”
Father glanced away briefly before looking at Beck with pity. “I understand. However, without a father here to guide you, I hope you’ll allow my counsel. This is not the way.”
“No, it isn’t,” Lavinia said. She turned to her father, grateful for the care he was showing to her future husband. “Father, I’m going to have Beck drive me home in his phaeton.” She wasn’t asking permission. “I’ll see you shortly.” She went and kissed him on the cheek, eliciting a small grunt of surprise from him.
He looked at Beck. “Think about what I said.”
Beck didn’t respond as he offered his arm to Lavinia and escorted her to his vehicle. After he helped her inside, he said, “You’re not going to change my mind.”
“I must. We’re to be married in a fortnight. I’d rather not have to bury you first.” She was trying to inject a bit of levity but ended up feeling a stab of distress.
“You’re not going to bury me. Haywood’s a coward and probably a terrible shot.”
“Then I don’t want his death upsetting the start of our life together.” She turned toward him as he drove the phaeton into the street. “Please, Beck, you can’t do this.”
“I can and I must. He killed my sister.”
She could feel the fury coming off him in waves, as if he were a raging bonfire. Maybe she could calm him down a bit and find some reason. “What happened? Is this why you were acting strangely at the ball last night?”
It took him a moment to respond. He seemed to have difficulty finding words today, which was odd since words were so much a part of who he was. “I received a letter from my sister Margaret. She said Haywood was the man who’d given my sister hope for a union. Given his reputation, I wanted to know what happened, so I asked him for advice with my mistress.”
She didn’t think it was possible to feel any more distressed. “You have a mistress?”
“Of course not,” he said in a rush. “I meant what I told you yesterday. I love you, Lavinia. There is only you.”
And Haywood, apparently. Obviously, Beck didn’t love him, but right now he was standing between her and the man she loved.
“He suggested I dispose of her with pennyroyal, which is toxic in large amounts.”
Lavinia had heard of that herb. “It’s also used to get rid of unwanted babes.” Her voice was low, disbelieving. “Was your sister…with child?” She watched as his hands clenched the reins and the muscles in his jaw tightened.
“Yes. And he didn’t want to marry her, so he killed her.” He swallowed. “I’m just glad my father isn’t here. Actually, I hate that he went to his grave thinking Helen took her own life.” His voice broke at the end.
Lavinia wanted to hold him, but she couldn’t without causing an accident. She touched his arm as tears stung her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I can understand how you feel.”
“I don’t think you can. If you could, you’d know that I have to meet him tomorrow. My sister’s honor is at stake. Do you know how awful it’s been for my family to live with the knowledge that she killed herself and to keep that secret to protect her and our family?” His voice rose. “It’s bloody torture, and it was all unnecessary. She didn’t kill herself. Haywood killed her. And an innocent child.”
Nausea swirled in Lavinia’s gut. The anguish in his voice forced the tears from her eyes, and they tracked down her cheeks. “Which is why you can’t kill him. He did wrong. You must not. If he admitted the crime, you can have him arrested. He’ll be tried and hanged.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the judge will show him mercy, and he’ll only be transported or even less. He’s a peer, and I doubt he’ll hang. Lavinia, he deserves to die for what he did. Painfully.”
The darkness and hatred in his voice frightened her. “Listen to yourself,” she said softly. “You aren’t the Beck I know, the man I fell in love with.”
They rode in silence for several minutes, until he turned onto Park Street. “I am the same man. This is me, Lavinia. All of me. I…feel…deeply.”
Of course he did. How else could he write such beautiful poetry or play such wondrous music? He drew the phaeton to a stop in front of her house, and she turned fully to him.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her glove. “I know you do, and I love you so much for that. I know how much you must hate him, but if you kill him, you’ll be wrecked. Because you feel so deeply.”
“Lavinia, I can’t let him walk away from this. I can’t.”
“And I can’t watch you do it. What if he kills you? What if I am with child, and I have to raise him or her without a father?”
His eyes widened slightly, and she felt a dash of hope that she’d finally broken through to him. “He won’t. I’m going to kill Haywood tomorrow. It won’t happen any other way.” He climbed down and started around the phaeton, but she scrambled out by herself. She didn’t want his help, not when he was behaving like a complete jackass.
He frowned at her. “I was going to help you down.”
“I know. But I don’t want your help right now. I’m not even sure I want to marry you right now. What sort of marriage are we to have if you won’t listen to me?”
“I won’t listen to you? It’s as if you didn’t even hear that he killed my sister.” His eyes blazed as he stared down at her.
“Yes, I heard you,” she said sharply. “And the solution is to have him arrested, not risk your life. Or break the law. Dueling is illegal!”
“No one will fault me for this.”
“I can see there’s no talking sense into you. I can only imagine what the next fifty years will be like.”
“What are you saying?” His voice went dangerously low.
“I’m saying you’re a stubborn toad, and now I’m going inside. If you don’t cancel this duel, I—” She wasn’t sure what. She loved him. So much. But this cloud around him was far more troubling than she’d realized. If he wouldn’t listen to her, could she stand by and watch him drown in anger or despair?
“You’ll what?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know. And please don’t make me find out.” She turned and went inside, where, for the first time in her life, she went promptly and thoroughly to pieces.
Chapter 17
Sweet lady of science, you temper the fire,
And tame my wild heart that churns on the pyre.
Love lost in wonder where words and song dwell,
Don thy sweet brightness and break this black spell.
With warmth and passion, you bless this poor knave
My soul and future, you surely have saved.
* * *
-Beck’s writings
* * *
Beck jumped from his phaeton, his mood darker than it had been before he’d gone to church, which he’d never imagined possible. The groom took charge of the vehicle as Beck stormed to the door, which Gage opened with considerable haste.
“You’re in a hurry, my lord.”
He grunted in response and hastened to his office, slamming the door behind him. Divesting himself of his hat, gloves, coat, cravat, and waistcoat, he picked up a guitar and began to play. Loudly. Discordantly. With vengeance and hatred and despair.
Then he did the unthinkable. He slammed the instrument into the hearth. Wood splintered—some flying and some falling into the coals. He held the ruined guitar and sank to the floor, where he sat for an indeterminate amount of time.
He tossed the guitar aside and lay down across the carpet, stretching his legs out as he stared at the ceiling. Somewhere inside, a small piece of him worried she was right—that killing Haywood would wreck him. But he couldn’t let it go.
He heard voices in the next room and sat up a moment before there was a knock on his door. “Come.”
Gage stepped insi
de and closed the door behind him. “My lord, a Bow Street Runner is here to see you.”
Fuck.
Gage offered his hand, which Beck clasped, and the butler pulled him to his feet. “He’s in the sitting room.”
Beck went looking for his discarded clothing, but Gage came up with the waistcoat and cravat first. His gaze drifted to the ruined guitar as Beck donned his waistcoat. “Was there a problem with your instrument?” Gage asked.
“No.”
Taking the cravat, Beck wound it around his neck, not particularly caring if it was tied well. Gage stepped forward and took over, tying the silk with expert flicks of his fingers. When he was finished, he retrieved Beck’s coat and brought it around for Beck to shrug into.
“Better,” Gage said softly before opening the door.
Beck went into the sitting room, where a stocky fellow with a thick head of dark red hair was waiting near the window. He turned and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord. I’ve come to speak with you about Lord Haywood.”
There was no surprise, just severe disappointment. He wanted to ask who had turned Haywood in to Bow Street, but was certain he knew. Beck said nothing. He just stood and waited for the Runner to continue.
“Name’s Mason,” he said. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“No.”
The Runner eyed the settee but rested his uncertain gaze on Beck and ultimately didn’t move. “I understand Lord Haywood confessed a crime to you.”
He couldn’t deny it. Just as he couldn’t kill the man—not now. “A murder.”
“Yes.” The Runner shifted uncomfortably, his neck coloring a bit. “Your sister, I gather. That must have been a shock. I can see why you didn’t immediately come forward.” It was an obvious fiction, and they both knew it. But the Runner couldn’t mention the duel.
“How did you find out?” He hadn’t meant to ask, but the question leapt from his mouth.
“Several people, actually. Lord Balcombe and his daughter paid a visit, as did Lord Ware.”
Fucking Felix had gone behind his back? Beck worried he was going to break a second guitar when they were finished. No, he wouldn’t do that.
“Can you provide testimony detailing what Lord Haywood said?”
“Yes.” The thought of having to relive what that beast had done to Helen hollowed him from the inside. “When?”
“Now, if you’re able.”
“Fine.” He finally sat, taking a chair near the hearth and sitting ramrod straight while he repeated precisely what Haywood had said. He finished by saying, “He should hang.”
“And he may.” The Runner had sat on the settee and now stood. “Thank you for your time, my lord. You’ll hear from me very soon.”
He strode from the room, and Beck collapsed back against the chair.
A few moments later, Gage came in, his gait halting, his stature a bit…slumped. He stopped near the settee and looked over at Beck.
“I’m incredibly sorry for what happened to your sister.”
Beck wasn’t surprised to hear Gage had listened. He did that sometimes, and in every single case, it was something Beck hadn’t wanted to repeat but didn’t mind Gage knowing. “You’ve a gift for being exactly where I need you, when I need you.”
“I do try.”
“Sit.” Beck inclined his head toward the settee. “If you want.”
Gage lowered himself—slowly—onto the cushion. “I perceived you were in a particular state. Yesterday and then today with the guitar. It’s strange enough that you became engaged without a hint of it, and then all this with your sister.”
Beck pressed his lips together, thinking about Gage’s perceptions. “You think my betrothal is somehow related to…this?”
“Not directly. But your emotions, which run very deep, as we know, are perhaps at an all-time fervor. High and low—your betrothal made you happy, did it not?”
“More than I’ve ever been. I love her beyond anything, Gage.” As angry as he was at her right now, as betrayed as he felt, he loved her.
Gage’s expression softened. “I suspected as much. And yet learning what happened to Miss Beckett has sent you to the opposite end of the spectrum.”
“Yes.” he barely croaked the word out, his mind tumbling into a ravine where sunlight spilled over the tangle of vines and branches that sought to pin him down. He looked up at the light. He wanted the light. Lavinia was his light.
“Perhaps there is a way for you to move to the other end. The end where Lady Lavinia resides. Rather, your feelings for her.”
“I was just thinking that.” Words formed and joined in his head. The shadows gave way to a warm glow, but not completely. It wasn’t ever that easy.
Beck stood. “I need to write.”
“Of course.” Gage rose. “Shall I begin the transformation of this room into her ladyship’s office?”
“Yes, and have the door cut,” Beck said. He went toward the door and paused at the threshold, turning. “Thank you, Gage. I never say it enough, but without you, I fear I would have drowned in the abyss long ago.”
“It is my pleasure to provide assistance. Of any kind. And may I say how pleased the staff is to hear of your engagement. If you are amenable, we should like to raise a toast to you this evening.”
“I should like that very much, thank you.” Beck turned and went to his office with a far lighter step than when he’d left.
Once again, he tore away his outer clothing, then he sat down and began to write.
* * *
This had been one of the longest days of Lavinia’s life. She felt utterly drained and could barely make the effort to brush her hair. But since she’d sent Carrin off to bed, she supposed she must.
She picked up her brush and went to sit in front of the windows. The candlelight from the table next to her bed cast a warm glow, and she was soon lulled into a semidazed state. It was the most serene she’d felt all day.
Except for those few moments in church when she’d sat beside Beck, his body lightly touching hers, his scent filling the air around her, her love for him filling her with joy.
She still loved him. Even if he hated her. Which he might after what she’d done that afternoon.
She’d escaped to her room to compose herself before her parents had arrived home, but a short time later, her father—her father—had come up to see her. She said she wanted to report Haywood’s crime to Bow Street. Her father had been supportive and patient, and he’d insisted on accompanying her. Not just because he had to, but because he wanted to stand at her side. She’d appreciated it very much.
Afterward, they’d come home and spent a quiet afternoon and evening. They’d even played cards together after dinner. She didn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed their company so much. Her melancholy remained, however, as she wondered how Beck had reacted to Bow Street’s visit.
The Runner had told her he would go and talk to him. They needed to hear his testimony about what Haywood had said. She expected he was furious with her. The question was how furious. Angry enough to call off the wedding?
Terrified she was making a mistake, she’d wondered if she should do the same. She barely understood his moods and emotions.
But the thought of not being with him made the melancholy worse. She recalled what he’d said, that he couldn’t imagine a future without her. Well, she didn’t want one without him.
The strains of a melody drifted to her, like an echo on the wind. She opened her eyes, not even aware she’d closed them, and set down her brush to listen.
The sound grew louder. Was it coming from outside?
She stood and went to the window, squinting down onto the street. There, standing in the light of the lamp, was Beck. Strumming his guitar.
She opened the sash and pushed at the window.
And he was singing.
His voice, as she’d suspected, was beautiful. A rich baritone that hummed across her skin and burrowed into her soul. The words were for her—of love and th
e future and a light so bright, it blinded him.
She turned to her bedside table and reached for her glasses. Sliding them onto her face, she returned to the window and leaned out to listen. He played and sang, and she fell in love with him all over again.
He finished, pausing for just a moment, then started again. Was he just going to play the song over and over? As much as she wanted to listen to it over and over, she wanted something else more.
She went to the armoire and found a dressing gown. Wrapping it tightly around herself and tying the sash, she raced down two flights of stairs and flew across the hall. The footman barely made it to the door to open it in time.
When she went outside, Beck was still playing. The night was cool and damp with the promise of rain.
She walked out to the pavement and leaned against the railing to listen to the song once more. This time when he finished, he lowered his guitar and came toward her.
“Should I keep playing?” he asked.
“Yes!” a neighbor from across the street called from her front door.
“Don’t stop!” came another call from the house to their left.
Lavinia giggled. “I’m afraid you may be in trouble now that your secret’s out.”
“What secret is that?”
“Your talent with the guitar—and your voice.” She mock-scowled at him. “You lied to me. You’re a wonderful singer. You promised you wouldn’t lie.”
His brows arched. “And I didn’t. Perception is everything. I think I’m a terrible singer, just as I think you in spectacles is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And just as I see that I was an ass.” He tipped his head to the side and then righted it once more. “Rather, I see your perception that I was an ass. I still think I was maybe right.”
She tensed, unsure of what that meant. “Are you angry with me?”
He shook his head. “I was. But I understand why you did it, and why it was the right thing to do. For everyone. Most of all for me. I think you were right that the darkness would claim me.”
