In answer, Tweed made a rough sound and spun around, stalking back to his friends and leaving Ned alone for the moment. He squinted out at the lightening horizon, shaking his head in an unconscious gesture of negation. Every decent principle protested his involvement in this situation.
He didn’t know whom he loathed more right now—Tweed for using his vile nephews to even some imaginary score, or those same wretched nephews for falling so willingly into his scheme. Not that it mattered. He was stuck risking his life because some churlish blighter with a grudge had called a nonexistent hound Captain.
Be damned. Loyalty, duty, and sacrifice had been creeds by which he’d lived the past fifteen years but always in what he’d adjudged to be a worthy cause. But what if, as now, the cause was not worth the sacrifice? Did it not cheapen those things he had fought for—ideals of freedom and liberty and justice—by ranking them with what amounted to no more than name-calling?
And even more compelling, did it not cheapen his love for Lydia to willingly sacrifice it for two gin-soaked young wastrels? Alone, he might be able to stave off his family’s imminent financial collapse for a year. If he married a rich bride as his family had asked, he might help avert it for a decade or even two. But eventually, inevitably, it would not be up to him whether Josten Hall and the Locktons endured. It would be up to those jackanapes.
He loved Lydia. He didn’t care whether she was rich or poor, a baron’s daughter or a French émigré’s niece. He loved Lydia and he would do everything in his power to win her. All his life he had done his duty, fulfilled his responsibilities, and subordinated his desires to others. No more.
And the richest part of his decision was he had no choice. His heart led now, other considerations fading to inconsequence before its imperative. He had to win her, to convince her of the depth and intensity of his feelings. And if he died before he had that opportunity, by God, he would come back and drag these boys to hell with him.
“Captain.” Borton’s voice startled him from his preoccupation. “We’ve agreed. Twenty- five paces. Two shots.”
“Two? For a dog’s name?” Ned asked in disgust.
“Tweed’s second pressed for three, Captain. Only the protest of the others kept him from insisting and myself from being drawn into a duel.”
Ned clapped Borton’s shoulder. “Well done, then.”
“I pray you,” Borton said nervously, “should you live, do not let Mary know I had any part of this. She would flay me alive!”
Ned smiled. “Done. Now let us finish this before we need deal with Harry.”
He took the pistol Borton handed him and strode out to meet Tweed, already waiting with his second. As soon as Ned reached them, the second gave instructions on how the duel was to proceed and then quickly withdrew, leaving Ned and Tweed to pace out their twenty-five steps.
Fog shifted around Ned’s calves like powdered snow as he walked. The day dawning promised to be so bleak that there was as yet no discernible horizon, simply a withdrawal of darkness. His breath condensed in the cold air. He finished his paces and turned, his shoulders sideways to Tweed. Even in the chance light he could see the moisture beading on Tweed’s face. A horse nickered. Someone coughed.
“Are the gentlemen prepared to fire?” Tweed’s man called out.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Ned inhaled deeply, composing a sketch in his mind’s eye of glossy brown hair, tip- tilted violet eyes, their corners pleated with delight, a smile surprised from cherry lips—
“Present!”
Both men raised their pistols.
“At your discretion, gentlemen!”
Tweed fired at once.
Ned’s muscles bunched in reaction, but he did not flinch. He waited for the advent of pain, some signal that he’d been hit. The body, he had learned through experience, is not always eager to bear bad news to the mind. But there was nothing. His breath came out in a ragged whoosh. He adjusted the sight line of his pistol on Tweed, whose face had grown ashen.
“One, two, three,” Borton’s voice called out. “Fire.”
Ned’s arm swung up. He fired. A gasp of outrage and murmurs of disapproval replied to the crack of the discharge.
“Deloped!”
“Unconscionable!”
“Insulting!”
He’d fired into the air, deloping. It was an act that implied a man’s opponent was not worth any potential difficulties his death or injury might put one through. Tweed took it as the grave offense honor deemed it to be. He surged forward a step before his second’s voice barked out, forestalling him.
“Prepare for a second volley!”
Both men cocked the hammer back on the second barrel of their pistols and awaited the command to present. Only Tweed, fired by passion and anger, did not wait. His pistol jerked up and fired.
There was, after all, not so long a delay between sensation and recognition as Ned recalled. Fire tore through his temple, knocking him back. He staggered a step, aware that blood was streaming down his face.
If disapproval had met his deloping, condemnation erupted at Tweed’s premature shot.
Tweed did not move, and Ned gave points for hubris. He quivered where he stood, his emptied pistol hanging by his side, his face, rather than reflecting shock or shame, twisted into an apoplectic knot. By God, Ned thought, growing light-headed with blood loss. He is only sorry I am not dead.
“Take your shot!” Tweed screamed.
Shakily, Ned raised his arm and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He sighted down the pistol’s barrel. He could end this now, forever, not only for himself but for his nephews. The law would not prosecute.
But he valued life too much to cheapen it for expedience’ sake.
He dropped his arm and discharged his pistol into the ground between them.
Tweed surged forward, further enraged, but his men caught him back, intent on spiriting him away before the news of his dishonor found him. In the distance, Ned heard Harry shouting as the ground seemed to swell up to seize hold of him.
Ned’s last thought was that he would miss seeing Lydia that evening.
And then darkness swept in.
Chapter Twenty-two
July, 1816
“But, ma’am, how can I advise you on what material to purchase if you refuse to tell me as whom you intend to go to the Spencers’ masquerade ball?” Childe Smyth asked Lydia.
He had accompanied her to Miss Walter’s modiste shop in Cavendish Square, Miss Walter specializing in the creation of elaborate and gorgeous costumes. Childe had called just as Lydia was leaving for her appointment and insisted his discerning eye would be needed. Childe did have a discerning eye, Lydia granted him that.
“I can’t tell you. It is to be a surprise to everyone. Suffice to say we are seeking some rich stuff of gold.”
“Lace? Silk? Satin? Muslin? Net?”
“Yes,” she said.
“I am foiled,” he announced to the showroom at large, where several ladies were examining bolts of cloth and yard goods. They looked around and tittered. He sketched them an elaborate bow. “I shall take myself thither to yon lace and there devise some other way of discovering who you mean to be. Or, failing that, find you a pretty piece of gold openwork.”
He gave her a jaunty smile and strolled toward one of the other areas of the modiste’s workroom.
He looked most handsome this morning, Lydia thought. His blue-black cutaway frock coat, the top hat perched atop his dark raffish curls, the Nankeen yellow pantaloons tucked into shining Hessian boots all conveyed sartorial sophistication. Elegance even, what with his silver- headed walking stick and the brilliant red watch fob hanging from his striped pale blue and cream waistcoat.
He not only looked the part of the consummate dandy, he played the part, and exceptionally well. He was droll and dry and obliging, not in the least pressing, which was excellent as she did not think she could bear anyone’s ardency. She found his company most easy.
He valued the same things she did, knew the same people she knew. The only thing he wanted, which she could provide, were her noble bloodlines.
A very fine gentleman, she acknowledged, though some found him a bit too affected. But then, who was she to quibble? She dined out on affectation. In addition to all his fine attributes, he was rich. And he would be his magnificently, supremely wealthy grandfather’s heir if he wed before the old Tartar died.
Yes, all things told, it was unutterably depressing that she did not respond more enthusiastically to so perfect a suitor. For without a doubt, that is what Childe Smyth had become these past days. Ever since Lydia had last seen Ned and they had made their devil’s bargain to find each other suitable, and rich, mates. One mustn’t forget the “rich” part, she thought with a new cynicism, as it was clearly the only consideration she could have in choosing a spouse. She had already found a “suitable mate,” or at least one who suited her.
God, how she missed Ned.
A wave of yearning swept through her, turning down the corners of her mouth. She looked away lest someone think something was wrong. . . . But something was wrong. She hadn’t seen Ned for over two weeks. She didn’t know where he was or what he was thinking. None of her friends or acquaintances seemed to know where he was either, or whether he was even still in town.
Early on she’d heard rumors of a duel that had sent her heart pitching in panic. She had sent a fevered note to his town house, demanding news, and had received a polite reply from him assuring her that he was well and advising her not to take any sensationalized accounts of a person’s exploits at face value. He followed this advice with anecdotes illustrative of his point, such as how he had once read she bathed in milk to achieve the perfection of her skin and that she owned a dress made entirely of butterfly wings.
She’d laughed out loud with pleasure and relief at his gentle teasing and missed him more, taking heart in how warm and intimate his words had been. But there had been no more. Then, last week, she had heard the first murmurs that the Locktons of Josten Hall were in the basket. A few days later someone told her that Josten was in negotiations to sell off his stable of racehorses.
Perhaps this had something to do with Ned’s disappearance. Perhaps he’d gone wife- hunting in Brighton? The thought racked her with anguish. Whatever the reason, wherever he’d gone, his absence left a hollow in her heart that would not fill. One would think she would have grown used to it by now, but she hadn’t. Each day the pain caused by missing him grew deeper and more acute.
As did her need to marry and settle her debts.
She’d spoken to Terwilliger only last week and he’d pressed her for answers about her intentions, citing the direness of her financial situation. The first whispered questions about her financial condition, he explained, had begun and two nights ago a gentleman had asked Terwilliger if the Eastlake fleet was overdue. Terwilliger had been most emphatic that she dare not accrue any more debt lest she was willing to liquidate all.
So, naturally, she thought with biting humor, she had decided to go shopping. It was her intention to outshine everyone attending the masquerade ball given in Wellington’s honor by the Earl of Spencer next week and she had conceived the perfect costume. Perfectly ironic.
The tinkling of the shop door caused her to glance around as a well-rounded young woman in an elaborate pelisse and ornate bonnet entered. Lydia smiled with delight as she recognized Sarah. She had heard Sarah had not yet left for the Continent and she was delighted she had an opportunity to see her friend once more.
She started across the shop as the other women abruptly stopped their chattering and froze in place like statues under Medusa’s glare. Slowly, inexorably, and as one, they turned their backs on Sarah.
Sarah met this snub with a subtle wince, a recoil more of the spirit than the body. But then she saw Lydia approaching and for an instant her pretty face bloomed with pleasure and she took a step forward. Lydia moved down the aisle of tables to intercept her as the pleasure died from Sarah’s expression.
She caught Lydia’s eye and gave a small, warning shake of her head. Lydia faltered in her progress. Sarah mouthed the word “no,” and Lydia stopped, uncertain, realizing that Sarah was trying to keep her from making a mistake.
Society had deemed Sarah unknowable and Society did not allow independent stands on such matters. The penalties they extracted for it were severe and Lydia could not afford Society’s censure. Not at the present.
But this was her friend, she told herself. Lydia started forward again, determined to speak to her, but suddenly Childe was at her side, taking her elbow and turning her blithely aside. “I have found some passable gold lace for your consideration,” he said, his voice smooth and his gaze cautioning.
She hesitated, feeling like the rankest coward. Murmurs rose from the clutch of women lower in rank and prestige than Lydia and, for that matter, Sarah herself. Lydia caught snatches of their conversation.
“—brazen. Wouldn’t have her at my table.”
“No one would.”
“—wager she’s regretting it now.”
“Not her. Too wanton for regret!”
Her heart pounded with trepidation. But this was Sarah. “Thank you, Mr. Smyth. Perhaps in a few minutes? I have spotted a friend with whom I am eager to speak—”
The shop bell jangled again. Lydia spun around. Sarah had left.
“It is for the best, Lady Lydia,” Childe said sotto voce. “She understands this, as must you.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Lydia snapped and was promptly ashamed. Her anger was meant for herself. If she had really wanted to speak to Sarah she would have done so, not vacillated. Childe only meant to spare her.
Childe did not appear offended. He shrugged with elaborate ennui. “It is the way of things, my dear. One might comport oneself however one desires as long one remains circumspect.”
“I do not agree with the choices Mrs. Marchland has made,” Lydia replied, “but I disagree more strongly still with the idea that while one might know the most dissolute people as long as they have been ‘circumspect’ with regards to their transgressions one must refuse to acknowledge a beloved friend because she has not.”
“I agree in principle,” Childe said. “But I am far too lazy to work up much affront on the matter and too worldly, as are you, Lady Lydia,” he reminded her. “From her most laudable retreat, it is clear Mrs. Marchland knows. She is playing the game by the rules. Can we do less?”
Lydia did not answer, but began mechanically picking through some swatches of trim on a table near at hand.
Childe made it sound so sensible. So simple. But it wasn’t. It was confused and murky. The ton’s rules had never chaffed before because they had never impinged on her liberty before.
Liberty?
The conventions she had flouted in the past had been minor ones, childish tantrums that had fostered a false sense of free will: a low décolletage, a chaperone lax in her attentiveness, friends who were considered worldly, conversation less than demure. But as far as Society was concerned she had always acted within the boundaries of what was acceptable.
She frowned, disliking the path her thoughts took. This was her environs. This was all she had known. Yes, there were things about it that were unpleasant—and the charge of artifice was just. But how much more unpleasant would be a complete lack of artifice, and the resultant dearth of beauty and elegance? If the cost of a certain moral ambiguity currently seemed high, it was a price she had long since deemed worth paying.
But then she thought of Ned and it struck her forcibly that a moral debt was not the only price she’d paid for her place in the beau monde. The toll on her heart was still being tallied.
But, she thought defiantly, Ned had accrued a similar debt and done so apparently without the upheaval she was experiencing. He was being mature about it. Damn him. She flung down the ribbon that had been hanging unseen from her hand and turned around, distracted and distraught.
&nbs
p; Oh, where was he? Why hadn’t he attended any of the events and entertainments of the past two weeks? Had he taken his promise of friendship so lightly that he had left without a single note of farewell?
Was he courting someone rich?
“Lady Lydia, please do not look so distressed,” Childe said.
She blinked. She had forgotten he was nearby.
“Who knows? Perhaps you shall meet her again in, say, Calais, where Brummell is holding court. Faith, ma’am, I shouldn’t be surprised. All the best people are being banished these days.”
He mistakenly attributed her unhappy expression to Sarah. Thank heaven. He was the only suitor she had. Though she never wanted for attention or lacked for dance partners, no gentleman seemed inclined to seek more than a dance or a conversation. She understood why. This past month and more she’d always been in Ned’s company. Her favor toward him was noted by any other would-be contenders for her hand and they had withdrawn from the field. Only Childe Smyth seemed unaware of it. Or he did not care.
And now Ned had disappeared and the Season was coming toward its end and she was growing desperate.
That could not happen. At least for a short time, Sarah had her prince. Without her place in Society—without Ned—Lydia had nothing and no one. She had known that state before; she would not know it again. She had already lost Ned. She could not lose anything more. She would not.
She would shine down the sun at the Spencers’ masquerade ball.
She must.
She turned to Childe, smiling with all her remembered flirtatiousness at her command. “Why . . . you are right! We shall all meet in some other clime.” She slanted a wicked glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “I only hope it is not one as hot as the one we doubtless deserve.”
He laughed.
Charmed.
Chapter Twenty- three
It was another foul night, cold and dank. The newspaper had already deemed 1816 “The Year without a Summer,” and so it appeared to be. The skies were constantly churning with dark clouds, the infrequent rents in this clotted layer giving rise to garish and gorgeous sunsets. Scant compensation for the grim days and dark nights. A masquerade ball seemed just the thing to lighten the spirits and chase away the cold and gloom.
The Golden Season Page 21
