HE COULDN’T say how long he’d been sitting in that same place on the bed when she finally walked through his door. He’d spent some time on his feet, to be sure. He’d gone inch by inch through the rooms to see whether anything else had been disturbed, then searched every surface for a note of explanation. But the bulk of his time had been spent right here, staring at the drawer he’d ransacked and ransacked again. He’d left it out after his last rifling and it jutted from the dresser with a certain truculence, as though conscious of having failed him and determined not to care.
The latch hardware clicked and he turned his head slowly. He did not rise.
She was wearing the plain dark blue gown she’d worn that day he and Martha had encountered her on the street. A reticule swung limply from her wrist. She glanced about the room, and crossed with careful steps to the bedroom door.
He waited for her eyes to register him, to register the pulled-out drawer. He brought his own gaze back to the dresser. He couldn’t seem to form the question, but then he didn’t have to. A woman with only a tenth of her cleverness would know he wasn’t despairing over a lost pair of stockings.
“I took the money.” Damn her, she didn’t even sound sheepish. “I called on Mrs. Talbot. I told her Mr. Talbot had put you in charge of an investment, and it had come out well.”
“How much did you give her?” The air was feeling too thin, too insubstantial to breathe.
“Two thousand, seven hundred pounds.”
He surged to his feet, the desperate misgivings of these past hours galvanized into a panic that seized his whole form. “Lydia, that was everything.” In two strides he made the dresser and shoved the drawer back in. “That was all the money I had to my name.”
“Not altogether.” Now she sounded self-conscious, because she knew this wasn’t the appropriate reply, but she could no more avoid making it than a clock could keep silent at the top of the hour. “You had sixty-two pounds three shillings sixpence besides. Have.” She corrected herself, holding up the reticule as though for proof. “You still have that.” A faint jingle of coins testified to the fact.
He rested his palms on the dresser-top and let his head sag until all he saw was faded mahogany. “I might have secured your future with that money.” His mouth filled with the familiar bitter taste of good intentions thwarted by circumstance. “I might at least have gone to that duel with the peace of mind brought by knowing I wouldn’t leave you destitute and alone in the world.”
“I know. That’s what I was afraid of.” Without the smallest sign of repentance she slipped into the place beside him and laid her right hand over his left. “You made a vow to provide for Mrs. Talbot before you ever laid eyes on me. She has the prior claim.”
“She has a roof over her head. She has relations, however far from ideal. If I can only provide for one of you …” He stopped. He hated himself for even thinking of renouncing his promise to Talbot.
“Do you see?” Her fingers fitted themselves between each of his, knitting their two hands together. “You don’t even like to speak the idea aloud. You know the act would be unworthy of you.”
“I’ve been too much concerned with what would be worthy of me.” He turned his head aside. He might hate himself, yes. But self-hatred was a price he would have willingly paid in exchange for her security. “I begin to think honor is just another kind of vanity, and honor satisfied will be the poorest of consolations if—”
“No.” The brief utterance carried all the authority of a rolling thunder-peal. “Honor is the best part of you, Will Blackshear. And I don’t make that pronouncement lightly. No woman could, who’s ever seen you naked.”
He let his head fall back. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to break the nearest breakable object, he wanted to run from the room, he wanted to pick up this woman and throw her over his shoulder and haul her straight off to the bed. Instead he drew his hand out from under hers and sent that arm, carefully, round her waist. Her head tipped to rest on his shoulder. “You called on Mrs. Talbot,” he said.
“She never had any thought of marrying you. She would refuse you if you offered, even if it meant remaining with those relations.” She craned back to look up into his eyes. “She was so happy to have the prospect of living independently. So grateful. I wish you could have been there to see.”
The intelligence did bring some solace, as did her nearness and the weight of her head on his shoulder and the knowledge that she was telling him this—that in fact she’d gone to find this out—because she knew the state of his conscience and wanted to deliver him from self-blame where she could.
He touched his cheek to the top of her head. “My sister will still know me, if I marry you.” Now he would tell her how he’d spent his day. “The one you met, Mrs. Mirkwood. Her husband as well. We’re to call on them next week provided I … provided we’re able. And I may take a position in Mr. Fuller’s business. I’m to speak to him next week too.”
An ache crept into the back of his throat. Even a day ago he hadn’t minded the prospect of dying so very much. But now that he had such a worthwhile future almost in reach, things took on a different complexion.
No point in dwelling on that. “You still have your own few hundred, I hope.” They would just have to fatten that stake as best they could, tonight and for as many nights as remained. He couldn’t guarantee her security. He must let that ambition go. All he could do was shoot straight, when the moment came, and privately pray for luck.
BY MONDAY, when a note came from Lord Cathcart with the time and location of the duel, she had six hundred eight pounds, two shillings, and a farthing. They’d won at a decent pace these last three nights, but Mr. Blackshear had insisted on keeping their wagers conservative and, well, she cared too much for his feelings to argue. Hence, six hundred eight pounds and some coins. Not enough to keep a woman safe from want.
“I’ve written my sister’s direction on a paper and left it in that top drawer,” he said that night in bed. “I think she won’t refuse you help, if you go to her.” They lay chastely side by side. Gravity had shouldered its way into the bed and left no room for passion. “Or you might see how far you can prevail upon Mrs. Talbot’s gratitude. If she’s to have a home of her own …”
“Yes. Thank you.” A corpse would sound like this, if it could talk. But if she had been a corpse, she would at least know the peace of inertia. Instead she felt the way she did in her nightmares, screaming with all her might and never producing a sound.
The way she had felt in her nightmares, rather. She’d slept six nights in this bed without one.
Life needn’t be entirely devoid of purpose if you lose him, nor of joy. Remember how it felt to rescue Mrs. Talbot. Remember how it felt to make provision for Jane.
No. Tomorrow she would begin meditating on those consolations, if she must. Tonight it was her prerogative to dwell unreservedly on the horror of watching him slip through her desperate clutching fingers.
“I do intend to survive the duel, Lydia.” He’d turned his head. Sidelong she could see his solemn dark eyes, glimmering in the moonlight. “But to prepare you for the other eventuality is only sensible.” His hand drifted across several inches of mattress to find hers. “I’ll have Cathcart send a message to you straightaway, whatever the outcome. You won’t have to wait and wonder.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Ah. She hadn’t known she intended this. “I’m coming with you tomorrow to Primrose Hill.”
“Lydia …” Her name came out on a sigh. He was too weary, too preoccupied, to make a forceful argument. He was depending on her recognizing the absurdity of what she proposed.
“Don’t try to dissuade me. You must have known this might be the outcome, when you didn’t trouble to hide the viscount’s note. If you don’t let me come with you, I’ll go by myself in a hackney.”
“It’s a duel. It’s no fit place for—”
“No fit place for the woman who’s at the center of the dispute? No fit place for my d
elicate feminine sensibilities? Don’t even try to say so. Surely you haven’t forgot the highwaymen.” She would win this argument, because nothing else was left to her. The sooner he saw that, the better.
“I don’t want to quarrel with you. Not tonight.” His hair made a scrubbing sound on the pillow as he turned to face the ceiling again. His hand clasped steadfastly about her own.
And every proof of his affection—every reminder of all that might be taken from her before she’d properly learned to enjoy it—touched her heart like the cut of a lash.
“I’m going with you,” she repeated, in place of half a dozen things she couldn’t bring herself to say.
STARS HAD just begun to dwindle against the the waning black of night when Cathcart’s carriage pulled up. Will helped Lydia in and then took his own seat beside the surgeon procured for the occasion, a dour-faced man who scowled over his spectacles at this unexpected distaff addition to the party.
Cathcart opened his mouth and closed it again. He raised his eyebrows, hard, at Will.
“It’s her concern.” He turned to stare out the window. On what might be the last morning of his life, he was in no mood to make explanations.
If he’d been able to slip from the rooms without waking her, the seat across from him would be empty now. But of course she’d chosen this day to finally rise ahead of him, and he found himself unwilling, still, to part with her on a quarrel. Well enough. If it was his lot to die today, he would at least have her at hand to be the last thing he saw.
The drive to Primrose Hill passed mostly in silence, or rather, passed in that absence of conversation that lent prominence to every incidental noise. The springs creaked, the wheels rumbled over cobblestones in counterpoint to the horses’ clopping hooves, and something in the surgeon’s bag gave an occasional metallic rattle.
He remembered this from the hours before combat, this bodily need to perceive every last insignificant sight and sound and sensation. The grim morning taste in his mouth, because he’d got up too early to have hope of even coffee in the breakfast room downstairs. The texture on the inside of his gloves, usually as unnoticeable as his own skin. The way light from a streetlamp would crawl from one side of the carriage to the other as they passed, bathing Lydia’s somber face and glinting off her eyes before leaving her to darkness once more. Today, of all days, he could read her. But then again he’d authored what was there.
He reached for her hand and held it, devil take the two men watching, until the wheels and hoofbeats finally slowed and came to a stop. “I won’t interfere,” she said, though he’d been in no need of that promise. He stood, leaned over to press his lips to her forehead, and stepped down from the carriage, winding his muffler an extra turn about his neck. Devil of a year for someone to die, with this endless winter.
Night had given way to a meager dawn: he could see the layout of the place. Bare ground, clumps of straggling trees, a downhill slope that might afford a prospect of distant London rooftops, if the fog should ever lift.
“They’re here before us.” The viscount, at his elbow, nodded toward a landau some thirty feet off. “That’s his second, standing by the carriage. Kin of some sort.”
Indeed he might have guessed that himself, once he’d drawn near enough to make out the man’s features. He proved fairer-colored than Roanoke, but the eyes were similar and he had that same blockish quality about the chin. He inclined his square-jawed head, when Cathcart made the introduction, and said nothing. The expression on his face was very like the expression Lydia had worn all this morning.
Some small thing splintered somewhere in Will’s chest. Here was where a duel differed from battle, or from defending yourself against a band of highwaymen: there, you knew in an abstract way that your adversary likely had a mother or sister who would mourn his loss, but you needn’t face that person. You needn’t see their pallor, or the grim set of the mouth. Needn’t sense the effort they took to project an air of nonchalance while privately rehearsing for grief.
A vision shimmered, unbidden and unwelcome, of a summer day in his boyhood spent with his brothers out of doors. Nothing of moment had occurred—they’d passed an afternoon in setting up targets and hitting them with rocks—but he prized the memory, as he prized a hundred other such memories of hours spent with Nick and Andrew. No doubt this fellow had golden-hued recollections of his own from a childhood in which Prince Square-jaw might have loomed as an admired elder.
Well, Square-jaw ought to have valued that admiration, then, and worked to stay worthy of it. Will excused himself; Cathcart and Roanoke’s second had details to sort out concerning pistols and the surgeon, and he’d caught sight of the opponent himself, leaning one shoulder against a tree a little way off with his back to the others. He’d put off his hat and greatcoat already, perhaps to make a show of his indifference to the cold. Not wise. His reflexes would pay a price.
He glanced up at Will’s approach and then put his hands behind his back, not quickly enough to hide the fact that they were shaking. Possibly due to the cold. But then his cheeks ought to be ruddy, not dull and wan as spent tallow.
Hell. Will dusted his own hands together. He had every right to fire a pistol at this coxcomb, and to enjoy whatever advantages nature and his experience had seen fit to give him. “You ought to put your coat on,” he said nevertheless. “Warm muscles will serve you better when the time comes.”
Roanoke jerked his head in a nod, eyes averted, but he didn’t move from the spot.
Confound him. Confound this whole cursed undertaking. Will shoved his hands deep in his greatcoat pockets. The pair of seconds had gone to consult with the surgeon now, and the carriage door stood open. Dimly he could see Lydia’s shape within. “Is it your brother who’s come with you?” The fellow really did look like a more refined edition of the Roanoke template, as sometimes happened with the succeeding issue in a family.
Square-jaw nodded again, not turning that way. He brought a hand from behind his back just long enough to pass it across his mouth. One couldn’t help wondering whether he’d recently cast up his accounts. Then his eyes met Will’s. “He doesn’t know all the circumstances. If he should ask you—if this is the end of me, for instance, and he wants to know more of how it came about—you’d oblige me by omitting any mention of my striking Lydia.”
“Please to call her Miss Slaughter now.” Those words rang and rattled swift as a sword unsheathed, and if he’d had a sword, he couldn’t answer for what it might have done in that moment. “You’d descend in his opinion, you mean, if he knew you’d struck a woman.”
“He has notions of what’s proper.” Roanoke frowned at his feet, and rolled his shoulders one at a time against the cold. “I never hit her, you know, besides that one time.” He half-mumbled, though he must know his brother was well out of earshot. “And I don’t think I would have, if she hadn’t hit me first. Only it took me by surprise, and I didn’t stop to think and I forgot myself.” His weight shifted from one leg to the other and he adjusted his position against the tree.
“Are you making an apology?” He could see his own breath before him, small puffs of mist in the chilly air.
The man hesitated, and shook his head. Stupid stubborn bastard. Shaking and puking and pale as a ghost at the prospect of being fired upon, but ready to take a bullet rather than risk being thought a coward. “I never hit her before. I only wanted to say that.”
A number of responses rose up and subsided. Do you think that signifies at all? Am I to forget that you were vile to her the entire time we were at Chiswell? Are you angling for a more lenient judgment in the afterlife, perhaps?—because I assure you your testimony makes no impression on me.
He let his gaze drift back to the carriage, where he could see the gray of a cloak and a face in shadow. “You might speak to her, if you like. If you’ve anything to say to her.” Probably he oughtn’t to make this offer without her permission. Too late now. “She insisted on being present, since the duel was entered into
for her sake.”
Roanoke straightened with surprise, and threw a furtive look toward the carriage before facing forward again. “I don’t see what I’d have to say to her. She knows I never hit her before.”
Will shrugged, and took a half step back. His muscles needed that outlet, and that distance, in order to sidestep the temptation to knock this obstinate lack-wit down all over again. “It’s none of my business what you have to say.” He tipped his head back and frowned at the sparse branches above. “Only I speak from experience. It’s a useful kind of tidying-up, an emptying of your pockets. You don’t like to go into battle with things hanging unreconciled, when they might have been reconciled.” One more half step back, one more lift of the shoulders. “Perhaps you haven’t got anything to say to her. I wouldn’t know. But if you have, then now’s the time to say it.”
Roanoke shot another look round the tree. He folded his arms, shoulders hunching against the cold, hands gripping tight to the opposite elbows. He inhaled, and for the length of the inhalation it seemed possible he would scrounge up what honor he possessed, turn on his heel, and go make some sort of account to Lydia.
Then he let the breath out, shaking his head. “I’ve nothing to tell her.” He fixed his gaze on a patch of ground several feet past Will’s boot.
Pathetic. Pitiful. Pitiable. Good God, was he really pitying this man? When had his clean, bracing contempt lost its shape and sagged into pity?
But he couldn’t help it. To see a man grope so feebly toward honor—and without doubt he did have some concept of the virtue, else he shouldn’t care whether or not he were tarnished in his brother’s eyes—but to see the fellow recognize, if only dimly, the standard of which he fell so far short, must necessarily pluck at the sympathies of any fair-minded man. He knew what it was, after all, to lose a brother’s good opinion. He knew about smothering a clamorous conscience. Didn’t he owe the keenest joy of his life, in fact, to the lapses and deceptions and willful transgressions that had brought this man’s own mistress into his bed and his arms?
A Gentleman Undone Page 31
