His manner was so different. His very nature had to be different. Lord Addersley could not have an increment of romance within him. Doubtless he had fallen asleep with the company of a serious book by this hour.
“Helena!” Aunt shouted again, the sound stirring her companion to action. He pointed to the opening and Helena slipped through it reluctantly, yearning to accompany him instead—wherever he might ride. The horse did not move, and she knew he waited for her to be safely within the house. She crossed the yard, then lingered in the shadows of the kitchen doorway. She heard the horse stamp as he mounted, then he rode past the opening, revealing himself one last time.
He raised a hand in farewell and Helena blew him a kiss. He feigned catching it and crushing it against his heart, a whimsical gesture that proved once and for all that he could not be Lord Addersley.
Only when she opened the door did he turn the horse. Helena would not have been the girl she was if she had not remained in the doorway, listening to the sound of his horse’s retreat.
She sighed at the romance of it all, then Aunt Fanny appeared in her dressing gown, her expression furious. “Where have you been, child? Why would you be in the yard at this hour of the night?” Aunt peered at her closely. “There is a glimmer in your eye that hints at mischief.”
“I cannot imagine how that might be, Aunt. I simply went out to look at the stars.” Helena slipped past her aunt, knowing she was incapable of disguising her satisfaction. Her aunt made a sound of disbelief and followed her up the stairs, as if to be certain that Helena retired to her chamber.
She stood at the window, looking into the night. How could she reconcile her need to be with her mysterious stranger and her awareness that she had to be more prudent in her choices? Her heart told her to trust him, but she had trusted Mr. Melbourne, too. Helena sat down on her bed and frowned at the floor.
There was only one possible solution. She must do all in her power to unveil the identity of her mysterious stranger, and that before their rendezvous at the folly.
Late that night,Joshua dreamed.
He stirred restlessly, but his eyes did not open. The nightmare that had become so infrequent as to be forgotten was upon him again. Try as he might, he could not compel himself to awaken—even though he knew the horror he would relive.
He was on the field at Wimbledon again, the weight of the revolver in his hand. The moon was but a sliver of light above, clouds flitting across it so that even its meagre light vanished at intervals. Gerald was fairly vibrating in anticipation, but Joshua felt the usual cold stillness within him.
There was a task before him, one at which he would succeed. There was no room for emotion, much less excitement, when brandishing a weapon.
They had argued all evening about Joshua’s intentions. Gerald was certain that his opponent should be killed outright.Joshua had no intention of committing such an act. As was so often the case, Joshua took Gerald’s place, assuming his part for the challenge he had issued. Not for the first time, Joshua felt he had assumed a habit that he did not like.
Gerald should pay the price of his own deeds.
But Gerald did not practice and he was not a good shot as a result. Gerald preferred to drink and dance and gamble, to issue challenges for duels that he would never be compelled to fight.
Because he had Joshua.
“This will be the last time,” Joshua said quietly as the other men arrived. They were no more than silhouettes in the darkness, distinctive by the shape of their hats and the flare of their great coats. Their boots made no sound on the grass, and they might have been specters come to claim another for their company.
“Of course,” Gerald agreed easily, but there was no conviction in his words.
They had exchanged clothes, as had become their custom, Joshua wearing one of Gerald’s more flamboyant silk waistcoats, richly embroidered in green and gold. He wore his brother’s favored frockcoat of emerald green wool with the velvet collar, and the great silver and malachite pin in his cravat that was as distinctive as a signature. The brim of his hat shielded his face from view, but Gerald stood behind him in his own more conservative garments. Yet again, Joshua was struck at how the change in garments altered their stances. He stood with legs braced against the ground, one hand on his hip, as he never did. Gerald seemed to become smaller in stature and quieter in Joshua’s clothes.
There was no question of their deception being discovered in the shadows.
The combatants shook hands in silence. Gerald loaded the revolvers and handed the other one to his opponent’s second.The weapons were checked, their readiness verified by all parties, then Joshua stood back-to-back with Gerald’s rival.
His pulse did not even accelerate in these duels he had no desire to fight. They were calculations, no more and no less. He had noticed the other man’s grim manner and guessed he would aim to kill. How good a marksman was he? The rumors were not favorable, but any man could be fortunate with a single shot. Joshua intended to graze his opponent’s shoulder. It would be a warning, resulting in an injury that would cause some discomfort but not maim, much less kill. Gerald’s honor would be defended and no one would be seriously hurt. It was the best compromise he knew.
They counted together, pacing off the distance, the night seeming overly silent around them.
As Joshua pivoted and raised the revolver, he had a sudden and unwelcome portent of doom. The shadows seemed overly thick, the moon claimed by those clouds in the wrong moment, and he hesitated. The clouds cleared, revealing his opponent in the distance. The other revolver was fired, the sound cracking against the night. Joshua fired then was assaulted from one side. The weight of some person collided with him, sending him off-balance. He recognized a woman’s perfume, but could make no sense of it before she screamed, almost deafening him.
“No!” she cried and he recognized Charlotte’s voice, even as her weight took him to the ground. He felt the blood of his betrothed spread warmly over him, he heard her gasp in pain – and he could make no sense of her presence there.
“Charlotte!” Gerald shouted but Joshua’s blood had already gone cold.
For the lady sprawled atop him was dead.
She might have been his betrothed, but it was his brother she had been intent upon saving.
Joshua awakened suddenly, sitting bolt upright in the bed. His breath was coming quickly, his heart racing, his skin damp with perspiration. He felt the full sting of betrayal again, the cold conviction that Gerald had betrayed him, that his brother’s connection with his own fiancé was more than intimate. He knew, too, that Charlotte had chosen Gerald over him, for he had heard the anguish in her voice.
He gripped the linens, took a breath, and rose to stare out the window at the first glimmer of dawn’s light. Once again, he felt a that painful sense of betrayal.
