CHAPTER15
In the early hours of morning, shortly before sunrise, Johnathan turned to Maximilian Ashcombe, Duke of Hastings, and said, “Your timing is impeccable.”
“I could scarcely stay away. William’s letter was most intriguing.” He took a swallow from his flask, then tucked it nonchalantly into his coat.
Johnathan turned a speculative gaze on William.
“Once I realized my mistake, I knew we would require help. Mores the pity Hastings did not arrive sooner,” William said.
Johnathan gave a nod of appreciation then turned back to Maximilian.
“Word is spreading,” Maximilian murmured, tightening the buckles on Johnathan’s coat. “A few of Cranford’s allies have gone conspicuously silent. One even resigned from his club the day after you absconded with Frances.”
Johnathan gave a grim smile. “Even rats know when a ship is sinking.”
“Especially when it smells of scandal.”
“You are certain of the location?” Johnathan asked, tightening the strap of his glove.
“Secluded. Quiet. And far from anyone with authority,” William replied, his tone flat. “You do not want a magistrate at your back.”
Maximilian grunted. “We will leave no second-guessing. Just bruised pride and a story no one dares repeat too loudly.”
“And if I kill him?” Johnathan asked, voice cool.
“Then we pray his friends like you better than they liked him.”
Johnathan stepped onto the frost-slicked lawn just as dawn split the horizon.
The wind stilled, as if the earth itself paused to listen. Not a bird stirred, not a leaf rustled.
Cranford was already there, dressed like he was attending a bloody garden party—gloves immaculate, cravat starched, face composed into the same aristocratic mask he wore at Parliament and salons. But his eyes—they were cold. Icy shards of calculated fury.
Two pistols rested on a velvet-lined case between them.
Johnathan’s gut churned.
He had fought before. Fought duels over debts, slights, insults to women’s honor. Once over a bottle of brandy and a bad poem. But this was not sport. This was something else.
This was Frances.
And the future they had built on stubborn hope and midnight whispers.
A steward stood between them, looking half asleep and entirely unfit for the role of second. William stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Cranford with undisguised contempt. His jaw flexed every time Cranford smirked.
Johnathan’s gaze, however, went to the carriage waiting by the tree line.
Frances peeked out the curtain.
He knew she would watch.
The rules were laid out with clipped efficiency. Ten paces. Turn. Fire. If both missed, pistols reloaded and repeated. If one fell, the matter was resolved.
Resolved.
As if life were so simple.
Johnathan stepped into position. His grip tightened around the pistol, the cold metal biting into his palm. His fingers twitched slightly under its weight, as if the burden of choice pressed against his very bones. Not in weight. In consequence.
