“But Camelia says that I’ll break them both if I die doing it. That Pamela needs a father more than she needs a martyr. Thatlovematters more than vengeance.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She looked at me last night like I was choosing death over her. Over them. Tell me, Jo, am I?”
A gust of wind blew through the graveyard and rattled the trees around him.
“I won’t put it past you to mess with the weather wherever you are.”
He pressed his bare palm to the frozen stone, as though he could still feel his sister’s hand in his.
“You once begged me not to kill him. You made me promise mercy while you bled out in my arms. I gave you that mercy, and it cost you your life. And now—” Raph bit the inside of his cheek. “And now, I will not make the same mistake twice.”
He rose slowly, the cold seeping through his coat.
“I wish you could tell me what to do. God knows I can’t ask Father’s grave,” he said dryly. “Goodbye, Jo. Who knows? Maybe I will see you soon.”
He turned to leave when his hand brushed his coat pocket and met something stiff and folded. Raph drew it out. It was acarefully folded piece of parchment. He unfolded it gently and saw a charcoal-colored portrait that took his breath away.
Three figures stood beneath a lopsided willow tree. On the right was a tall man in black, with a stern face but kind eyes. On the left was a lady in a familiar baby blue gown, smiling brightly. And between them was a small girl with flying raven hair, holding both their hands.
Raph recognized the people in the portrait immediately; Pamela drew them perfectly.
She really is talented.
His breath left him in a rush that plumed and vanished. He stood frozen, the paper fluttering in the wind, but he clutched it, afraid it might disappear and he would never see it again.
Pamela must have slipped it into his pocket when he had been too lost in his thoughts to notice. At the bottom of the drawing, she wrote,Father, Camelia, and Pamela Under the Willow Tree.
Not Uncle. Not guardian.ButFather.
Raph folded the drawing gently and slid it back into his pocket. A horse neighed beyond the wall, and he closed his eyes for a heartbeat longer before turning back to the tombstone.
“Thanks, Jo.”
He climbed into the carriage, the drawing imprinted in his mind and his purpose imprinted in his heart.
“Where to, Your Grace?”
“Take me to Lord Montague’s estate,” he ordered the driver.
The carriage lurched into motion, iron-shod wheels biting the frosted road. Each hoofbeat rang like a hammer on steel, scattering shards of ice that glittered and died in the pale dawn.
Raph sat rigid, the folded drawing feeling heavy in his pocket as he was carried away from one grave to another.
CHAPTER 32
“She rides like she was born to it!” Margaret exclaimed, completely distracted by Pamela’s riding.
“Your letter said to come at once. Life or death. What the hell is going on, Camelia?” Iris was on edge as she searched Camelia’s face for answers.
Camelia swallowed. “Raph left before dawn. He’s gone to fight a duel.”
Margaret gasped, and Iris’s eyes widened. “A duel? With whom?”
“Lord Montague.”
Margaret’s head snapped around. “Lord Montague? The man who tried to marry me and ruin our family? I thought he was long dead.”
“He’s not,” Camelia said shakily. “Why would you assume that, Margaret?”
“Well, Camelia, your husband looked ready to murder him, and we haven’t heard from Montague for months, so I assumed the Duke had given in to temptation and finally got rid of London’s finest scum.”
