It Takes Two to Tangle (22 page)

He stepped out onto a street that was silent under a brown sky.

Just brown. Dull and ashy, from nighttime and coal dust. No artist's pigments came to mind. Nothing exotic, nothing pleasurable to look on. It seemed all the color had bled from the world tonight.

He pulled himself up straight and wrapped the tattered shreds of his pride around him like a cloak. It was all he had left, much good might it do him.

***

After Henry left, Frances collapsed back on the sofa and allowed tears to leak from her eyes for precisely two minutes. Then she shut them off and dried her face.

She'd cared enough to lie to him. It would take more than that—all her courage, even
love
—to give him the truth he deserved.

And she did love him. The idea of losing him was so painful as to convince her of that. She'd been tumbling inevitably down that slope since the night of Lady Applewood's ball, when he'd first sat next to her and asked for her help. It was irresistible, to be sought and needed. And he had been irresistible as well. If he hadn't so much dignity and pride, she wouldn't love him so well.

Oh, this curse of love.

For love, she would tell him all her secrets. For love, she would admit her failings. She would do this to help him understand her, even knowing that it might kill his regard for her.

If he lived through the duel, he deserved the chance to decide for himself. He'd already given her that chance.

She pressed her fingers against her eyes for a long moment. Then she stood, picked up a lamp, and carried it to the writing desk at which she so often worked.

It was likely that he would live. Most duels were settled bloodlessly, with a symbolic shot into the ground. But she couldn't be sure; both Henry and Wadsworth were in deadly earnest about proving their honor.

All she could do was wait, and write, and hope that the truth would help Henry find her again someday.

She pulled paper, pen, and inkwell close to her. Tapping the quill on the blank sheet, she thought for a minute, then plunged in. She wrote for hours, her hand traveling over page after page, until her fingers ached from holding the pen and her eyes felt crammed with sand.

When she finished, she signed the letter, at last, with her own name.

By that time, the sun was already clawing faint scratches in the night sky. Frances found a tired-eyed maid just beginning her morning rounds. She had a footman woken, had the letter taken to Tallant House.

She did not know if it would arrive soon enough to reach Henry before the duel. Or if he would read it. Or if it would make any difference.

For that, it might have been too late before she wrote a single word.

The blackness just before dawn was a beautiful time of day.

This in-between time lingered only a sliver of an hour, yet Henry knew it well from his years in the army, from early rising to ready for battle or siege, or simply preparing for another long slogging march. It was a time of exhaustion, when it seemed the night would never end. But it was a time of promise too, just before everything changed, before the sun washed away the darkness and made the impossible seem possible. This darkness felt different from that of the grimy night.

Chalk Farm was stark and silent in the dim. Henry was unfamiliar with the field at the edge of Town, but Jem had assured him that Wadsworth chose the location well. More isolated than Hyde Park, it was deserted at this hour. Not even animals lowed. Only a breeze whispered through the chilly damp.

As Henry stepped out of Jem's carriage, he could vaguely make out the shapes of trees studding the field, of men with covered lanterns milling around. He'd been sure he would beat Wadsworth to the dueling ground, but he had underestimated the viscount's courage.

He wouldn't do so again.

His boots rustled through the grass, eating up distance with great speed. He was ready. More than ready. A little
too
ready. A cool head was a necessary asset during battle, but Henry had too little sleep and too much to prove to feel cool-headed right now.

A hand seized his arm, jerking him to a halt in midstep.

Jem, of course. Henry squinted at his brother in the faint light cast by Jem's carriage lanterns. “What? Let's get started. Everyone else is already here.”

Jem's head turned in the direction of the shadowy figures beneath the trees, but there was not enough light for Henry to see his expression. “Hal. Please think again. Reconsider this duel. If you would only apologize to Wadsworth, we could settle this whole affair and neither one of you need risk your life.”

Henry shook his arm free. “I'm not going to apologize.”

Jem sighed. “Hal, you must see reason. You could be killed. Wadsworth will shoot you—or even if he doesn't, you won't be able to fire back at him without your right hand.”

“You should have more faith in your own brother, Jem. Perhaps I'll shoot him instead.” A jittery bubble of mirth rose up in his chest and tried to force its way out.

“No. No, you mustn't do that. I don't much like the man, Hal. But please, think of the scandal of it. The coroner. I might be tried along with you, you know, if he dies. For my sake, reconsider, if not for your own.” Jem's voice grew quieter as he spoke. “For my sake, Hal. Don't do this. Please. Don't do this to yourself.”

Jem turned his face back to Henry, and the glow from the carriage lanterns etched deep lines in his face. He looked as though he had lost all hope.

Henry was breaking his unbreakable brother. The look on Jem's face, more than anything else Henry had seen or thought in the last twenty-four hours, shamed him.

And that was a day that included a failed attempt to seduce Frances, a botched proposal, his public argument with Wadsworth, his challenge to a duel, and the revelation about the letters. Frances's trickery. The betrayal of his trust. The betrayal of… himself, really.

It was a day that had unmade Henry in every way, but not until this moment had he felt himself crumble.

He and Jem were separated by nearly a decade, by a title, by years apart. By temperament. By certainty. Jem was certain Henry was going to die or be disgraced, and he was certain there was nothing he could do about it. And he could not bear it.

It was a brother's love, pure and simple, and as painful and fruitless as any other type of love.

Henry could not please his brother now. He had meant what he had said to Jem the day before; he was doing this for himself. If he backed down now, he would know that he had failed himself: that he could not let the war end, and that the French would never stop defeating him, and he would never truly come home. He could not let that happen.

It was fitting, somehow, that one last battle would allow him to begin a life of peace.

Besides, he had weapons Jem knew not of. He had stayed awake for long hours after leaving Frances the night before. He had taken a full inventory of himself. He knew exactly what was in his possession now and what was not.

“Trust me, Jem.” He offered his brother a smile, but he did not know if the faint sun-red beginning to creep over the horizon revealed his face to his brother.

Trust
me
. It was all he wanted. All he asked of those he loved.

He suppressed the thought. Time enough to think of that later. Of Frances. Caro. The snarl of his life. He would comb it out smooth this morning or simply cut the Gordian knot.

“Very well,” Jem said after a long pause. Abruptly, he strode toward the trees and the waiting opponents, and Henry followed, falling into step at his side.

As they walked, Jem recited the procedure in a flat voice. “Lord Carlson is serving as Wadsworth's second, and he and I have worked out the terms. You will duel with pistols, as you know. Carlson is bringing a set. You will step out twenty paces, turn, and fire. Because you issued the challenge, Wadsworth will fire first. I was able to persuade him down to one shot for each of you. Carlson has arranged for a surgeon to be present.” Jem halted once more. “It will all be done as quickly as possible. I thought that might be easiest.”

For most of them, it might. But to Henry it mattered not at all. He was beginning to feel quite calm. His jumpiness, his too-eagerness, was smothered under sharp awareness as the moment for action drew near. It was as if the slowly brightening sky was sinking into him, burning off everything but the present moment as surely as it sipped the dew from the grass.

“Don't worry about me, Jem,” Henry said as they began to walk again. “Wadsworth might not find this as easy as he expects. Which makes it all the easier for me.”

He could see the grass beneath his feet now, still shadowed black under the faintly red light of the peeping sun. Dark as atramentum, ruddy as dragon's blood. All the beauty of art was before him again this morning. Henry did not know whether it would turn still lovelier or if it would all turn ugly.

It was time for something to turn, either way.

It seemed only a second before his feet brought him to the three men who stood beneath the sheltering trees in the field. Wadsworth, pale but composed. Carlson, a stout young lord whom Henry knew only slightly, held a rectangular walnut pistol case with all the pomp of a man proud of what has been entrusted to him. The thin man standing to one side, clutching his hat in one hand and a leather instrument bag in the other, was surely the surgeon.

“Good morning,” said Henry in the most jovial tone he could manage.

“Save your greetings, Middlebrook,” said Wadsworth. “The only thing I want from you is an apology.”

“You shan't get it,” said Henry. “Even if you offer one first.” He smiled beatifically. “Lord Carlson. Always a pleasure.”

Wadsworth swung an arm in a sharp gesture of impatience and turned away, pacing in a line of five steps, back and forth.

“There is no reasoning with my brother,” Jem said with exasperated apology. “I assure you I've tried. Let's get this done quickly. May I see the pistols, Carlson?”

The lord nodded and opened the case. “As you see, Tallant. There are seconds' pistols as well.”

Jem blinked. “Ah… I'm sure we won't be needing those, Carlson. Hal? Care to take a look?”

Henry peered into the case. They were lovely weapons. Gentlemen's toys, all glossy walnut stock and smooth steel bore, with engraved trigger guards.

“They'll do. See to their loading, please, Jem.” Henry noted how Carlson's eyes narrowed and swept over his right arm. Henry could not hold the pistol, pour in powder from a horn, and add shot. That took two hands. But loading the pistol was not the object of the duel.

Henry watched Wadsworth pace back and forth, back and forth, as Carlson and Jem prepared the small guns. By now, Wadsworth had surely paced off a furlong. He probably wanted to walk away; only his pride was holding him here.

Damned
pride.
Henry felt a flash of unwilling affinity.

He walked over to Wadsworth and stood in his path. The viscount immediately stopped stalking back and forth. His foxy face went up, as if he'd scented something that startled him.

“It's difficult, isn't it?” Henry offered.

“What?” Wadsworth looked suspicious.

“The waiting.”

Wadsworth's mouth tightened. “I can handle it. See to yourself if you're so worried. I don't know how you'll shoot without the use of your right arm.”

A cornered animal again. “Your concern is most edifying. I, however, am more concerned for you.”

Wadsworth turned on his heel and resumed pacing his path. Five steps away from the trees, five steps back. His shoulders were held too high, almost hunched, and he avoided looking at Henry.

“I'm no pheasant, you know, Wadsworth. No partridge. No fox. Have you ever pointed a gun at a human being before?”

A slight hitch in the viscount's stride, but he made no reply.

Henry continued in a conversational tone. “War hands glory to few but gives almost everyone the chance to handle a weapon. I've pointed a gun at many a man before, though never on the dueling field. I imagine it's much the same, though, don't you think? The weapons may be prettier, but the act is not.”

Wadsworth was pacing back to the tree now. His gray eyes flicked to Henry's. In the slow red light, his face looked flushed. “How do you mean, Middlebrook?”

Henry shrugged. “No matter how many statements of honor you wrap it in, it's still life and death. It's an ugly thing to risk.”

“Yet you are determined to risk it.” Wadsworth's chin tilted down and to the side. His eyes roved over Henry's face. Hunting. Always hunting. Looking for weaknesses.

“I have nothing else to risk. It's time.” Henry drew a breath. “I am not sorry for my challenge. But I'm sorry that it was necessary. For both our sakes.”

There, Jem. It was almost an apology. That was the best he could do.

Wadsworth narrowed his eyes. “You're a cur, Middlebrook.”

Henry turned away, took a pistol from his brother. “Then you must do your best to shoot me down like a dog.”

He faced Wadsworth one more time, holding the pistol lightly in his left hand. “It's not as easy as you think, Wadsworth. To shoot a man or lance him or bayonet him. To see his blood pour out and know you're the one who stole his life away.”

He raised his eyebrows as the viscount's mouth grew taut. “But I suppose you have your own version of such an injury,” he said in a voice as low as a lullaby. “You know how to bleed someone dry with words as surely as a bullet could. It just takes a bit longer. Less so, of course, if you choose only the weak. But perhaps you do not always know who the weak truly are.”

Henry turned his head to the lanky surgeon, who stood nearby. Hat discarded on the ground, he gripped his bag of instruments in white-knuckled hands. “Do you know how to remove a bullet, Dr.—?”

“Smythe. Yes, sir, I do, should that be necessary.” Henry had expected the tall man's voice to be reedy and quavering, but he spoke with quiet dignity. A good choice for a duel.

“Would you say a bullet wound is more painful than a dislocation, or less so? I have suffered one but not the other.”

“I'm told a bullet wound is very painful, sir, though the severity of the wound depends on the location. A dislocation can be just as painful, though as you know, it is not fatal.”

“Not usually,” Henry said. “Well, I suppose it does not matter. Wadsworth, you look a bit overset. Are you taking ill?”

The viscount had been passing his pistol gingerly from hand to hand. He stilled, scowled. “I'm fine. Are you finished with your stalling?”

Henry bobbed his head. “Take your weapon to hand, Wadsworth. I am ready when you are.”

With a nod from the seconds, they saluted, turned, and paced off the distance. Twenty steps each, a matter of only fifteen seconds or so.

Henry pivoted and waited for Wadsworth to take the first shot.

He could see no more than a silhouette in the reddish light. The man had decent form; Henry granted him that. He turned sideways; his right arm and hand rose in a straight line, disappearing against the shadow of his body. Hidden within that shadow was a gun. Wadsworth could fire it at the ground or send a bullet into Henry's heart. All Henry could do was stand there, a target, waiting.

This
is
stupid.
The idea flashed suddenly into Henry's head.
Stupid, stupid.

Not stupid to stand up for himself; that was one of the brightest things he'd done lately. No, he'd been stupid to let it escalate to the point of life and death. Stupid to think he needed to win over all of London when winning one worthy heart was enough.

How stupid of Wadsworth too, to fight when he did not need to.

The shadow-Wadsworth was taking forever to fire. Henry saw the silhouette of his arm waggle, shake free from the line of his body. At last he pulled the trigger, and the shot went staggeringly wide, the bullet burying itself in the trunk of a tree ten yards away from Henry.

Done, then. It was done.

Henry wanted to jump, cry out, shake Jem's hand.

But he still had his part to get through. There was only one performance of this show, and it must be quite theatrical if it was to have the desired effect.

He took his stance, pivoted to the side. His left arm stretched out straight and true. His arm, the gun, the form of the shadow-Wadsworth, were all in a perfect line. His hand did not shake as he aimed.

And then he wheeled, and in one swift motion he took sight and fired at the same tree Wadsworth had hit.