Chapter 11

Eleven

T he girl in the mirror seemed brave. She seemed poised, her head held high, her pink skirts smooth. Her bodice and neat little spencer both practical and modest, no hidden slit hemmed up the side. The girl in the mirror was as much of a lie as Mr. Keats was.

Lucy turned her back on the reflection. "Are you ready, Alex?"

The marquess's sister looked a little pale, but she, unlike Lucy, looked perfectly proper in a green gown she'd brought from London. It was of a finer quality than Lucy's, and the lovely muslin seemed to mock her.

She'd thought Keats—no, Rainsly—a mere stable hand. Had thought herself higher in the world than him. How he would have laughed at her.

Wouldn't he have?

"Your brother…" Lucy wandered toward her bed, where Alex sat, and leaned against the bedpost. "You claim he is not a cruel sort of man."

"He is not, at least that I have seen."

"What of all those duels you said he fought?"

"He possesses an overblown sense of justice. I've seen him tolerate a fellow until that man took idle chatter too far, making some sort of statement well beyond the pale. And then he puts a bullet in the fellow's shoulder." Alex shrugged. "That, too, shows he's not particularly cruel. Always aims for the shoulder, never to kill. And then he walks off whistling as if he missed entirely. Did he… do anything to you, Lucy, while he was here?"

Oh, he had done everything to her. And Alex, a woman who had also been seduced, would understand. She sat carefully on the edge of the bed. "The gentleman who made you feel he loved you… How did you know he did not? You do not have to answer if you do not wish to. I hate to bring up something painful."

"I do not mind speaking of it. He made me feel… beautiful and special, unique. But he was not willing to defy the world for me." She chuckled. "It's too much to ask, isn't it? Ask a man to defy the world for you. And he did not even really have to defy the world… just his father, Lord Palmerson."

"No."

"Oh, yes. There'd been plenty of opportunity for us to become acquainted with one another while his father was courting me."

"It makes more sense for you and his son to marry. The son being the heir and needing an heir of his own."

"Yes, well, Palmerson is quite competitive. I believe that his son, Hutchens, seduced me in order to… defeat his father."

"How awful." Lucy squeezed Alex's hand.

"It is done. And I will move on."

"Of course you will."

There was a short knock on the door, and then it opened, and Lucy's sister-in-law, Ophelia, slipped in. "Are you ready?"

Lucy and Alex stood, smoothed their skirts, and followed Ophelia into the small drawing room on the ground floor.

Lord Finley stood at the window in a fresh suit of clothes, and Keats—Lord Rainsly—stood beside him, stiff and stern, his jaw newly shaven and dressed more finely than she'd ever seen him. He turned and caught her staring, offered a weak half smile as he crept toward her.

"The clothes belong to your brother. We're of a size." That blush stealing across his cheeks, how he could not quite meet her eye… was he feeling shy?

And could she not find it adorable? She flattened a grin. Apparently not.

Her brother, Hades, strode in, Scandal, his dog, jumping at his heels. "Palmerson's still at the inn. If you go now, you can keep him from searching out Hawthorne." He stopped in front of Keats, stepping between him and Lucy, and puffed his chest out. "You're the liar?"

"Bloody hell," Keats breathed, peeking around Hades to look at Lucy. "Your brother is terrifying."

She pulled Hades back and shocked herself by saying, "He's the liar, but he had good reason."

"Hm." The noise vibrated in Hades's throat.

Ophelia hooked her arm through her husband's and drew him away. "Slash him to pieces later. After they've dealt with the threat at the inn, yes?"

"I suppose so. Make haste, though. He's almost done with his ale."

They headed toward the door, Lucy gravitating to Keats's side. Whether her brain thought it a wise move or not, her body wished to be close. He looked so different, more polished than before, but still not quite right. He looked as if he were playing dress-up more now than when he had been wearing a stable hand's clothes.

"Wait." Lucy stopped him as Ophelia opened the door. "The clothes are not quite right. Earls do not dress for practicality and comfort as country doctors do. Palmerson might wonder about it."

"She's right." Alex circled him. "Not a hint of the dandy there. He'll notice."

"Dandy?" Hades brightened. "I've got just the thing." He disappeared down the hall and returned just as quickly, handing a large greatcoat to Keats. "Here you are."

Ophelia laughed. "Perfect! It will hide his clothes and add that foppish touch."

Keats slouched into it, fingering the large brass buttons and inspecting the green silk lining. "You do hate me, don't you?"

"Are you disparaging the coat?" Lucy asked. "I bought that for Hades. I switched out the original boring buttons myself. He loves it."

Keats's eyes widened. "It's a lovely coat. Quite stylish." He scowled at the sleeve, traced an embroidered heart there. "Yes, quite stylish."

"I saw that wince."

"We must go. Now ." Finley had already left the house and called to them from the street, one leg bouncing up and down.

They filed out, but Hades caught Lucy's arm. "I wish you would stay here."

"I make the story convincing."

"It might be dangerous."

"I've been in danger before."

"And I've hated every moment of it."

Ophelia said nothing, but she set a palm on Hades back, and he closed his eyes and released Lucy.

"Take care of her, Rainsly," Hades called out, "or you'll discover how skilled I am with a blade."

Keats nodded. "If anything happens to her, I'll let you show me."

They walked two by two the short distance to the pub, which sat right next to the inn.

The pub was mostly empty when they entered, and Keats turned his face away from the bartender as they sailed inside, clearly afraid of being recognized.

"There he is," Griff said. Near the window. "But where's Hutchens?"

"Who knows," Keats hissed, "but Palmerson has spotted us. It's time." He raised an arm and grinned, letting loose a loud, raucous chuckle. "Palmerson? That you, my good man?" How different this Keats was from the one she knew. He strolled toward the table with a lethargic grin and a loping gait, and no one would notice the ill-fitting clothes now. He was all dandified peer now. Her stomach roiled, but then Keats slammed a hand a bit too hard against Palmerson's back in a too-energetic hello, and the old viscount sputtered, choked, coughed. Purposeful, that, a knife glint in Keats's eyes. "What brings you here? Middle of nowhere, innit?"

Palmerson wiped his mouth with a nearby serviette. "I should ask you the same question." He rose, his eyes narrowing as they swept not only over Keats but over all of them. He bowed low, attention riveted on Alex. "Lady Alexandra. I have found you at last. I hope you realize I'll not tolerate jaunts about the countryside once we wed."

"About that." Keats stepped between them.

"Yes, about that." Palmerson sat once more, rapping his fingernails against the tabletop. "What brings you here for so long you leave a betrothed man abandoned and your father to die in London?"

"Visiting friends, my lord." Alex stepped out from behind Keats, dragging Lucy with her. "Miss Lucy Jones, Viscount Springwell's granddaughter."

"Springwell, eh?" Palmerson dragged his gaze over Lucy from head to toe. "He's flush with grandchildren, I hear. But wasn't there a scandal? It would be best if you retire the friendship until I can tell you if it is a fit one for Viscountess Palmerson. And why are you here, Rainsly? You're needed in London."

Keats leaned over the table, digging his fingernails into the stained wood, those claws his only show of emotion. "Came to watch over my sister. Then"—he straightened and walked to Lucy's side, looked down at her with such deep, unfathomably blue eyes, her breath caught—"I stayed because I found someone I wanted to know better."

Palmerson snorted. "Thinking of marriage? Don't lower yourself for a chit like her. Like I said, might be a scandal. Can't quite remember. Memory's a bit hazy these days."

"If he could just forget everything, " Griff whispered to Alex, who gave him a look sharper than an elbow to the ribs.

In the corners of Keats's grin, something feral lurked. "You know, I recently told Lady Alexandra the very same thing. She shouldn't lower herself with marrying the likes of you."

Heavens. This was not the plan. The plan had been to make Palmerson think they were all enjoying a harmless holiday in the country. Keats should not be riling him.

And the viscount had been riled. Palmerson stood once more, his gaze settling like a boulder on Keats. "Pardon me?"

Keats inspected his fingernails. "You know, I've been considering matrimony myself these days, and it's given me a new perspective. On life. On love."

"What are you getting at with your idle prattle?"

"I suppose I'll say it plainly. Alex is free to marry whomever she wishes to, and I do not think that will be you."

"Your father was drawing up a contract."

"I'll have it destroyed."

"I have your father's word."

"He's dead. I'm the Marquess of Rainsly." The greatcoat collar, flipped high, brushed a jaw set hard and hair like midnight. No fop. No stable hand. Keats incarnate, the very center of him undressed and naked for everyone to see. And dangerous. This not a man to be trifled with. This a man who rushed for doctors and threatened his way onto coaches to ensure the safety of sisters.

This the man she loved.

"What in hell's going on here?" A man strode across the inn to stand next to Palmerson. His face passed through a variety of emotions as he studied the rest of them, but his gaze stuck on Alex, an amused brow flying skyward. "We found you, then."

The man's voice was slippery like oil, and Lucy stepped in front of her friend. Griff did, too, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking Alex.

"You remember my son," Palmerson said.

Keats nodded. "Mr. Hutchens. I see you've accompanied your father."

"Yes, and he looks rather troubled."

"I've just informed him he's in search of a new bride."

Mr. Hutchens froze for a half breath then peered down at his father. A deep chuckle rumbled his chest. "That so? Fascinating. Did he offer a reason?" His gaze floated to Lucy and Griff. No, to where Alex hid behind them.

"It is simply not a good fit," Keats said.

"Absurd!" Palmerson smacked a fist into the table.

Mr. Hutchens rounded the table to prop a hip against its edge and face Keats—mirror images. But Keats was dark and Hutchens light. Keats wore a bored half grin and Hutchens's eyes possessed a victorious gleam.

"What about me?" Hutchens drawled. "Am I a good fit for Lady Alexandra?"

"No!" One word, three voices, Alex's the loudest as she pushed out from behind Lucy and Griff, to grab her brother's arm. "Please, no. Not him either."

The polished rogue slipped away, leaving only Keats raw and ragged and torn. "You get to choose, Alex. I swear it."

"Utter nonsense!" Palmerson reached for Alex. "She's mine."

Alex lurched back. "I belong to no one!"

Lucy slipped her hand into her pocket and through the hole she'd ripped in the bottom of it. She rested her fingers against the dagger strapped around her thigh and pushed Alex back, muscles ready to do what she must.

"That one," Palmerson said, stabbing a finger toward Alex, "is a not worth the trouble. And that one"—he turned his finger to Lucy—"is a bit too brazen, isn't she? Clearly she's been a bad influence. I'm done with you all. We leave now, Timothy." He made for the door.

But his son did not follow. "You give up that easy, old man? Ha. Well then, the better man will clearly be the victor." He shoved Lucy out of the way, grabbing Alex's arm. "The lady's mine now."

"Like hell she is." Keats lunged.

Hutchens threw Alex's arm away and danced out of Keats's reach, laughing. "Don't waste your breath avenging your sister. She's not worth it. I know. Quite intimately."

Keats surged forward, and Griff grabbed his arm, holding him back.

"What are you implying?" Keats demanded.

Hutchens strolled toward the door on a rolling wave of his own laughter.

Keats looked lost, his gaze swinging wildly from Alex—standing defiant behind him—to Palmerson, then back to Hutchens. "No man insults my sister, casts doubt on her character. I demand satisfaction."

Hutchens stopped mid-step.

"Name your weapons!" Keats cried.

Hutchens shrugged. "Why not? I like winning. Pistols."

A wide, victorious grin flashed across Keats's face before it snapped out of existence. "There's a field south of Dorking. We meet there in a quarter hour."

"No!" Palmerson exploded across the room, blocking his son's exit. "You will not duel that man."

"I'm not a coward, Father. Now, will you be my second, or are you a coward?" He pushed his father aside and left the pub, Palmerson rushing after him.

Keats walked to the fireplace across the room, took a box off the mantel, and returned to them. "Your brother stashed this here while you were dressing." He glanced at Lucy. "Thought it might be useful. In case things went poorly. As they seem to have done." He spoke without any inflection, and the hands that opened the box, revealing two gleaming dueling pistols, were steady, capable. He snapped the box closed and left the inn.

They tumbled out of the pub and onto the street, trailing after Keats.

Griff's long legs caught up with him more quickly. "Don't do this."

"You'll be my second, yes?" Keats's strides ate up the road out of the village.

Alex ran to his side. "You're trying to do better, Keats. That means no more duels. You promised me you were trying to change."

Keats stopped, placed his hands on Alex's shoulders, then kissed her forehead before continuing his march to the southern edge of the village. "I have failed you, Alex, but I will make it right."

"Dying does not make it right."

"I don't intend to die. I've survived duels before." He shrugged. "Does anyone know how good Hutchens's aim is?"

Alex groaned.

Lucy ran, skidding to a stop in front of Keats, holding her palms out.

He looked out across the horizon behind her, eyes blank.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Keats, look at me."

He looked at the sky.

"Look at me."

He looked at his boots.

She ventured a step closer and then another until they were toe to toe, and she rested her palm against his chest and peered up at him, pleading. "Look at me, Keats."

Finally, his chin tipped down and his eyes met hers, and they were swimming. "I won't die." And then he leaned low and whispered in her ear, "Not if you promise me an armful of you if I survive."

She clutched at his collar and pulled him even closer and said hot against his ear, "All the armfuls." Fear shuddered through her, and she melted against his chest. His arms came around her. "Don't do this."

He released her. "I have to." The boundary of trees surrounding the village thinned, gave way to tall, wind-ruffled grass dotted with small yellow blooms.

A coach rumbled by. It bore the Palmerson crest. As it passed them, raised voices emanated from inside. The viscount apparently was not happy that his only son and heir had decided to risk his life.

Lucy, Alex, and Griff followed Keats in single file, a funeral march. Such horrid thoughts, but Lucy could not shoo them away. They gathered like flies on a dead carcass.

Everything seemed to happen much too quickly and yet agonizingly slow at the same time. The coach waited like a spider, and as they approached, Hutchens and his father climbed out. The morning sun was hot on the grass, but a breeze rippled through, creating an ocean wave of green, the yellow flowers fallen stars. The men checked their weapons, then met one another, their bodies bisected by the horizon. Lucy clutched her hands at her heart, and Alex melted into Griff's side.

He put an arm around her waist to hold her up. "Don't look, Alex," he said against her hair. "Don't look."

But Alex kept her gaze steady on her brother.

The men began their march of death one pace at a time away from one another, pistols lifted, and then they whirled, and then they aimed, and then bullets cracked across the sky.

Hutchens crumpled with a grunt that funneled into a long, low wail. He curled up on his side, the high grass outlining his body. Palmerson ran, hitting his knees next to his son.

Keats stood with his arm raised, a dark figure of retribution against the bright blue sky. "Come near my family again, either of you, and I'll put the next bullet someplace much more vital." He shrugged. "Whether that's the heart or between the legs, I've not yet decided. Both if I hear one whispered word against them."

Lucy's heart thumped. Her body gave way. Only force of will kept her standing as Alex broke free of Griff's hold and barreled toward her brother. Griff loped after her.

To her other side, Palmerson and his coachman lifted Hutchens and secured him in the coach. They rumbled off without a word.

And Keats sank to his knees.

No more strength. No more composure. Lucy made it to his side between one breath and the next. Griff was lowering Keats to the ground, and Alex shrieking, her hands fluttering about his abdomen, pulling back the greatcoat. A dark spot bloomed like spilt tea across his side.

"Well," Keats mumbled. His blue eyes grew hazy, seemed capable of focusing on one thing only—Lucy. "Hope I haven't ruined your brother's coat. He might want to put a second bullet through me."

"Stop," Lucy said, "stop. It's not funny."

"I agree." Keats's mouth a thin line, his face draining of color.

Griff stripped off his jacket and pressed it hard to Keats wound.

Lucy jumped to her feet. "Hades. I must get Hades." She stood over Keats for just one moment, pressing a fist to her heart. "Do not die. Do you understand?"

Keats nodded, whispered, "Yes, countess."

Then, her cheeks wet and her heart thumping wild with pain, she ran. Ran to find her brother. And ran to save the life of the man she loved.