one

Dominic

Tomorrow it ends.

With that fortifying thought, Dominic Edward Halifax, ninth duke of Ashton, raised a monocle to a bored eye, crossing his long legs before him with a languid movement, his posture drooping with a tediousness that did not in the least diminish its gracefulness. Egad, but when had the opera at Vauxhall turned so morbid? He would give anything to be seated by his own hearth right now instead of being ogled by all these painted creatures and simpering misses hopeful of a great catch before the end of the Season.

What madness had prompted him to choose this infernal place for his amusement tonight? The duke examined an imaginary speck of dust on his cream silk sleeve and exhaled a long and delicate sigh.

"My dear Ashton," a jovial and good-mannered, if somewhat coarser than his own voice said to his left, "well, isn't this an improvement!"

There was no need for his grace to turn his head in order to identify the owner of the voice. There were few people, if indeed any, who would dare address him so casually when he was in a black mood, and even fewer who would be allowed entrance inside his opera box unannounced.

"Be g, Charles," said his grace cruelly, "I let you drag me here against my will, but I've no taste for your theatrics."

Encouraged by this heart-warming speech, Charles, Lord Burns, a young, fashionable viscount of the same age as the duke, sat himself down next to his grace, and offered his hand, palm up.

The duke took his sweet time in handing over a blue and gold snuff-box to his friend, but at last the viscount's patience was rewarded by a couple of powerful sniffs.

"So," that worthy gentleman began, "are you out of the dumps yet?"

His grace turned to look at lord Burns, thus revealing a pleasing countenance, even though at present it appeared to be scowling in a most frightening manner and a strong Grecian profile and long, dark curls that crowned his white forehead in a most intricate à la Brutus hairstyle. At present his steely blue eyes were rather dimmed by boredom and a slight indulgence in spirits, but in general they were thought to be by far his best feature, as well as a reason for ladies of all ages to swoon for a mere glance from them.

"You are going to make a nuisance of yourself again, aren't you?" his grace answered lord Burns pleasantly. "I suppose it is too much to ask for an evening of relative peace."

"Killed anybody lately?" the viscount continued, leaning back.

"Not since last Thursday," Ashton answered him easily. He lifted a well-formed eyebrow to send a quizzical look of enquiry to him, before turning an indifferent eye upon the stage.

Lord Burns bent forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees, a habit he hadn't gotten over since his childhood.

"My dear Dominic," he said, placing his hand on his grace's arm and taking his life in his own hands by so doing, for the duke passionately hated to be touched, "I wish you would simply grieve her loss. It would not make you any less… respectable or fashionable, I assure you. Not in my eyes, or in any else's. This spree of duels you have begun on, that always must result in a fatality, since you are the Nonpareil…"

His grace lifted a white hand to stop him.

"Not always," he amended. "Not anymore." Not since the girl was what he meant to say, but damn him if he'd be driven to mention her to Burns. It was n of his blasted business anyway. "Why, only last week," he continued, peering at the crowds through his monocle, "that boy from Kent… I forget his name, but I assure you I merely winded him."

Lord Burns gave out an exasperated sigh. "Ashton," he said slowly and significantly, trying to contain his anger, "the ‘boy from Kent' was your own cousin, thrice removed. You said you wanted to teach him a lesson. And you broke his arm!"

"I suppose you will come to the point of what you mean to say to me in your own good time," his grace said coolly.

It was nobody's business but his own why he was slowly making his way into the lower ranks of the London society, picking duels here and there, keeping up his usual style of violence and carelessness. But now there was a reason behind it. He was planning murder.

Slowly but surely the circle had been closing in. And now, finally, after tedious weeks on end of careful research, he'd found the man he was looking for. As he had predicted, the ton had thought nothing of it: every supposed he was challenging him in of his usual dark moods, two nights ago at a notorious gaming hell. No matter that such establishments weren't his style; every expected of the duke of Ashton an outrage per week -at least. He'd let the scoundrel have his pick of rapiers, swords or pistols, whatever blasted weaponry his cowardly nature preferred; and finally, tomorrow he'd meet him at dawn in front of two witnesses.

And then -what a tragic accident- he'd kill him, no the wiser of the true reason behind this particular death. After all he was known as ‘the devil' already.

He didn't care if he'd be exiled to Paris till kingdom come after that; the sole thing keeping him alive and sane was this task he'd set for himself, and once it was completed he cared not whether he lived or died.

"Blast it all, Dom," Burns was saying in exasperation, "by gad I wish you would stop acting like a child."

"And I wish you wouldn't scowl so at me, Charles. I suppose neither of us will get our wishes. Not tonight at any rate."

"Do you…" Burns swallowed before continuing, but still he would not abandon the effort. "I suppose you still have… feelings for her."

Before the duke could do more than send a smoldering look of pure murder his way, they were thankfully interrupted by the door creaking open. His grace suppressed the urge to groan aloud. Who was it this time? Hadn't he suffered enough this night already?

The first thing he saw were her slippers.

They were showing a tiny bit underneath her heavy brocade skirts; little, delicate moccasins that hinted at little, delicate feet, made of satin blue with a silvery thread of embroidery showing through. His grace's fastidious gaze traveled upward through his monocle, and was satisfied to discover that she was dressed like the night itself, in a fashionably cut, low-waisted gown of a dark blue, iridescent color, with small stars sewn into the material, so that it sparkled as she moved under the candlelight.

As though mesmerized, Lord Burns lifted his gaze to the narrow little waist and then to the small face that was, to his dismay, concealed by an intricate mask ending in a long ribbon which in its turn was clutched in an elegant, gloved hand. Not even her hair was showing, as it was obvious that the powdered confection she wore on her head was a wig, with colorful birds and butterflies balancing on the thick white curls, and framing her white cheeks in a most charming manner.

His grace too saw all of this, but no would suspect his drooping eyelids of holding as much curiosity as the wide-opened s of his friend.

The woman was scarcely tall enough to be more than a girl, and it was obvious by her attire and the way she carried herself that she wasn't a courtesan, finding her way to his box in need for a few coins.

Though he would scarcely have admitted it to himself, his grace was waiting with a faint interest to hear the first words her surprisingly unpainted and childish-looking lips would utter. He was not to be given that pleasure, however.

The woman did not utter a word. She merely thrust forward her small fist, right above his hand, as though expecting it to open and receive her offering. Ashton, for once startled out of his cool and bored exterior, turned his blue eyes on hers. The woman flinched and opened her palm, almost impulsively, dropping something on his lap. Then, lowering his eyes and uttering a sound that resembled a sob, she fled. Immediately upon recovering his wits, a few heartbeats later, Lord Burns rushed to follow her. But she was g. No trace of her remained.

After chasing her in vain down the hallway for a few minutes, he returned to the duke's box, only to be surprised by a peculiar spectacle.

Ashton, eyes ablaze with anger and lips pressed until they almost disappeared, was feeding the woman's note to the flame of of the cream candles that illuminated the elegant opera box. Then, without so much as a word, he turned and exited, just as on the stage the prim donna entered the throes of her theatrical death.

He rushed out, relishing the chance to stretch his legs after sitting in that confounded opera box. He walked in a hurry through the moonlit gardens and shrubs concealing squealing lovers, intending to reach his barouche and be home in less than half and hour.

But, alas, it was not to be that he would find peace so soon.

A vulgar man, not slightly inebriated, pushed himself abruptly in his way -a man whose name Ashton, if he ever knew it, could not at present bring to mind. A few of the man's cronies surrounded him menacingly, but their eyes had a glazed, drunken look to match that of their friend's, and their presence failed to inspire any emotion but tedium in Ashton.

"D…dare you challenge me here and now?" the man stuttered and waved his sword unsteadily towards the duke.

"With pleasure," he replied without a moment's hesitation, neither calling to mind nor caring to learn what reason the man had to hold a grudge against him. He extended his clenched fists.

"En gua… grardre," the man said, in an effort to appear collected, and thrust his sword towards his grace's chest.

The man's friends began spitting obscenities, and scattered for fear of being injured. There was no need. His grace avoided masterfully the man's first, awkward thrust, and then promptly punched him on the nose, drawing his cork.

Then he stepped over his pr, moaning form and resumed walking.

In the distance he could discern the candle-lamps burning on his barouche, and he quickened his step to reach it before the crowds began to emerge from the Opera.

He was halfway to the street. He was watching the groom ahead gathering the reins in hand, anticipating his terror when he would tell him to push the team forward as though the very devil was on their heels, when he froze. He'd heard a rustle in the leaves behind him, but at first he had paid no heed to it, expecting it to be a wandering drunkard or a bird of the night. But now he heard it again, and there was something definitively human as well as desperate about the movement that gave him pause.

No, that wasn't it.

There was something familiar about it, strange as it would seem. Ashton turned on his heel. What he saw was the last thing he had expected.

It was a ghost.

Not just any ghost, too. It was well-known to him, almost as intimately as his own shadow.

It was her ghost.

As she approached him, the duke finally lost his composure. He stepped back a few paces, almost losing his balance in the process, his legs unsteady under him. Then he crouched down and hung his head between his knees, for a sudden faintness overtook him, dark spots dancing before his eyes.

Without realizing it, he gave out a low rumble, his voice cracking like a wounded animal's. "Why must you still torment me?" he whispered, knowing no could hear him in the deserted gravel path.

When he looked up again and stood, he saw that her ghost was still there, transparent in the dim light of the lanterns that adorned the road on either side. She was now making her way to the left, where a small gazebo stood, dark pink columns entwined with blood-red roses. She stepped lightly on the first step, moving as though she was weightless, her white wig gleaming in the moonlight. She didn't turn to beckon him, but by this point Ashton had accepted his fate.

With a sharp intake of breath, he advanced to meet her, his mind involuntarily returning many months in the past, to the first time he had ever set eyes on her.

November 1811