Chapter 27

27

T he day would be clear , Nicholas observed dully upon arriving at Primrose Hill just as faint streaks of light appeared on the horizon. If the weather were as fine back in Kent , perhaps Emily would spend her day by the lake as Phoebe looked on.

He jumped down from Merlin’s back, ignoring the uncomfortable tug in his chest that the thought conjured. After a sleepless night during which he’d pondered far more than was good for him, he needed to make himself emotionless. Focused . Or his aim focused, in any case.

The field was empty, quiet, the only noise coming from birdsong in the surrounding trees. Which was perhaps why the faraway sound of hooves pounding against gravel instantly caught his attention. He turned toward the road and waited, motionless, as the galloping horse drew nearer and nearer, until all of a sudden, the Duke of Branscombe burst through the trees, his face flushed and severe in the dim light.

Branscombe caught sight of him at once, and he rushed to the center of the field, vaulting from his horse and rushing to Nicholas’s side. “ Jesus , Rockliffe .” He bent forward, pressing his palms to his knees as he drew in a few rapid, gasping breaths. “ W -where were you all night?”

Nicholas eyed him in silence, watching the duke’s chest heave up and down. There was really no succinct way to answer that question. After spending much of the day discussing arrangements with both his secretary and solicitor—because only a simpleton would go into a duel without having his affairs in order, even if he had no intention of being bested by a raging sot—he’d gone to his club. After all, what did a gentleman do on the eve of such an occasion other than eating, drinking, and making merry to excess?

Except nothing about that arrangement had felt right. Instead , Nicholas had departed after the first splash of brandy hit his tongue, thinking to pass a mindless hour or two at a gaming hell, and when that proved unappealing, to return home for the limited time before dawn. Yet he’d found he couldn’t do that, either. Couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting alone in the study where earlier that day, he’d penned a letter to his daughter—just in case—and arranged for Miss Phoebe Windham to receive both her year’s salary and the funds to keep Mr . Adolphus Clare , or another investigator, in her employ as long as required.

With nowhere else to go, he’d wandered the streets and deserted parks—his head tangling with things he couldn’t quite decipher—until the time came to collect Merlin from the mews by White’s and ride north to Primrose Hill .

The duke, of course, didn’t need to know all that. And so, Nicholas stiffened his spine, keeping his features shuttered. “ I was … out,” he supplied unhelpfully.

Branscombe let out a sound that was part guffaw, part huff. “ Someone arrived at Rockliffe House with a pressing need to speak with you.” His eyes narrowed, focusing on Nicholas with an intensity that was bloody unnerving. “ A Miss Phoebe Windham .”

Nicholas’s ears pricked, every inch of him going on high alert. “ What did you say?”

“ She sent me a note last night, imploring me to help find you, and I assure you, I made every effort. However , after searching with no success, I went to Rockliffe House myself, only to discover that you had never come home, and Miss Windham had left in the middle of the night without revealing her destination.”

“ What ?” Nicholas all but snarled. This wasn’t right. Phoebe couldn’t be here, couldn’t be involved in this. And if she was no longer at Rockliffe House , then where had she gone? London under the cloak of darkness was no place for her to travel alone, damn it, and if she’d dared put herself in harm’s way …

A potent mixture of fire and ice filled his veins, and his head pounded with a splitting, frantic beat. Except it wasn’t just his head. Additional hooves thundered into the grass, and a horse whinnied as it came to a halt, followed by the heavy thud of boots hitting the ground.

“ Ah . Rockliffe , I presume.”

He didn’t need to turn around to realize to whom the lilting, spiteful voice belonged. For it to fill him to the brim with venom.

He pivoted sharply, his jaw rigid enough to splinter. A reddened, thickset face peered back at him, the glassy eyes glinting with malice. Nicholas didn’t want the revolting man’s name defiling his tongue in return, and so, he did nothing but move his chin a fraction of an inch, using every bit of restraint he possessed not to bound forward and plant a fist in Ambrose’s throat.

At the edge of the trees, a spindly, whey-faced man— Sir Ambrose’s second, Philpot , apparently—beckoned to Branscombe , and the duke took the horses and hurried over to him, the two entering into a tersely murmured conversation.

Allowing Ambrose the unimpeded space to take a step closer, filling Nicholas’s nose with the stench of sweat and sour ale. “ I trust I need no introduction.” His tongue moved thickly, and his body swayed as he regained his footing. God , he really was drunk as a swine, even at this hour of the day. “ In any case, you know my intended well enough. Too well.”

Nicholas snapped his teeth together, leaning closer into the repugnant miasma surrounding Ambrose Windham , hovering near his detestably smug face. “ You’re fortunate I don’t shoot you between the ribs here and now,” he hissed, deathly quiet, “and return to Mayfair with your blood smearing my boots.”

Ambrose bristled, pointing his chin in the air as if to compensate for the fact that Nicholas held the advantage in height. “ That’s not very gent—gentle-man-ly of you,” he slurred. “ Though I’m not sh-urprised. A gentleman wouldn’t make free with another man’s betrothed, even if the chit is a trollop.”

A growl tore from Nicholas’s throat, his vision filling with bright, angry streaks. Had his pistol not still been in Branscombe’s keeping, he would have made good on his threat and been done with it, consequences be damned. Why could the man not get it through his thick skull: Phoebe wasn’t his fucking betrothed! Nicholas would not stand by and hear her degraded. Least of all by a ridiculous, rambling toss pot.

Which begged a question. “ What in hell ,” he bit out, “makes you think yourself justified in casting about these accusations?”

“ Because they’re true!” Ambrose’s voice loudened, his puffy cheeks becoming mottled. “ I know all about what happened at your estate with your so-called gover-nesh. Letitia Burville told me everything.”

The name cracked through Nicholas’s head like thunder, rendering him momentarily speechless.

“ That’s right,” Ambrose sneered, a burst of spittle landing on his chin. “ You thought you could keep it a secret. Well , imagine my surprise when on my way home from Kent , I encountered a lady known to me who was so aggrieved, so aghast , by what she’d seen you and your little harlot doing?—”

“ Enough .” Nicholas stormed past him and toward the trees. He’d be damned if he spent another second looking at that smug, perspiring face. Nor was this the moment to begin cursing the consequences of having Lady Burville as a house guest. He had no more patience for waiting. No more patience for contemplating. Dawn was breaking, and this needed to end. Now .

He made a harsh, snarling sound to draw Branscombe’s attention. “ I require my pistol.”

The duke ceased his conversation instantly, looking up in mild alarm. Nicholas half-expected for Ambrose’s string of jeers to continue behind him, making him all the more eager to get his finger on the trigger. Yet the only words that came were a surprisingly steady, “ As do I .”

Good . Despite Branscombe’s obvious reluctance, he was efficient in producing the box containing the pair of flintlocks, and Nicholas rushed to take his, the smooth wood and metal a welcome weight in his hand.

“ Rockliffe .” When Ambrose , accompanied by Philpot , staggered to the middle of the field with his pistol, Branscombe murmured his name, the syllables containing an unmistakable note of warning.

Nicholas couldn’t blame the man for his hesitancy, not after the way Amelia had shown up at Rockliffe House denouncing everything about the duel and her brother’s participation in it. He didn’t wish to create trouble for his newlywed sister and her husband. Yet surely, Branscombe must see: a man too inebriated to walk straight was even less likely to have good aim.

He cleared his throat, trying for a bit of levity. “ When this is over, Branscombe , remind me that I owe you and Amelia a generous wedding gift.”

“ The gift is for you to stay alive,” Branscombe muttered under his breath, snapping the box closed and setting his sights on the field beyond.

That settled it, then. Nicholas wasted no time in taking his position in the grass, careful not to let the abhorrent sight of Sir Ambrose cloud his vision as they lined up back to back. The next time Nicholas deigned to look at him, he would have his finger upon the trigger.

“ Fifteen paces,” Philpot announced, repeating the instructions that Branscombe had already discussed with Nicholas more than once, “after which I’ll give the call to fire.”

The seconds moved to the side, and Branscombe gave him a subtle nod, his face like stone.

It was time.

One , two ?—

Would Phoebe mind very much if he pointed his pistol more accurately than he’d intended? If not to the center of Ambrose’s chest as he so desired, then mayhap to a leg or shoulder. If the bastard was indeed withholding information, perhaps the fever that was likely to follow the bullet wound would render him delirious enough to reveal it.

Nine , ten ?—

“ Nicholas !”

His name soared through the air from far away, a high, panicked shriek.

The measured rhythm of his footfalls stuttered, his boot jerking against the grass. Phoebe . The voice couldn’t be hers, perhaps wasn’t even real?—

“ Stop !”

The voice sounded again, nearer, louder. Hers . His gaze darted toward the trees, his eyes searching wildly until they detected a flicker of motion. A dark, swishing skirt. A flash of pale skin. A strand of flowing hair. Then , a horrified face— her face—burst through the leaves, lips parting. “ St? —”

A sharp crack obliterated her scream.

And then, there was nothing but silence. Darkness .