by Amy Corwin
“That man you danced with at my ball. Mr. Archer. Oh, how I despise him!” Her hands clutched at Victoria’s arm. Anger and fear twisted together in her wide blue eyes as she stared at Victoria, her mouth a thin slit in her pallid face. “How could you have danced with him? He is going to kill Martin—I know it!” She gasped and pressed her damp handkerchief to her mouth. “He may be dead already! What shall I do?”
“Dead?” Victoria echoed. Her dry lips barely moved. “Where?”
Miss Urick shook her head. “Hyde Park—but I do not know precisely where—he would not tell me. I begged him, and he would not tell me!” Her voice was ragged with emotion, and she covered her face with her hands for a full minute. Finally, she took a deep breath and lowered her hands to her lap. She fixed her desperate gaze on Victoria. “He refused to reconsider. Even if he does not—” She broke off to swallow. “If he survives, we shall have to go to the continent for a few years to avoid the scandal. Or a charge of murder. My Season—my life! Everything is ruined.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Victoria barely heard her. Her hands twisted together. Mr. Archer dead? The room shrank dizzily around her. She deliberately relaxed her icy fingers and rubbed her right temple to regain her composure.
Shaking her arm, Miss Urick said, “What shall I do if he dies? There is no one else—oh, everything is ruined!”
Victoria patted her arm and murmured some reassuring nonsense, forcing herself to think. While it would hardly help to agree with Miss Urick, the fact was that she was largely correct.
Men had no concept of how their foolish actions affected those around them. No matter what the result of the duel was, Miss Urick’s future would suffer. If Lord Taggert perished, Victoria could only hope he’d had the foresight to leave instructions to provide an appropriate guardian for his sister. Her Season would come to a premature end, and her prospects for a good marriage would dim.
Nonetheless, Miss Urick was only eighteen, and even if she observed a full year of mourning, she could have a second Season, if her guardian—and funds—permitted it.
On the other hand, if Lord Taggert killed Mr. Archer—Victoria pressed her hand over her heart at the sudden sick sensation—he and his sister would have to flee to the continent until the scandal died. And there would always be the charge of murder, if anyone wished to press for justice.
Although that alternative would leave Lord Taggert alive, it would create a far bleaker future for Miss Urick, assuming she wished to marry and have her own home and children. She might be considered well past the age to marry by the time they returned.
A surge of sympathy went through Victoria. At two-and-twenty, she was almost in that position, herself. She studied her friend, feeling that inexplicable sense of kinship, of family, that had drawn the two women together in the first place. It was so strange, considering that no matter how hard she tried, she felt nothing—not even a particular liking—for Miss Urick’s brother. Although four years separated the two women in age, there was that sense, at least on Victoria’s part, that she’d found the sister she’d always wanted.
“Miss Urick,” Victoria murmured, searching for a way to give her friend the strength she needed.
“Helen—please! It would be an honor if you would use my first name.” Helen gave a watery laugh and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “I am so sorry to lay all my problems at your feet, but I had no one else to turn to!”
“I understand, Helen, and I am just as troubled as you.” Victoria leaned forward to grasp her friend’s restless hands. “Let me send for some tea—and have you eaten?”
“I couldn’t eat.” Helen shook her head.
“Nevertheless, you must. And then—how would you like to stay here for a few days? Or at least the rest of the day? We can have a note—no, two notes—delivered to your house, one for your brother, explaining that you are here, and the second requesting your maid to pack a few things to bring here.”
“I don’t know… Oh, what good would it do?”
“At least you would be here—with me. You would have support.” She didn’t need to explain what eventuality might require her sympathy, as well—they both knew well enough.
Oh, Mr. Archer! Her mouth clamped shut to avoid crying out at the sharp sense of loss. Helen wasn’t the only one who might require sympathy.
“It is dreadfully weak of me.” Helen stared down at Victoria’s hands, clasped over her own.
“No. It is not at all weak. You are a kind, intelligent young woman, and we are both aware of what your brother’s foolishness may cost you.” Victoria felt Helen stiffen at her plain words, but the truth was the truth. There were no sweet words that could make it any easier. “You will stay here for a few days. As my friend.” She smiled. “Besides, we have a pile of new silks and a stack of Ackerman’s magazines waiting for us in the upstairs sewing room. We must make our decision on which designs we like best, so that dear Mrs. Harker can get started on our new dresses. I particularly wanted your opinion on the pale rose for a new evening gown.”
Studying her with reddened eyes, Helen pressed her lips so tightly together that the skin around them turned white. Finally, she nodded. “I don’t know how much my opinion is worth, but I shall try.”
While Victoria did her best to keep up inconsequential chatter as she dashed off the notes for Lord Taggert and Helen’s maid, she was painfully aware of several moments of anxious silence before Helen remembered to reply. The two ladies ate a light—in Helen’s case, practically non-existent—breakfast before they adjourned to the sewing room.
Three lengths of pale, shimmering silk in white, rose, and cerulean lay on the sewing table, next to a stack of Ackerman’s magazines with its descriptions and plates of fashionable gowns. Mrs. Harker had also placed some lengths of muslin, woven with silver threads, as well as some block-printed cottons with lovely floral designs showing soft, rounded pink flowers with delicate green leaves, next to the silks.
When draped over the long, wooden sewing table, the luxurious swaths of fabric proved to be a momentary distraction for Helen, though it wasn’t as absorbing as Victoria hoped. Keeping up the thread of patter over patterns and embellishments, Victoria noted that Helen often paused, her hand stroking a length of silk while she gazed sightlessly into the corner of the room.
She was worried about her brother.
And Victoria was worried about Mr. Archer.
There could be no good outcome to this morning’s evil work. One or the other of the men would be wounded—perhaps severely—or killed outright.
The room shrunk around her for a moment. She fisted her hands, forced a smile on her face, and took a deep breath. One of them had to remain calm. Cheerful. And it had to be her.
With a shock, she realized that her family, even Helen, would fail to understand any show of grief if anything happened to Mr. Archer. Proper, demure sadness, of course, but not grief. He was but an acquaintance, a one-time dance partner, who had never earned the approval of her parents.
But just as she had when she’d met Helen, Victoria had felt that sense of immediate liking—though that was too feeble a word, really—for him; that sense of finally finding someone who was simpatico. Love at first sight had always seemed ridiculous, but perhaps in some ways it was a more accurate way to describe the sense of kinship and affection she’d experienced.
Of course, with Mr. Archer, there’d also been that tingle, that jolt of excitement that curled her toes and made her hopes soar. Anything was possible. The future looked brilliant and filled with joy and unexpected adventures.
Until now. The day had seemed so sunny when she’d woken up early that morning, but now it seemed overcast, with dark gray clouds building over the horizon.
Rubbing her icy hands, she asked Helen about the silver-shot cotton’s potential as an evening gown. As Helen answered, Victoria’s smile trembled, and she forced herself to keep her gaze away from the clock.
She didn’t want to know how late it was growing, or what mi
ght have already happened.
Chapter Seven
A flash, smoke, and a deafening explosion echoed under the dripping leaves in Hyde Park. The pistol in Taggert’s right hand disappeared for a split second within a grayish cloud.
Pain slashed John’s side, but he remained on his feet. Aiming carefully, he squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The flash and explosion jerked the heavy flintlock in his hand, and he smelled the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder. Clamping his elbow against his waist, he studied his opponent.
Taggert remained standing, his right side angled toward John. “How dare you!” he exclaimed, striding toward John. “How dare you delope?”
One didn’t delope, of course, unless one felt his opponent was unworthy of a shot. Nonetheless, John had elected to do so, despite Taggert’s attempt to ensure John never left Hyde Park alive. There was Miss Urick to consider, after all. Her future largely depended upon her brother’s well-being.
Then, for a brief, heart-stopping second, he thought the duke’s son, Henry, was striding toward him, anger shrinking his eyes and mouth to narrow slits.
One must take one’s punishment, after all. John’s fleeting thoughts confused past and present.
Shaking his head, he took a step toward Wickson, fighting nausea and dizziness. Best to show why he deloped, what might have happened had he not. “Hand me one of my pistols, would you?”
In silence, Wickson did as requested.
“Throw your hat into the air, will you? There’s a good lad,” John murmured.
“How dare you?” Taggert ground out, his face livid with anger. The muscles in his jaws bulged.
“Wickson?” John prompted him, adjusting his grip on his pistol.
“But my hat, Archer. It’s my favorite.”
“I’ll buy you a new one. Your hat. Please, Wickson.”
With a lugubrious sigh, Wickson gently placed the wooden box containing the matching pistol of John’s set on the ground. He pulled off his hat, rubbed a bit of dust off on his sleeve, and threw it as hard and high as he could.
The black top hat spun crazily as the wind caught it. Ignoring his burning side and dizzy sensation, John took a deep breath. The pain sharpened when he lifted his weapon. His hand shook. He pushed away all the sensations, all the agony.
Another deep breath. His finger tightened.
Dimly, he heard the explosion that shook his arm. The gasps of surprise.
Above him, Wickson’s hat spun and fell lazily to the ground. Wickson hurried to pick it up. Frowning, he stuck a gloved finger through the neat hole just above the brim of the hat.
John had made his point. He always hit his target. But, despite any feelings he may have harbored about Taggert, he had no wish to kill him.
Deloping wasn’t to insult him, it was to avoid harming him.
He’d harbored no ill-will toward Henry—no—Taggert. Had always loved him like a brother. Wait, no, Taggert wasn’t Henry, this wasn’t a boyhood fight, but there was a punishment coming after all. Confused, he glanced up, fascinated by the sunshine glinting off the last drops of morning dew clinging to the fresh green leaves of the trees around them. He blinked.
Difficult to focus. Everyone appeared to be shouting at him, and he felt a jarring thud as he slipped to his knees.
“Archer!” Wickson shook his shoulder.
John’s mouth twisted. He grabbed Wickson’s lapel. The smooth wool slipped through his fingers. “My lawyer has the papers. One hundred pounds.” A sigh carried the words softly over his lips before he fell into the dark, losing sight of the dazzling green leaves above him.
Chapter Eight
“Lord Taggert is waiting in the formal drawing room, Lady Victoria,” Mr. Kingston announced from the doorway. “Shall I inform him that you will join him?”
Victoria glanced at Helen. The girl’s legs buckled from relief, and she collapsed onto a nearby chair, one hand pressed to her bosom. What little color Helen had possessed fled, as if she’d just realized what his arrival meant.
In some ways, it was an unsatisfactory outcome, at least if Helen wanted to enjoy a Season in London and become a wife and mother. Now, it was likely she’d have to remove, along with her brother, to the continent.
“Tell him…” Victoria paused. She’d almost told Kingston to inform Lord Taggert that they were not at home. “We shall be down shortly.”
“Very good, Lady Victoria.” Mr. Kingston bowed and retreated, leaving the door open for them to follow.
“Well, this is good news,” Helen said in a shaky voice. A trembling smile twisted her lips. “Is it not?”
“Of course.” Of course, not. Victoria grasped Helen’s hand and pulled her to her feet.
They drifted down the stairs to the first floor in silence, Victoria swallowing back the lump in her throat. The strong urge to weep kept returning in increasingly violent waves, until she had to force herself to think about the soft rose silk upstairs. Smooth, soft, calm. It would make a beautiful gown. She might even embroider flowers around the neckline…
Will they even let me bring flowers to his grave? A sob caught in her chest. She pushed the thought away. She couldn’t think about it.
Consider Helen—not your own fears. Maybe she could stay with her in London, even if her brother had to leave England for a while. They could both have their Seasons—their last Seasons.
When they entered the grand drawing room, the rich shades of crimson, gold, cream, and green overwhelmed her, making her feel small, dull, and plain. Stepping forward, Victoria’s eyes were immediately drawn to the stiff figure of Lord Taggert. He stood in front of the huge bow window that overlooked the bustling street running in front of the townhouse. Vibrant crimson damask curtains with gold fringes framed his upright, black figure. Sunlight from the window gleamed through the curtain’s trim, turning the beams into fierce shafts of light that made Victoria blink repeatedly.
Stumbling over the edge of the green and cream colored oriental carpet, she caught the scrolled back of a nearby gilt chair.
“Martin!” Helen exclaimed, running over to her brother. She grabbed his arm to turn him around and patted his lapels in a desperate search for even the smallest wound. “What happened? Were you hit?”
He turned and brushed her off, flapping his hands with irritation. “My affairs are none of your concern, Helen,” Lord Taggert said, frowning impatiently at his sister. “And I am certain Lady Victoria is not interested. None of these female vapors, Helen. Get hold of yourself. Have you no pride?”
“Not interested?” his sister repeated, crossing her arms and cupping her elbows in her palms. “How can you say that? I am not hysterical. And Lady Victoria is just as worried as I was. She knows—I have confided in her—she is my dearest friend.”
“You have confided in her?” His brows tightened as he pushed her back another foot. “Have you no discretion?” His glance fell on Victoria. He nodded stiffly. “I beg your pardon, Lady Victoria. You must forgive my sister. She is young and often chatters about matters of which she has little understanding.”
“There is no need to apologize. We are friends and often share confidences. Rest assured, I am no gossip. One doesn’t endanger such dear friendships by repeating words meant only for one’s ears.”
He smiled with satisfaction and moved away from the window. And his sister. “You are indeed a mature woman with a fine understanding of such things. I should not have worried.” His expression softened. “Thank you for your concern. I am flattered to be the recipient, though I regret causing you even a moment of worry.”
Victoria had to press her lips together to keep from informing him that he was not the one she’d been worried about.
Good sense coming to her aid, she exchanged a glance with Helen before she asked, “Your opponent—”
Lord Taggert’s face turned to stone. He turned partially away, one hand gripping the back of a nearby wing chair. “It is unseemly to speak of such things, as I’m sure you are aware. I am unscathe
d, and that is the important thing, is it not?”
His words implied that Mr. Archer was not unscathed. Her stomach cramped, but she managed to walk over to the bell pull. With a wry smile at Helen, Victoria ordered a second round of refreshments and busied herself with politely arranging her guests in the seating area nearest the bow window.
She waited until Lord Taggert and his sister had both been served before she set her own cup of tea on the low walnut table in front of her and looked at Lord Taggert. “Your sister has been assisting me this morning with the design of a new ball gown,” she said, cautiously, searching for a way to obtain more information without directly questioning Lord Taggert. “She has excellent taste and has been invaluable to me.”
Lord Taggert smiled politely and sipped his tea.
“So I have invited her to stay here with me for a few weeks, with your permission, of course.”
When Victoria glanced at Helen, she was holding her full cup of tea in her lap, and was staring into the tawny depths.
A shuttered look closed over Lord Taggert’s face. He took another, longer sip of tea. “I am afraid that may not be possible.”
“Oh.” Victoria leaned forward. “I assure you, my parents are in full accord and would like nothing better than to have her remain with us. I assure you, we will look after her and ensure that she enjoys her Season.”
“We may not be remaining in London,” he replied firmly. He placed his cup on the edge of the table with an air of finality.
Helen’s face lost every vestige of color, but she didn’t move or attempt to argue.
“Not remaining?” Victoria repeated. “Why—surely you cannot mean that you intend to return to Northumberland already? The Season has barely begun.”
“No. We would not be returning to Stanegate Manor, at least for a while. I thought Helen might enjoy a trip to Vienna. It has been a long time since she saw our cousins—”
“They are only second cousins, and they are loathsome, beastly oafs,” Helen blurted out. The cup and saucer she held in her lap rattled. Some of the brown liquid sloshed over onto her gown, but she failed to notice. “I don’t want to go!”