Where is Phillip? she thought frantically as she joined the spectators. She had seen her cousin only moments before but the people had shifted. She was terrified of being stopped and questioned. Luckily, no one had paid her any heed, the drama between Lord and Lady Edgeworth and the impending duel receiving more interest than one lone masked individual.
If anyone did challenge her, she decided the young man she was supposed to be would say he had been attending a masquerade ball where he first heard of the duel and had wanted to see the conflict for himself. She wondered if she could make her voice sound masculine enough to be believable. It might work, hidden in her domino and mask, if she were perceived to be not much more than a lad. She prayed that would be the case, for as Meredith and Phillip had forcefully reminded her, under close scrutiny she would not be taken for even that.
A hand from behind grabbed her elbow and Jillian almost shrieked aloud like the woman she was. That surely would have given her away. She swung around and met Phillip’s furious stare.
“You nearly scared the life out of me,” she whispered.
“I’d like to squeeze the life out of you,” he countered. “I knew when I saw Meredith you could not be far behind. Why didn’t you wait in the carriage as I told you to do?”
“From the looks of things you intended to leave us there until all was finished.”
“Unlike you, Jillian, I trust Wickham.”
For the flicker of a moment his statement forced Jillian to recognize the uncertainty of her plan, but she cast off the thought before it could take hold.
“Give me your pistol, Phillip.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Don’t you dare tell me that. I saw it hidden beneath your coat when we were in the carriage.”
“Jillian, I don’t like this part of the arrangement. I’d be a fool to give you a gun. Why, you’re the most unpredictable—”
“Give it to me.”
For long moments Phillip stared at her, lips compressed in a tense line. Then he glanced from side to side, checking to see if they were being watched. Extracting the pistol from under his coat, he covertly palmed it off to her.
“What if something goes wrong?” he asked. “There’s no bullet in the chamber, but no one else knows that. What if you are regarded as a danger?”
Jillian, now holding the pistol in her right hand, pulled the weapon into the sleeve of her domino.
“You think too much,” she said, turning her attention to the couple still talking on the other side of the field.
As she watched the marquess patted Meredith’s hand, and from Jillian’s vantage point he looked to be offering his distraught wife words of comfort. At last he pulled away.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Jillian said, “it appears Meredith cannot detain her husband any longer. He’s coming back. But, Phillip, can you see the expression on his face? I think Meredith’s announcement has touched him because he seems positively shaken.”
“One can only hope.”
“Quick, I must confront Adrian now or lose my opportunity.”
Phillip took her arm. “I can’t help you, Jilly, if things go awry.”
“I understand, really I do.”
Having said that Jillian eased her way around the small crowd with her cousin following in her wake. Lord Wickham stood off to one side, a scowl of impatience marking his features. Fortunately, he was alone which would make it easier to approach him, although at the moment he looked anything but approachable. He glanced up as Phillip and Jillian came abreast of him.
“Yes?” the earl said, eyebrows raised as his gaze darted between the two of them.
Her cousin opened his mouth to respond but Jillian feared his nervousness would cause him to say the wrong thing, thus she was propelled into action. In an instant she slipped her left hand through the crook in Adrian’s right arm and, as she did, pressed the barrel of the pistol into his side.
“Don’t move, my lord.” She growled the words, dropping her voice to a timbre that hurt her throat.
At once she felt him stiffen and he looked down at her, his eyes narrowing ominously.
“What is this?” he snapped. His gaze shifted to her cousin. “Angsley?”
Adrian made to pull away from her, and Jillian drew back the hammer on the gun. The audible click seemed to reverberate through the night.
“Mr. Angsley,” Jillian said, “please tell the organizers of this little event that Lord Wickham needs to share a few words with the gentleman in the domino and they have taken a short walk. His lordship will return presently, and then the contest can proceed.”
Jillian gave the earl’s arm a tug. After a brief hesitation he moved with her, for she had shoved the pistol more firmly into his side as an incentive for his cooperation.
“What is going on here?” he demanded.
“Don’t talk.” Which was a most practical request, given that if she continued to communicate in that rasping voice, she would begin to cough uncontrollably.
Jillian led him across the field in the direction of the hackney, the quiet between them emphasizing their footsteps as they plodded over the ground. While they walked she could feel the moisture in the ankle-high grasses soaking into and weighing down the hem of her domino. Any moment she expected to hear a shout from behind them, ending her little game, but it never came. Phillip must have done as he promised and kept the curious preoccupied.
When they reached the carriage, Jillian nudged Adrian again. “Open the door and get in.”
He reached for the handle, snapping open the latch. “Are you certain you want to do this?” he asked as he placed his foot on the step.
“Absolutely, my lord. Get in.”
He eyed her once more then hauled himself into the hack. As he did, Jillian met the gaze of the driver. She gave the man a curt nod before following the earl inside.
The vehicle flew into the lane and Jillian, in the act of sitting, was nearly tossed to the floorboards. Quickly she righted herself and took her seat, all the while waving the pistol at the earl like a disoriented drunkard.
Across the carriage Adrian stared at her, arms folded casually over his chest, his demeanor almost lazy. Suddenly he leaned forward.
“Give me the gun,” he said.
She pulled back, shocked. “No!” she said, forgetting to lower her voice.
At that his patience must have snapped, for he snaked out his arm and, grabbing the pistol around the barrel, yanked it out of her hand.
“Now you tell me, Jillian Fitzgerald,” he roared, “what the hell do you think you are doing?”
She was so stunned she could think of nothing to say. Then in a small voice, “You knew it was me?”
“Yes,” he barked.
“All along?”
“Yes, and take off that damned mask.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?” Her words were muffled as she untied and removed the cloth disguise.
“And expose your foolishness to everyone on that field? My God, woman, when will you learn?”
“Adrian, please try to understand. I couldn’t let you do it.”
“Couldn’t let me? You can’t stop me.”
“I already have.”
He went very still. “You’ve only postponed it, Jillian,” he said quietly.
And that of course was the one hole in her plan. If she could not convince him this fight was unnecessary then tonight would be replayed at a later date.
“Perhaps I’ve only postponed it, but I don’t think so.”
“Why do you say that?”
She smiled at him across the darkened space. “The point of a duel is to fight when tempers are at their worst, when the insult is fresh. No one says, ‘Name your seconds. I’ll meet you on the field of honor at the end of the month of May.’”
“I know you are trying to tell me something,” he muttered.
She tried again. “Even now, Adrian, you can’t be as angry as you were twenty-four hours ago. When you
first confronted Lionel a duel would have had more meaning. Now it has less and tomorrow even less.”
“You miss the point.”
Why must he be so pig-headed? Jillian thought in frustration. Aloud she said, “There’s something that might change your mind.”
“Oh?” Adrian’s skepticism seeped through his words.
“Meredith is increasing. That’s what she came to tell Lionel tonight. You don’t want to kill another father, do you?”
“Damn! You do know how to draw blood with that rapier you call a tongue.”
“I’m sorry, truly I am, but I wanted to spare you the pain of regret.”
Adrian stared at her for so long, she began to feel the heat of his gaze, compelling, exciting. He had eased back against the squabs as though relaxed, and for the first time the knot in Jillian’s stomach—a knot she had been unaware of until that moment—relaxed as well.
“Come here.” The words were so softly spoken she thought she misunderstood him.
She hesitated briefly then moved across the carriage to sit next to him. He placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tightly to his side.
“Interesting ensemble for a young lady,” Adrian said gruffly. “What were you thinking tonight?”
“Why, my dear Lord Wicked, I wanted to kidnap you as you once kidnapped me.”
“Did you now? Hardly the same situation, love. I can honestly say I never intended to kidnap you. Your actions this evening were quite premeditated.” He leaned close and kissed the tip of her nose.
Jillian felt the warmth of his love flow over her like a soothing cloak, and she nestled into his embrace, soaking in his dynamic presence.
“Doesn’t it worry you that I might be considered a coward?” he asked.
“Why? Because you were forced away from the contest? And really, after all this time does it matter to either one of us what people may think? I know you are no coward.”
He squeezed her again in answer. After several moments, he said, “Where are we going? This is not the road into Bath.” He shifted in his seat, looking out the window. “We’d better alert the driver.”
“There is no mistake.”
“Indeed?”
“How would you like to take a journey?”
Adrian gaped at her. “Not to Dover, Jillian? You’ve recreated enough of that damned night.”
“Of course not, silly.” She smiled like a contented cat. “I instructed the driver to take us to Gretna Green.”
His eyes gleamed back at her. “Did you, by God!”
“I did.”
“Would you like to explain what sudden impulse brought this on? You are not attempting to remove me from Bath and any opportunity to seek my revenge on Edgeworth, are you?”
“Oh, something much more important than that.” Jillian waited for him to grow impatient for her explanation. He did not disappoint her.
“Well?”
“Seems to me, Adrian, you have a wager to win.”
He took her chin in his hand as he scanned her features. “You heard about that?” he asked gently.
She nodded, holding his gaze.
“I did not mean it as an insult.”
“I know.”
“We don’t have to do this thing now, sweetheart. The wager is not lost until January first. And frankly, it was never about winning or losing a bet. I’m willing to wait if that’s what you want.”
“But, Adrian,” she said slyly, “don’t you think after yesterday morning, perhaps it becomes expedient? I could find myself in the same condition as Meredith. You remember—those repercussions you mentioned to me once upon a time.”
“Ah, yes, repercussions…Well, then,” he said on a contented sigh, “Gretna Green it is.” He pulled her more tightly into his arms. “Do you think Aunt Pru will be very disappointed when she finds out?”
“Relieved, Adrian, she’ll be relieved.”
“Humm…” he said into her hair.
“You know,” she splayed her hand in the middle of his chest, “it is a long ride to Gretna Green.”
The earl looked down at her, a sensuous smile easing his mouth. “And…?”
“Kiss me, Adrian,” Jillian whispered, the words like the rustle of fine silk.
“I don’t know,” his light blue eyes sparkled with sudden enthusiasm, “I’ve never kissed anyone in trousers before.”
“You’d best get used to it, for I’ve come to think I like them more than a little.”
Adrian shook his dark head, his warm, husky chuckle filling the carriage. “You always surprise me, love, you always surprise me.”
And then with the promise of a new day cresting the horizon, the Earl of Wickham commenced to instruct his future bride on a few delightful surprises of his own.
*****
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In the Garden of Disgrace
In the Garden of Disgrace Page 28