True of Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 3)

by Martha Keyes

  Miss Parkham nodded quickly. “Of course. We shan’t tell a soul. And we certainly wouldn’t wish to make you uncomfortable. I shall inform Miss Munroe.” Her eyes shifted in the direction of the long wall of the ballroom, and Ruth followed them to where Miss Munroe stood beside her brother.

  Mr. Munroe’s eyes were fixed on Ruth, Miss Parkham, and Mr. Kirkhouse, the same unpleasant curl to his lip that Ruth began to think was his characteristic expression.

  “I am sorry to disappoint anyone, naturally,” Ruth said, pulling her eyes away, “but I am very happy for the two of you. Congratulations.”

  They bid her good evening and excused themselves. Like a magnet, Ruth’s gaze found Oxley on the dance floor with Miss Devenish, one hand about her waist, the other raised above them clasping hers, their faces only inches apart.

  Ruth looked away and hurried across the floor in a stride that would have been impossible in a chemise and gown.

  She squeezed through a group of matrons gossiping, passed through the French doors, and emerged onto the terrace, where the blessed, cool night air prickled at the small gap between her hair and her cravat. Her chest strained against the wrap constricting it, and she let out a slow gush of air, putting a hand to the back of her head, a lingering habit from when there had been a coiffure to grasp.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice behind her.

  Ruth turned and found Miss Munroe looking at her. It was difficult to see any of her facial features clearly with the candlelight shining from behind, but Miss Munroe carried herself with the confidence of someone who was accustomed to having her way, chin held high and a determined glint in her shadowed eyes.

  “Are you the Swan?”

  Ruth glanced to see whether Miss Munroe’s brother was anywhere nearby. “I think you must be mistaken, miss.”

  She shook her head and took another step toward Ruth. “No, no. I am quite sure. For it was Miss Parkham who told me so.”

  “She, too, was mistaken then, I’m afraid. If you will excuse me.” Ruth bowed slightly and moved to walk around Miss Munroe, who grabbed her arm with a gloved hand.

  “I need your help, sir, and I assure you, I will make it well worth your while.” There was a purposeful set to Miss Munroe’s chin, and she held Ruth’s gaze intently. “Please help me.”

  Ruth grimaced. “I am very sorry, miss, but I cannot help you.” Miss Munroe’s grip tightened on Ruth’s arm, and Ruth looked at her in surprise, prying the fingers away.

  “Unhand her!” Through the terrace doors came Mr. Munroe, fire blazing in his eyes.

  Ruth’s hand dropped immediately from Miss Munroe’s.

  “You lead my sister out here as if she were some trollop!” Munroe said, coming to stand before Ruth, nearly a full head taller than she and staring down into her eyes so closely that she could smell the spirits on his breath.

  “You are mistaken, sir,” Ruth said. “She followed me.”

  “Mistaken, am I?” He looked to Miss Munroe, who swallowed, the fear of her brother reflected in her eyes. “Did you follow him?”

  Miss Munroe shook her head, eyes wide. “Of course not!”

  Ruth’s jaw went slack, but Miss Munroe avoided her eye.

  Munroe turned back toward Ruth, anger and energy warring in his narrowed gaze. “You seem to have made yourself very familiar indeed with the young women in Town since your arrival, Ruth. I cannot say I am surprised to discover that you are pushing your unwelcome attentions upon them.”

  Ruth’s words stuck in her throat. To be accused by Mr. Munroe of the exact thing he himself stood guilty of—and of something so very far from the truth for herself…it was lunacy.

  “You have quite misunderstood the matter,” she said, feeling her heart thrum with nerves inside her as two people appeared inside the doorway, observing. “I have not pushed my attentions on any woman, I assure you.”

  Mr. Munroe bared his teeth, stepping even closer. “You are up to something, Ruth. You have influenced Miss Devenish and Miss Parkham—turned them against me. I know it. But you won’t go anywhere near my sister.”

  Ruth’s hands were sweating inside Topher’s gloves, and it took everything she had not to betray just how nervous she was. She glanced at the doorway that opened up to the ballroom and saw Oxley appear there, brows furrowed, as though he had just arrived and was trying to take stock of the situation.

  His presence acted as a spur, a reminder of his words in the Park. Munroe has underestimated you, and I hope you will ensure he realizes it the next time he attempts to make you feel small.

  “Surely I cannot be blamed for your lack of address with women, sir,” Ruth said, forcing her knees not to shake. She wouldn’t disappoint Oxley.

  Mumbling chatter spread through the gathering crowd.

  Mr. Munroe grabbed her by the lapel. “What did you say?”

  She looked him in the eye, willing herself to keep her courage. “I am sorry that you have found your suits unsuccessful, Mr. Munroe. But that is none of my affair or concern.”

  Miss Munroe had backed away from them, taking her place amongst the crowd, leaving Ruth to clean up the mess. Ruth lowered her voice slightly, ever-aware of their growing audience. “And I certainly harbor no designs upon your sister. As I said, she followed me.”

  Munroe snarled. “You cast aspersions upon her reputation, then?”

  Oxley rushed over. “Let him go, Munroe.” He took hold of Munroe’s hand, and Munroe wrested his arm away.

  “Name your seconds, Ruth!” Munroe said.

  Ruth momentarily forgot how to breathe.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Oxley.

  “This is between myself and this insolent Jack Sprat, my lord.” Munroe spat out the last word.

  Ruth swallowed. “A duel will change nothing, sir. I mean no offense to your sister—I merely convey the truth of what happened.”

  Munroe’s sneer appeared. “You mean to back down. A coward, are you? Willing to lay your hands on a woman but not to meet a man to defend your honor?”

  Murmurs snaked through the crowd.

  “I shall say it again. I don’t think much of the company you keep, my lord.” Munroe sneered at Oxley.

  Oxley offered a tight smile. “Rest assured the sentiment is reciprocated.”

  Ruth’s heart ached to see Oxley coming to her defense. She was trapped—both her honor and Oxley’s were now in question, and she backed down from Munroe at a cost to more than just herself.

  She looked to Oxley, who watched her intently. “Will you act for me?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Oxley said, but she could see the troubled look in his eyes.

  “Archer?” Munroe said, and a stocky man stepped out from the crowd, nodding.

  “I will wait upon you tomorrow morning, Mr. Archer,” Oxley said, “if you will be so good as to provide me with your direction.”

  The men stepped aside for a short discussion, and Ruth stood waiting, wishing that the half-circle of people would disappear back into the ballroom. Her shaking legs might give out on her at any moment, and she wanted no audience when it happened.

  Mr. Munroe’s gaze was fixed on her, his lip curled in a mix between a snarl and a smile. No doubt he was picturing her with a bullet hole in her chest. She shut her eyes for a brief moment. She had only shot a pistol twice in her life—both occasions many years ago when she had followed Topher on one of his mischievous expeditions with their father’s pistol. If she’d had any idea that her life would depend upon her ability to shoot, she might have taken those times more seriously.

  Oxley stepped toward her, putting a hand on her back. “Come, let us go inside.”

  She allowed herself to be ushered forward, feeling a modicum of comfort at the knowledge of Oxley’s support. Her only remaining hope for avoiding the duel was that Oxley might persuade Munroe against the affair. Would that everyone was as subject to his charms as Ruth was.

  “What happened?” Oxley asked in an undervoice as they stepped out o
f the ballroom and down the dimly lit corridor.

  She let out a gush of air and lifted her shoulders. How in the world was she to explain everything to him? With her nerves fraying and Oxley the only friendly face at the ball, she couldn’t face the displeasure he would feel if he knew that word was getting around about her identity as the Swan. Everyone would associate her with Oxley, and she couldn’t humiliate him like that—especially not when he had just come to her defense.

  “I went out for a breath of fresh air, and Miss Munroe followed after me. She had mistaken me for someone else, but when I told her as much, she tried to prevent me from leaving. It was as I tried to remove her hand from my arm that Munroe came out and misread the situation.”

  Oxley scoffed. “Willingly misread. He has no doubt been looking for a reason to quarrel with you.” He sighed. “I will do what I can to patch things up with him, but our hopes are pinned on the unlikelihood that Mr. Archer is a more reasonable fellow than the man he is acting for. Munroe is not likely to back down.” Oxley looked intently at Ruth. “Have you experience with pistols?”

  Ruth smiled weakly. “Do I look like a sporting man to you?”

  Oxley chuckled lightly. “I had a small hope that you had some secret, unexpected expertise with them. It wouldn’t be the first time you have surprised me. But no matter. After I call on Archer tomorrow, I will come to Upper Brook Street. I know a bit about pistols.” He winked.

  “As much as Munroe?”

  He drew back. “You offend me.”

  He was trying to lighten the situation, and she couldn’t help but respond, putting a hand to her heart. “Forgive me for ever doubting Narcissus.”

  Oxley bowed ironically. “You are forgiven.” He rose from the bow and looked at her intently. “Are you nervous?”

  “You offend me now. You mustn’t be deceived by these glasses. Behind my diminutive person, I hide nerves of steel.”

  “If your nerves are made of anything as solid as those spectacles, then I have nothing at all to fear. It was all I could do to keep from cheering when you insulted Munroe. Not just any man would show such courage.”

  Courage? Ruth had a few other names for it: rashness, foolhardiness, impetuosity, and above all, desperation not to disappoint Oxley. Whatever one called it, she was sure to regret it. But hearing Oxley praise her boldness warmed her heart and almost made the prospect of dying in a duel worth it. Almost.

  Oxley glanced toward the other end of the ballroom. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised Miss Devenish a glass of champagne—it was as I went to procure it that I caught sight of the commotion on the terrace. She is no doubt wondering where I disappeared to.”

  “You must tell her, of course, that you were waylaid by the need to rescue a poor sapling.”

  Oxley frowned. “I certainly don’t think highly of Munroe, but I don’t know that I should call him a poor sapling.” With a wide smile, he left her side, threading through the crowds to find Miss Devenish.

  Ruth’s smile faded, and she clasped her hands tightly to control their shaking.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Philip had left the ball the night before with conflicting emotions. Never had Miss Devenish shown as much receptivity to his attentions as she had there. Indeed, the shift was so great as to surprise Philip mightily. Her warm smiles, her flirting, the flush of her cheeks as they danced—it was gratifying, certainly, and he had finally seemed to find his feet. He had managed to pass the entirety of the evening without making a blunder.

  It was just as Ruth had said—the more time he spent in Miss Devenish’s company, the more comfortable he felt. And the more he focused on the present, the less nervous he felt about the future.

  And yet the evening had not passed in a rush of unalloyed victory. Philip had tried to hide his concern over the affair with Munroe—he hadn’t wanted to give offense to Ruth. But the truth was, he was ill-at-ease. Munroe had killed a man in a duel before—a hushed-up affair with rumors of the authorities being paid off. He was volatile and known to hold a grudge. He was also famously blind to the exploits of his sister. Philip had had no trouble believing she had followed Ruth out onto the terrace and perhaps even made advances upon him. But Munroe wouldn’t hear a word against her.

  The thought that Munroe might kill Ruth made Philip feel sick to his stomach. Only now that he faced the prospect of losing Ruth did he realize how much he had come to value their friendship.

  And yet, what could he do? He could try to make Archer see reason, but the fact was, if Munroe was determined to fight, there was little that could be done to avoid it. Nor did Philip harbor much hope that Archer would exercise a calming influence upon his friend. He wasn’t well-known to Philip, but he had a mulish look about him that boded ill for a reconciliation between the parties.

  He laid awake an hour past the time he slipped into his bed, hoping that he could instruct Ruth well enough the next day that he might get off the first shot at least. Munroe wasn’t known as the best shot in London, but what he lacked in precision, he made up for with determination and cold-bloodedness. There was no chance at all of him deloping.

  When he awoke the next morning, Philip’s stomach churned with unease, a physical reminder of the unenviable task that lay before him. His valet assisted him into his clothes for the day, and, hoping it might perhaps quell his nerves, Philip partook of a quick, early breakfast before making his way to Half Moon Street.

  Mr. Archer welcomed him with a brusk manner and stony expression, and Philip stifled a resigned sigh as they stepped into a small study off the main corridor.

  Mr. Archer offered him a seat, and Philip took it, setting his hat in his lap. “I appreciate your receiving me, Mr. Archer. I come on behalf of Mr. Ruth, as you know. He has authorized me to express his willingness for reconciliation with Mr. Munroe.”

  Mr. Archer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I am afraid that the nature of his offense is such that Mr. Munroe is unable to reciprocate such a sentiment. His sister’s reputation has been most grievously maligned, and it is his duty to seek reparations.”

  Philip couldn’t stifle a small snort. “Forgive me, sir, but Mr. Munroe seems to be the only person who would doubt that events occurred just as Mr. Ruth said they did.”

  Mr. Archer stared at him, unamused. “Mr. Ruth has, from the beginning, set himself against Mr. Munroe, always using women in his attempt to do him an injury. Last night, his choice of woman passed the bounds. Such disgraceful behavior cannot go unanswered, my lord.”

  “Perhaps we might apply to Miss Munroe herself. Or to others who attended the ball. Surely someone must have witnessed the way of things.”

  Mr. Archer’s lip turned up at the side in an unpleasant expression. “Is Mr. Ruth so eager to avoid a meeting with Mr. Munroe?”

  Philip’s nostrils flared, and he let out a humorless laugh. “On the contrary, sir. Mr. Ruth will meet Mr. Munroe at his earliest convenience.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Dawn at Kinham Common. By the pond.”

  Philip nodded. “Very well.”

  “Does Mr. Ruth prefer pistols or swords?”

  “Pistols.”

  Within a few minutes, everything was settled, and Philip left Half Moon Street with a deeply furrowed brow.

  Uncle Jacob’s butler greeted Philip with a familiar welcome in Upper Brook Street and told him that Mr. Ruth could be found in the parlor. When Philip entered, Ruth looked up from his chair, a book in hand. He was perhaps a bit paler than usual but otherwise showed no other signs of fear. He seemed to recognize what Philip’s expression signified, though, and sighed resignedly.

  “I tried,” Philip said, coming to sit across from him. “But Munroe will insist upon the duel. He has taken the position that you have maligned his sister’s delicate reputation”—he widened his eyes to show what he thought of this position—“and must be brought to account.”

  Ruth nodded. “Thank you for trying—and for being willing to act for me.”

  “
Of course,” Philip said. “It is an honor.”

  Ruth smiled wryly. “You are a terrible liar. I am not foolish enough to think that acting for me adds to your consequence.”

  Philip waved a hand. “I have more than enough consequence.”

  That elicited a laugh, and Philip was grateful for the sound. Ruth was more courageous than his appearance gave one to believe, but he couldn’t help wondering if his friend was concealing fear and misgiving behind his easy demeanor.

  Philip stood. “Come. Let us prepare you to meet Munroe. I believe my uncle has a pair of pistols in the study. We can take them out for some practice.” He turned toward the door.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  Philip stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

  Ruth met his gaze squarely, his expression grave. “Surely you have better things to do than instructing a greenhorn in shooting.”

  Philip turned. “And you have surely had better things to do than instructing me on how to avoid acting like an utter buffoon in front of women.”

  “But you are paying me to do so. I cannot pay you for this.”

  Philip’s brows snapped together. “I do this as a friend, Ruth. I don’t precisely wish to lose you, you know. You are the only panda in England.” He smiled. “Besides, how would I ever win Miss Devenish if I allowed Munroe to get the best of you?”

  Ruth held his gaze, saying nothing for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, rising from his chair.

  Philip slowed his horse, and Ruth followed suit. They had come to a clearing, surrounded on all sides by tall oak trees whose leaves rustled as a breeze passed through. Philip swung down from his horse and took the pistol box from its place behind the saddle.

  “My uncle used to bring me here to practice shooting,” he said, glancing around with a smile. “I imagine you might see the marks from some of my bullets in the trees. Come, we will start at a close range and then draw back as we go.”