by Martha Keyes
Ruth had been more silent than usual on the ride there. He had chimed in every now and then with a small joke, but Philip wasn’t fooled. He was trying to hide his nerves between fits of distraction, and the only thing Philip could think to do was to help him acquire more confidence by teaching him how to shoot as well as he could in the space of the next two hours.
Philip had little doubt that Munroe would shoot to kill. Why he had taken Ruth in such violent dislike, he didn’t know, but the man was hardly the picture of reason or levelheadedness. The fact that he had challenged someone almost half his age to a duel spoke volumes.
“I haven’t held a pistol since I was ten or eleven,” Ruth said, looking at the long barrel with a frown. “Perhaps I should just delope.”
“You could, but Munroe will not. And I think you stand a good chance of getting off the first shot. You are much faster than he, and his aim is not known for being very good.”
“I am not sure whether that should relieve me or worry me,” Ruth said with a laugh. “What if he aims for my arm and hits me in the heart?”
Philip handed Ruth a pistol, watching with a sense of misgiving at how Ruth held it. It had not been false modesty when Ruth said he wasn’t a sporting gentleman.
“Here. Take a shot at that tree.” Philip pointed to the widest of the trees before them, an old oak with a trunk spread three feet wide.
Ruth swallowed and took a wider stance with his feet, raising the pistol and pointing it toward the tree. There was a slight pause, and a shot rang out.
“I missed,” Ruth said, and Philip laughed.
“You did, and it is no wonder. I think your bullet came nearer to hitting that little sapling a few yards to the left of the target. Here.” Philip put out a hand, and Ruth set the pistol in it.
Philip busied himself with reloading. “You want to provide the smallest target you can for Munroe, which means turning your body sideways. Try again.” He handed the pistol back to Ruth, who obediently turned his body sideways.
Philip frowned. The pistol looked heavy in Ruth’s hands—in need of reinforcement—but Ruth couldn’t stabilize it with a second hand without turning his body fully toward Munroe. It was a choice between improving his own accuracy—or widening Munroe’s target. Philip would have liked to see Munroe experience the sting of a gunshot and being out of commission for a time due to his own stupidity, but he would far rather be confident in Ruth’s safety.
But Ruth deserved to make that decision for himself.
Philip hesitated. He had lost a mother and a father, but the thought of losing Ruth made him feel cold fear.
“Wait,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ruth let the pistol drop, relieved at Oxley’s instruction to wait. She could feel the pistol shaking in her hands, and it embarrassed her. Who was she trying to deceive? She wasn’t brave or courageous. She was nothing but a fool dressed in gentlemen’s clothing.
“When I was young, my uncle taught me a couple of tricks to improve my accuracy. One is more dangerous than the other, so I will allow you to decide which you employ.” He stepped behind Ruth, and she felt her muscles go tight. “Here, raise the pistol again.” He reached around her, and the shaking that had affected her hand coursed up her arm and through her whole body. She clenched her eyes shut, mortified at the way her body was reacting to his proximity, when to Oxley, he was merely helping a friend avoid death. She tightened her jaw and opened her eyes, but what she really wanted was to turn around and bury her head in Oxley’s chest—to seek safety in his arms.
“The first method is to aim the pistol at something specific.” He moved closer, and Ruth could feel the warmth of his breath grazing the side of her neck. He had his own arm extended, his pointer finger raised so that it hovered in the air right next to her pistol. “Like the first branch on that tree. You must keep both eyes open. Are they open?”
She nodded, certain he could feel her body trembling.
“Very good. Now close your right eye.”
She obeyed, and the pistol appeared to shift to the left, moving away from the tree branch she had aimed for. She blinked in surprise.
“Now open both eyes.”
She complied, and the pistol moved back into its original position.
“Now close your left eye.”
She closed the eye, and the pistol stayed in its place, maintaining her desired target. She turned her head, smiling.
Oxley stepped to the side and smiled back at her. “Now you know which eye to close when you take aim. The second method presents you with a choice. You must decide which is more important to you: your safety or your accuracy. If you wish to do Munroe a harm—and I would be the last person to blame you for such a desire—you have a better chance of doing so by gripping the pistol with a second hand. It is not common in duels—it is frowned upon by many—but it will give you a much better chance of hitting Munroe. To do so, you must face your body forward, offering him a wider target.” He surveyed her. “Thankfully for you, you are not much wider head-on than in profile.”
“I am not overly concerned with hitting Munroe”—she smiled wryly—“I cannot think that there is much chance of that, even if I did wish it.” She bit the inside of her lip. “Do you think ill of me for it?”
Oxley’s brows came together, and he shook his head. “Not at all. I have great respect for you.” He put a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye. “I would not act as second for you if I did not, Ruth.”
She swallowed and managed a smile. He respected her. There was that, at least. But how much would he respect her if he knew the truth about her?
“Now show me your stance.”
She took in a breath and turned her body, letting the pistol hang at her side.
“Raise it.”
She obeyed, leveling it at the same oak tree, her left eye shut. Oxley came over, putting a hand on her arm. “It is better to bend the elbow slightly, while keeping your wrist tight and steady.”
She laughed nervously. “And if I am shaking like a blancmange?”
Oxley smiled. “Then you are at least honest about it. Only the most hardened of men—or a liar—would conduct an affair of honor without such nerves.” He looked at her legs. Could he see them trembling? “You mustn’t bend your knees at all, for that is expressly forbidden in the code.”
She straightened, trying to keep in mind all of the things he had told her, then let out a frustrated breath. “And I have a mere second to ensure that my knees are straight, elbow bent, wrist locked, eye shut—” She blew an explosive breath through her lips.
Oxley let out a chuckle. “You will do just fine, especially after we practice more. Munroe has chosen a distance of ten paces, and Archer and I agreed that you will both fire on command. We will have a physician on hand to attend to any injuries. The physician is a personal friend of mine, and I assure you that he is very competent, should the need arise.”
Ruth nodded. “Thank you.” She didn’t know which frightened her more—the thought of requiring a physician or the thought of being past a physician’s help.
“Another thing before you fire any more shots.” Oxley took the pistol from her. “I will be the one loading it, and I think you shan’t have any issues, but in the event that it doesn’t fire straight away, keep it pointed at Munroe anyway. If the powder is damp, it can lead to a delay, and I have heard of men blowing off their own faces when they’ve attempted to inspect the reason for that delay.”
Ruth’s eyebrows flew up. “You fascinate me.”
He gave a commiserating grimace. “Rest assured, I will not load the pistol with anything but dry powder.”
“I trust you.” And she did.
Oxley put a hand on her shoulder and smiled bracingly. “Now, let us practice.”
An hour later, Ruth and Oxley were back on their horses, riding toward Town, and Ruth couldn’t help looking around the world through different eyes. How had she never taken the time to appreciate th
e bird song that filled the woods? The rhythm of horse hooves on soft grass? The cracking twigs that punctuated the beats? She might never experience this again—an afternoon on horseback. She might never see her family again. She swallowed painfully and blinked rapidly, hoping Oxley didn’t notice.
Oxley. She might never see him again.
“I suppose there is a bright side to this affair,” she said, trying to pull herself out of such thoughts.
He looked a question at her.
“If I die tomorrow, you shall be two hundred pounds richer.” Her brows knit. “Perhaps that is only fair, for I have hardly any doubt that your suit with Miss Devenish is bound for success, and I suspect it has little to do with me.”
Oxley’s half-smile appeared. “Stop speaking nonsense, little fool. The two hundred pounds would go to Franks, of course. But that will not be necessary.” His voice was stern as he said it, and Ruth didn’t know whether he said it for his own benefit or for hers. “I admit that, at the time, it was satisfying to hear you put Munroe in his place. But I find a part of me wishing that you would have forgone the opportunity.”
“And proven myself a coward?”
Oxley glanced at her. “Perhaps the sentiment does me little credit, but I find I would prefer keeping a treasured friend alive, coward though he may be, to losing him in the name of bravery.”
Ruth’s eyes stung, and she busied herself with rearranging the reins. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
She said nothing. If she had truly cowered before Munroe, Oxley would have lost his respect for her, sure as anything. And that she couldn’t have borne. She would never have his love, but she wouldn’t jeopardize what she did have: his good opinion.
“I feel responsible,” Oxley said softly.
Ruth’s head whipped around. “Responsible?”
He shrugged. “You would not have ignited Munroe’s wrath had you not approached Miss Devenish in the Park that afternoon. And you did that for me.”
Ruth shook her head. “That was not your fault. It was my own silly notion. Besides,” she said, feigning resignation, “I am afraid it was only a matter of time before someone challenged me to a duel. It is my intimidating presence, you know. It threatens gentlemen.”
Oxley laughed, and seeing his mood lighten lifted her own spirits.
When they came to Brook Street, though, things took on a serious tone again.
“Would you like company this evening?” Oxley asked.
Ruth met his gaze, unsure. She had no desire to spend the rest of the evening contemplating the uncertainty of her future. She would go mad, left to herself. And she had no desire to tell Topher what was afoot. He would certainly do something foolish, and her family needed him too much for that. Topher wasn’t destined to live a hand-to-mouth existence. He would find a way to bring their family out of their current circumstances. He had always been enterprising.
Ruth wanted to spend the evening with someone who knew what she faced—and who could distract her from it like only Oxley could.
She nodded. “I would like that.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was something fantastically bittersweet about the evening Ruth passed with Lord Oxley in his drawing room. It felt like a bit of stolen time—an evening painful in its perfection. And as Ruth searched her feelings, she found that, more than the prospect of death or injury, she was haunted by her dishonesty. More than once, she nearly confessed everything. What was it about Oxley that pleaded with her to reveal all—that wished so desperately to know he respected her when he knew the full truth?
But his belief in her courage was also what bound her tongue. If this was to be her last night on God’s green earth, she couldn’t bear for it to be full of Oxley’s disappointment or disdain. God forgive her if that was cowardly.
“You will present yourself here tomorrow afternoon for the next lesson, Ruth. I demand it. Physical touch, is it not?”
Ruth managed a smile and nodded. Perhaps it was better that she die. A lesson instructing Oxley on such a topic would be a special form of torture.
“Get some sleep, panda,” Oxley said, mussing Ruth’s hair. “My carriage will be waiting outside your lodgings at five.”
Ruth doubted she would shut her eyes all night, but she bid him as cheerful a goodbye as she could muster then made her way through Grosvenor Square and on toward Upper Brook Street.
Topher wasn’t home—he had spent the past two nights with Rowney, returning when Ruth was already fast asleep, as Lucy had informed her. He was hurting, and she worried for him. But she knew her twin well enough to know that only time would bring him out of such a mood.
Lucy assisted Ruth out of her clothing, falling into a companionable silence once Ruth’s short, quiet responses made it clear that she was not in the mood for chatter. When Lucy left, Ruth stood in her shift and bare feet for a few minutes, eyes glazed over. There was only one lit candle in the room, but it reflected in the standing mirror beside the bed.
Ruth had been avoiding the mirror nights and mornings—the only time she wore female garments. But tonight, she glanced at her reflection and stepped toward it, forcing herself to take in the odd picture she presented.
She put a hand to her head and choked back a sudden, unexpected sob. She missed her hair—a bygone connection to her femininity. For two weeks, she had forced herself to act the part of a man, and she had done so well that she could hardly remember what it felt like to be a woman. Tomorrow, she might well die a man. And if she did, the truth would be revealed.
At least she wouldn’t be alive to witness Oxley’s disappointment in her.
She turned away and reached under her bed, pulling the portmanteau toward her and opening the clasps and the lid. Her dresses were neatly folded within, and she pulled one out.
She might well die the death of a man in the morning, but tonight, she wanted to be herself again. As much as she could be, at least. Just for a moment, she wanted to be the woman who, in another life, might have danced with Oxley rather than learned how to hold a pistol from him; who might have accepted a glass of lemonade from his hand instead of brandy; who might have used what she knew about love to win his heart rather than helping him win the heart of Miss Devenish.
She couldn’t lace the back of the dress herself, and seeing the way the sides jutted out from her body rather than hugging her like they should have, she had to swallow down her self-pitying pain. It hardly mattered. Even with the dress worn properly, she wouldn’t look the way she wished to.
“Ruth?” Topher’s voice came through the door, and she hurriedly dashed away a tear and pulled the dress down around her ankles, tossing it onto the portmanteau on the side of her bed where it would be hidden from view. She tied her wrapper around her waist and rushed to the door, taking in a deep breath to steady herself before opening it.
“You’re still awake,” he said, stepping in uninvited. His breath smelled of spirits, and his brow was furrowed, as it had been every time she had seen him since his conversation with Miss Devenish. She wondered if it would be permanent.
“Yes,” she said. “I was at Oxley’s.”
He trained his gaze on her for a moment, and she breathed her relief when he turned away without commenting. He hadn’t said anything about her feelings for Oxley since their argument a few days ago, and for that, she was grateful. It was not a subject she felt able to converse upon without giving into mortifying emotion. Especially not tonight.
He sat on the edge of her bed. “I was thinking we might go find a doll for Joanna tomorrow, and perhaps a few trinkets for the others.”
Ruth swallowed and managed a smile. “What a happy idea.”
Topher glanced at her. “What is it?”
She raised her brows, trying to look like she didn’t know what he meant. “What do you mean?”
“I know you, Ruth. Something is wrong.”
She shook her head. “Just tired. I am having a hard time keeping up th
e pace being a gentleman requires.”
Topher laughed weakly and rose from the bed, nudging her with an elbow. “Isn’t as easy as I make it look, is it?” He sighed, his somberness returning. “Well, I am off to bed. We can go to some shops after breakfast.”
Ruth followed him to the door with a chuckle. “So, one o’clock, then?”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s how you survive life as a gentleman, Ruthie. Lying abed late. It’s the only way.”
Ruth had been correct when she had suspected she would find it hard to sleep, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. It wasn’t until two that she gave up and slid out from under the bedcovers. She needed to write Topher a note in the event that she…
She exhaled and sat down, putting quill to paper in an attempt to express everything to her twin. She tried to keep most of it practical—advice for how to continue the column and ensure the family was cared for.
It wasn’t a forgone conclusion that she would die, of course, but it was easy to forget that. She had to act under the assumption that these might be her last hours. Even if she didn’t die immediately, she had heard of plenty of dueling injuries that proved fatal after the fact. She would rather it be immediate.
When she had finished the letter and sealed it, she sat for another moment, staring at the few blank sheets of foolscap in the drawer beside her. She could write a few more columns for The Marsbrooke Weekly—ensure a bit of money for the family—and she should certainly write to her mother. She winced in pain at the thought of leaving her mother behind.
Topher would care for her. He would rise to the occasion.
She dressed as quietly as she could, knowing that Topher slept far too soundly to stir at anything less than a gunshot. Lucy had always assisted her into her clothing, but Ruth managed to do a decent job of it on her own. She wouldn’t look her best for the duel, but that hardly mattered.
The first of the servants were just beginning to stir when Ruth stepped quietly through the front door, cringing at the way the door clicked into place. Her stomach growled and rumbled strangely, confused by the disruption in the natural rhythm of her habits.