by Martha Keyes
Oxley’s carriage slowed to a stop just as the Watch cried the hour somewhere down the street, and Ruth climbed in to see a smile, barely visible with the light that seeped in through the window from the chaise lantern. It warmed her.
“Did you sleep?” Oxley asked.
Ruth shook her head.
“Nor I,” he said. “Perhaps after all of this, we shall enjoy a large breakfast and then take a nap.”
“That sounds heavenly,” Ruth said, adding it to the list of plans that would never come to fruition.
Oxley kept up a stream of talk during the ride, and Ruth was grateful for his efforts to distract her. Little did he realize the havoc he had wreaked on Ruth’s life since sending her that initial letter.
Try as she might to throttle it, Ruth couldn’t help feeling a sliver of hope when there was no sign of Munroe’s equipage at Kinham Common. But it was merely two minutes later when the sound of carriage wheels met her ears. Munroe wouldn’t miss his opportunity to teach her a lesson. She had never truly believed he would.
Oxley had said that none but the most hardened of men could engage in an affair of honor without being accosted by nerves, but Munroe must have belonged to that small set of men, for he descended from his carriage and gazed around the scene as he might have upon arrival at a ball.
The sky was just beginning to lighten on the horizon, but directly above them, it stretched like a great, inky blanket, punctuated by fading bits of starlight and the sliver of a moon.
“Over here,” Oxley said, leading them away from the road and toward a stretch of grass large enough to permit the affair of honor.
Another equipage arrived shortly, and a man descended from it, carrying a small leather bag slung across his shoulder. He was much younger than Ruth had expected—perhaps in his mid-thirties—with blond hair and a kindly set to his face.
“Doctor Shepherd,” said Oxley as the man approached them. The two embraced, and Ruth stared at the man who might be tasked with saving her life. Doctor Shepherd’s gaze moved to her, and she attempted a smile, though she was sure it fell short of conveying anything but how bleak she felt at the prospect before her.
What if she didn’t die, though? What if she was merely injured in the duel? Her identity was at stake either way. She sent a prayer to God above that, if she was injured, it would be one that allowed her to remain sentient and in a state where she could at least ensure she wasn’t discovered for what and who she truly was. Death might be preferable to that.
“Come, then. No reason to delay now, is there?” said Munroe, who had removed his coat and was shaking out his shirt sleeves.
With each passing minute, the sky grew lighter, yellows and oranges beginning to streak the horizon and move upward, displacing the dark night.
With Oxley’s help, Ruth removed her coat, which he set neatly on the ground next to the pistol box. He and Archer inspected the pistols together and, finding them satisfactory, loaded them with gunpowder and balls.
Ruth looked away, training her eyes on the little copse of trees nearby. She wished she could disappear into them rather than face what lay before her now.
Someone nudged her. “Look there,” Oxley said, indicating the pond thirty yards away from them. A white swan nestled on the bank of the pond, elegant and serene. “A good omen, surely.”
Ruth quickly blinked away the stinging in her eyes. Was this a good omen? Or was it God’s way of telling her she would be joining her father?
Oxley placed the pistol in her hands, his gaze fixed on her, forcing her own up to meet it. “It is already cocked. A few minutes, and we shall be on our way to breakfast—and then sleep.”
She nodded, and he grasped her shoulder with a bracing smile before moving away. Had she made the wrong decision not to tell him everything last night?
It was too late now. The letter would have to do.
“Oxley,” she said. Whether she lived or died, she needed to do what she could to stave off scandal.
He looked a question at her.
“I would prefer that the doctor see to me at home if it becomes necessary.”
Oxley held his gaze, a slight frown on his brow then nodded. “I will tell him your wishes.”
Before Ruth well knew what was happening, she and Munroe were back to back, his shoulders dwarfing hers before they separated to walk ten paces in opposite directions.
One…two…three…
With each step she took, Ruth tried to run through the instruction she had received from Oxley the day before.
Four…five…six…seven…
Elbow bent, wrist locked, left eye shut.
Eight…nine…ten.
She stopped and took in a deep breath.
“Attend,” said the stony voice of Oxley.
Ruth turned her body sideways, pistol resting against her leg. Her heart beat wildly, and she glanced at the swan a final time.
“Present.”
Ruth raised the heavy pistol, keeping her body turned at an angle and closing her left eye. She met Munroe’s gaze, the smiling sneer on his lips, the glint of malice in his eye.
“Fire!”
She pulled the trigger. A deafening report sounded, and a fire burned below Ruth’s rib. Her hand shot to cover it, and her eyes clenched as she stumbled back and to the ground.
The pain seared her, spreading from her side and enveloping her stomach and chest. Was she dying?
Hands covered hers, and she forced her eyes open, finding Oxley’s face swimming above her. His eyes were as alert as hers were blurry, as if she had switched her glasses back to Topher’s.
Whatever happened now, Ruth couldn’t allow her wounds to be inspected here at the common. She tried to push herself up. “It is nothing. I am well.” Her voice emerged weak and unconvincing.
“Don’t be a fool,” Oxley pushed her back down. “Let me see.”
She shook her head. “No need. There is no need for the doctor, either. I merely need to go home and rest.” If only Oxley would take her home, she could have Topher call for a different doctor—one who could keep her secret.
The doctor’s face swam behind Oxley’s, and Ruth blinked, forcing herself not to submit to whatever force was demanding she shut her eyes and lie back.
She rolled to the side, cringing, and pushed herself up. “See,” she said, not without great effort. “I am perfectly well.” She blinked to right her vision as a speaking glance passed between Oxley and Doctor Shepherd.
“I am duty-bound to see to your injury, Mr. Ruth,” said the doctor.
“Go see to Mr. Munroe first,” she said, jaw clenched tightly.
“Mr. Munroe does not require my assistance.”
“I would prefer to be seen to at home.” Perhaps she could convince Doctor Shepherd to keep her secret. Any inspection of her injury would reveal the tight cravat cloth she had wrapped around her chest. She needed to at least give the impression that her wound was not serious.
Oxley spoke. “If Ruth is not in grave danger, it might be wise for us to leave before anyone alerts the authorities.”
She could have kissed him.
The doctor let out a frustrated breath. “Very well, but if I see much more blood, I will take matters into my own hands.”
Ruth willed her body not to bleed as Oxley and Doctor Shepherd assisted her to the carriage—assistance she tried to refuse without success. She glanced around the common, hoping to see what had come of Munroe, but the action wrenched at her side and she gave up the attempt.
“I shall ride with you,” the doctor said, and he shouted a command at his own chaise driver before climbing in with them.
If Ruth had had anything in her stomach, she would have lost it on the carriage ride to Upper Brook Street. They hadn’t even made it out of Kinham Common when the carriage hit a particularly deep rut, and everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Philip waited in the corridor outside Ruth’s room, walking back and forth across the creaking
floor planks. He tugged gently and distractedly on his lip.
It was still early, and they had only encountered a curious footman upon entering. Philip knew his uncle’s staff well enough to set the servant at his ease and make excuses for Ruth’s condition. He didn’t want word of the duel traveling around town, and he gave strict orders that the other servants be instructed not to intrude unless called upon.
Ruth had regained consciousness momentarily upon their arrival in Upper Brook Street, indicating in mumbled words that he wished to be seen to in private. Philip had been surprised at the hurt he had felt at his friend’s words, but he respected them, all the same.
Doctor Shepherd had watched Ruth carefully but had not seen fit to intervene before they arrived at Philip’s uncle’s house. But seeing the blood seep through Ruth’s dove gray waistcoat had elicited a wave of panic inside Philip, which quickly overtook his initial relief that Munroe had not managed to shoot him in the head or heart. He had known men to succumb to what had appeared to be the most superficial of injuries.
Doctor Shepherd had to save Ruth.
The door finally opened, and Doctor Shepherd slipped out. Philip rushed over to him anxiously, trying to glance inside.
“How is he?”
Shepherd cleared his throat and searched Philip’s eyes for a moment. “Well enough.” He glanced behind him into the room and then shut the door. His brow was furrowed and his lips pursed.
“What? What is it?” Philip didn’t know what to think of the doctor’s behavior, but dismay settled deep in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t be good news.
Shepherd put a hand around Philip’s arm and pulled him down the corridor. “Oxley, how well are you acquainted with Ruth?”
Philip shrugged. “Our friendship is not of long standing, but, despite that, I know him better than I know most men.”
Shepherd grimaced, his gaze flitting to Ruth’s door again.
“What, Shepherd? What is it?” Philip was beginning to feel annoyed. If the doctor had bad news, it made it no less unwelcome to draw it out.
Shepherd’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in closer to Philip. “You are aware, then, that Mr. Ruth is”—he cleared his throat again—“a woman?”
Philip’s brows snapped together, and he pulled back to look at his friend. “This is no time for jokes, Shepherd. Tell me, if you please, whether you expect Ruth to make a full recovery.”
Shepherd said nothing, merely looking at Philip with a grave expression.
Philip blinked. He knew Shepherd well enough to know that the man wasn’t one for silly pranks.
“I don’t understand,” Philip said.
The edges of Doctor Shepherd’s mouth turned down as he kept his gaze trained on him. “Mr. Ruth is a woman.”
Philip swallowed, his eyes racing to the door of Ruth’s room. “No. That cannot be.”
“I am afraid there is no doubt, Oxley. My examination made it quite clear.” He cleared his throat.
Philip’s eyes darted around, seeking and failing to find something reliable, something to make sense of what was happening.
“I have tended to the wound—the bullet grazed her torso but did not lodge itself there—and I have administered laudanum, which should provide her with some beneficial rest. I don’t anticipate any further problems, but you—or whatever servant tends to her—would do well to watch for any signs of fever.”
Her? Philip couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He nodded absently, and after pausing for a moment, Shepherd said, “I would stay but that I am promised to check in on Mr. Smith’s son. He passed the devil of a night last night. Measles. Send for me if she shows any sign of infection.”
Philip stood in the corridor as the doctor’s footsteps faded. He wasn’t certain whether it was seconds or minutes before more footsteps approached and a maid arrived—one unfamiliar to Philip—whose eyes were wide and alert as she approached the door to Ruth’s chamber. She seemed not to notice Philip’s presence.
He knew a sense of annoyance that his orders were being disobeyed, and he hurried over to bar the maid from opening the door.
“I gave an order that no one disturb us,” he said, perhaps with more anger than was warranted.
“I am sorry, my lord,” said the maid, her eyes still on the door. “But when I discovered that”—she hesitated—“Mr. Ruth had been brought in unconscious, I…”
That hesitation told Philip all he needed to know. The maid was already aware. Who didn’t know?
“I think we should wake Mr…Franks,” she said, with the same slight hesitation.
Anger billowed inside Philip. So they were both deceiving people, were they?
“You can abandon the charade,” he said tersely. “I know that Mr. Ruth is a woman. And you might as well wake Mr. Franks…or whatever his name is.”
The maid’s eyes ballooned, but she nodded. “He does not like to be woken before ten, but I think under the circumstances…”
Philip nodded stiffly.
The maid disappeared into a room down the corridor.
Philip stared after her, heart thumping in his chest, hands clenching into fists. He felt…he felt…betrayed. Foolish. Angry.
The maid emerged, and behind her, a disheveled Mr. Franks. Blinking, he glanced around. “Where is she?” he asked hurriedly. “What happened?”
“In her room, sir,” the maid said. “Asleep.”
Franks, still in his nightshirt, pushed the door to Ruth’s room open, ignoring Philip completely.
Philip’s nostrils flared, and he stood his ground for a moment before following.
“What happened?” Franks asked again, kneeling by the bed where Ruth lay, sleeping peacefully. Ruth wore no glasses, and his head—her head—lay slumped to the side.
“A duel,” Philip said, pulling his eyes away. He was too angry to look at Ruth without wanting to rouse her and simultaneously yell at her and pester her with questions.
Franks’ head whipped around. “A duel? What the devil do you mean?”
“What the devil do I mean?” Philip thundered. “What the devil do you mean? The doctor informed me that Mr. Ruth is no mister at all! And I take it your name is not Franks, either.”
Ruth stirred lightly, and Franks’ lips pursed censuringly then opened as if to speak, only to close again. He glanced at Ruth, who had resumed her peaceful slumber, then stood and walked over to Philip.
“Who the devil are you?” Philip said in a voice soft but furious. Franks looked every bit a man, the stubble that had grown overnight lining his jaw and the space between his nose and upper lip. Were they a couple, then? Married, perhaps? But then what on earth was the purpose of Ruth dressing as a man? None of it made any sense at all.
Franks’ lips drew into a thin line. “My name is Christopher Hawthorn. And that”—he nodded toward Ruth—“is my twin sister Ruth.”
Sister. Twin sister? Philip’s gaze flicked toward her, but he shut his eyes, still unable to comprehend, to explore the implications of it all. He wasn’t yet willing to see Ruth in the way demanded of him.
“I will explain it all,” Mr. Hawthorn said. He looked at his sister, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Or perhaps Ruth would rather do it. How is she? Who did this to her? What did the doctor say?”
Something in Philip—the childish part, he assumed—didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to give this man what he wanted. But there was no doubt that the worry in Hawthorn’s eyes was genuine. “She is expected to recover. The bullet only grazed her side. What she needs is rest—and to be watched for signs of fever.”
His eyes moved back to Ruth—to Miss Hawthorn. The girl had fought a duel. She could have died. He felt a bit of his anger slip away, and he turned his gaze from her. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. It was no one’s fault but her own that she had done something so utterly incomprehensible and foolhardy.
Mr. Hawthorn let out a relieved breath. “Will you look after her while I dress?”
Philip’s hands balled
into fists again. Was the man serious? “I cannot think that appropriate, given what I now know.”
Mr. Hawthorn grimaced and put a hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I think we are well past such concerns at this point. Did you not spend the entire evening with her last night? Alone?” He half-smiled, and Philip’s anger bubbled up again. It was all amusing to Mr. Hawthorn, was it?
“Yes, but I certainly would never have done so had I known the truth! I am sorry, Mr. Hawthorn, but you will understand, I am sure, when I tell you that I have little desire to stay here any longer.”
Mr. Hawthorn’s frown turned into a glower. “Fine. Go, then. I thought perhaps you would be good enough to ensure her well-being for a mere five minutes, even if you are angry. But I was obviously mistaken.” He went and opened the door, standing by it in an invitation for Philip to leave.
Philip hesitated a moment, knowing an annoying inclination to stay—a desire to have everything explained to him. But to what end? What explanation could there possibly be to justify such deception? He had been duped, taken in by these siblings, made to look a fool. He had spent the entire night tossing and turning, fretting over the possibility of Ruth’s death, over losing a friend who had become dear to him.
Over a fraud.
He walked through the door, jaw set tightly—too tightly to speak.
Standing on the pavement in front of his uncle’s house, he stared at the pedestrians and carriages that passed where the street intersected with Grosvenor Square. There was no relief outside. Fresh air was not to be had in Upper Brook Street, with dust clouds trailing behind a passing gentleman on horseback and the din of Town all around.
Outside the presence of Mr. Hawthorn, Philip found it harder to hold so tightly to his anger. It seethed and simmered, but it didn’t fully conceal other emotions that were beginning to rear their unwelcome heads: hurt and humiliation.
He had come to value his friendship with Ruth. To discover now that it was all a farce….