by Martha Keyes
He should have known. He had been paying the Swan for his time. That was certainly not friendship—and never could be.
Scenes from the past two weeks flitted through his mind: meeting the Swan, Ruth helping him dress for church, dining together in Brook Street, accusing Ruth of trying to steal Miss Devenish’s affections, helping him prepare for the duel.
And all the while, Ruth had been a woman. A woman who might have died that morning, and who now lay abed, wounded. Why would she do such a thing? Why would she do any of it?
Philip let out a breath of frustration. Doctor Shepherd would have done everything proper in caring for the wound, but Philip couldn’t help the misgiving he felt. His father had died from just such a seemingly innocuous injury, acquired on an ill-fated hunting trip. All had been well—until suddenly it was not.
Philip didn’t want to feel concern for Miss Hawthorn—he didn’t even know her, for heaven’s sake. What insanity had urged her to take on such a disguise? And to continue it when faced with the challenge of Mr. Munroe?
Philip’s hand shot to his coat, patting at a small bulge near his chest. Her glasses sat inside. Philip had picked them up from the floor of the chaise after a large bump had knocked them off.
He pulled them out and looked at them. Hideous things they were. It had been bad enough when Philip had his first glance at the Swan, to see the man wearing silver-rimmed glasses, of all things—as if he were seventy years old rather than twenty. And then when Philip had returned days later, they had been replaced by the most conspicuous, thick-rimmed pair imaginable.
His jaw tightened at the mixed emotions the memory brought back, and he let his head fall back. His conscience urged him to go back inside, but his pride balked. How would he feel if something were to happen to Miss Hawthorn? If her wound turned putrid? She had deceived him—and grossly—but did that absolve him of the responsibility he had felt for her situation?
He didn’t know what to feel anymore. He wanted answers yet wanted nothing to do with this sudden stranger.
Had it all been an act? Just how much of Ruth was there in Miss Hawthorn? Endless questions peppered his thoughts, and he clenched the glasses in his hand.
He let out a growl and turned back toward the house, walking up the stairs and pulling the bell.
The maid he had seen upstairs opened the door and welcomed him inside with brows pulled slightly upward. “Let me just inform Mr. Franks of your arrival.”
“Yes, please inform Mr. Hawthorn,” he said pointedly.
She dipped her head and curtsied, avoiding his eye, then disappeared through the entry hall and up the stairs.
Philip looked around his uncle’s entry hall, feeling a wave of humiliation and annoyance. He had offered up his uncle’s home for Mr. and Miss Hawthorn—welcomed them into the home of his flesh and blood—and they had taken advantage of his kindness.
Well, he would hear their story and give them the direction of the doctor, but he would not allow them to trespass upon his kindness anymore.
The maid returned and led him up the stairs and into Miss Hawthorn’s room. “Still asleep,” she said in a hushed voice. She looked toward the bed with a soft expression then left the room.
Mr. Hawthorn looked up from his place in the chair at his sister’s side. He still wore his nightshirt, and his expression darkened upon seeing Philip. “What do you want?”
“I came to bring these.” Philip pulled the spectacles from his coat and walked with careful footsteps to place them on the bedside table on the side opposite Hawthorn.
He set the glasses down gently and took in a breath before allowing his eyes to move to the bed.
There she was. The Swan. The woman. And she did look like a woman, despite her cropped hair. Her head was turned away from him on the pillow, her bare neck stretched in elegant lines, the skin soft, white, and unmarred by stubble or the harsh knob that characterized the neck of a man. Her right hand rested beside her head, dried blood on it from where she had clasped at her side after her injury.
Something stirred within Philip. Guilt, perhaps. And an annoying desire to protect her.
It was ridiculous.
“I will sit with her while you change,” he said stonily.
Hawthorn’s eyes narrowed. “If you mean to browbeat her, you can leave.”
“I shan’t do that,” Philip said, walking around the bed toward the chair. How he was to browbeat someone who lay asleep, he didn’t know. “Go on.”
Hawthorn looked at his sister for a moment then up at Philip, suspicion in his eyes. “Very well.” He rose and strode to the door, pausing to send a final frowning glance at Philip before he left the room.
Philip took his seat in the chair and let out a large breath. He looked around the room, through the window behind, anywhere but at Miss Hawthorn. But his curiosity was building, and he finally allowed his eyes to travel to her again.
He could finally see her face, and his breathing stilled. How had he ever thought her a man?
Well, no. That wasn’t quite fair. One didn’t go about questioning whether a man was actually a man.
But it was true that there was little of the masculine about Miss Hawthorn. No longer masked by thick, horn frames, her dark lashes rested at the tips of her eyelids, nearly brushing the top of her cheekbones for how long they were. Her lips were slightly parted in her relaxed, slumbering state, and, while one arm curled up beside her head, the other lay across her abdomen, pulling down at the sheet that covered her chest.
He averted his gaze. She was certainly a woman.
But his eyes roved back to her, needing to make sense of things. The hand that rested beside her face curled delicately, and his eyes followed the soft curve of her wrist, up to her elbow to where her shirtsleeves had been rolled. He had never seen her arms before, and they were certainly not the wiry or muscular forearms of a man. Her cheeks weren’t flushed—a good sign—and they were clearly the cheeks of a woman. Ruth’s jokes about the time saved not having to shave had been true enough.
Philip’s hand stole to his own jaw. It prickled under his fingers, unshaven since yesterday morning. Though he had lain awake all night, he hadn’t managed to shave before the duel. He knew an impulse to feel Miss Hawthorn’s skin, to see whether it was as soft as it looked.
He sat back in the chair. She had agreed to a duel, this delicate woman before him. It was unfathomable. How many women would do such a thing? Would endanger their lives in such a way? Alice would have fainted clean away at the mere sight of a cocked pistol. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single woman he knew who would have done what Miss Hawthorn had done that morning, and the thought elicited a begrudging admiration for her—whoever she was.
It was nearly an hour before Mr. Hawthorn returned to the room, clean-shaven and dressed in impeccably neat clothing, and his arrival took Philip by surprise. He hadn’t moved from the chair the entire hour, his mind and emotions hard at work, trying to make sense of the muddle of things he thought and felt—to land somewhere.
Philip rose from the chair to cede his place to Hawthorn.
But Hawthorn stopped shy of the bed, staring at his sister with a frown. “Who in the world would duel my sister?”
Philip thought on the scene at the ball—the way Ruth—he clenched his eyes shut—Miss Hawthorn had faced Munroe fearlessly.
“It was Munroe who challenged her.”
Hawthorn’s head reared back. “Challenged someone almost young enough to be his child? Why in the devil would Ruth agree to it?”
Philip had the same question. “I thought you might be able to answer that. You certainly know her better than I.”
Hawthorn looked at Ruth, a reluctant and fond smile touching his lips. “She probably didn’t wish to disappoint you. Silly chit.”
Philip’s eyebrows pulled together, and Hawthorn looked at him. “She cares for your good opinion.”
Philip scoffed lightly, though the words affected him more than he cared to admit. She
cared for his good opinion? Not enough to be honest with him, evidently.
Hawthorn shook his head. “And she didn’t say a word to me. I’ll throttle her when she wakes.”
“You will have to fight me for that honor,” Philip said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ruth turned her head away from the bright light, vaguely aware of muffled voices which suddenly quieted. She shifted and winced, pain throbbing at her side.
“Ruthie.” Topher’s voice sounded nearby, and she tried to open her eyes, finding her lids strangely heavy.
She put a hand to her side and moaned lightly.
“Don’t touch it,” Topher said. “You were shot, you silly fool.”
She blinked again, more forcefully this time, wisps of elusive memory traveling through her thoughts: Oxley’s hand helping her grip a pistol. Walking ten paces as light traveled up the morning sky. A swan. A deafening shot.
Her eyes flew open. Topher’s blurry face looked down into hers and behind him—she blinked—Oxley.
Her heart thumped wildly, and she put a hand to her face. No glasses. She needed her glasses.
“Glasses.” Her voice croaked from misuse, and she cleared her throat.
“You don’t need your glasses, Ruth.”
She caught sight of them on the table beside the bed and made to reach for them. Topher took her hand and placed it back beside her.
“He knows, Ruth.”
Her vision was clearing, and as she looked at Oxley, she could see it in his face—in the wary, hard look in his eyes. He did know.
A great silence stretched on as she held Oxley’s gaze, until Topher’s voice cut through. “I think I will give you two some time to talk.” He rose from his chair and turned to Oxley, staring at him and saying nothing.
“You needn’t worry,” Oxley said with a hint of an annoyed smile.
Topher nodded and left the room.
Ruth tried to breathe evenly, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet Oxley’s gaze now. The game was up, and he held her future in his hands.
She knew the silliest desire to ask for a mirror—to have a moment to see to her appearance. This was the first time he was seeing her as a woman, and she could only imagine what she looked like.
But it didn’t matter. Why would it? As if looking more feminine might lessen his anger.
More silence filled the room, heavy and thick. It felt wrong, lying down. It made her feel helpless and weak. She needed to sit.
She attempted to push herself up, but pain stabbed her side.
Strong hands wrapped around her arms and pulled her up.
“Thank you,” she said, allowing herself a quick glance up into his face.
He stepped away from the bed. “How do you feel?” His words were kind enough, but his jaw was set tightly.
“Alive, I suppose? And very…heavy.”
“That would be the laudanum Doctor Shepherd gave you.”
His mention of the doctor brought back more memories.
“How long have I been…?”
“A few hours,” he said.
She nodded. “What happened to Mr. Munroe?”
Oxley smiled slightly, but there was a strained quality to it that made her anxious. “Nothing.”
She frowned. “You mean I missed entirely?”
Oxley gave a wry smile. “Only by a mile or so. But Munroe didn’t do much better.”
She flinched as she shifted again. “My side begs to differ.”
“Yes, I cannot imagine it feels pleasant, but the bullet merely grazed you. You will make a full recovery.”
She sent him an annoyed glance. “Merely, did it?”
He chuckled, but his expression soon grew more somber again.
She could only delay the inevitable for so long. “You are angry.”
He fixed his gaze on her, and there was no softness in his expression. “I cannot deny it.” His jaw shifted from side to side. “Why?”
She swallowed, feeling emotion rise in her throat. Did laudanum have such an effect? “Will you sit down?”
His brows drew even further together.
“It is just that, I feel a bit intimidated with you standing there, so tall and angry and uninjured.”
He pursed his lips together and took a seat.
She clasped her hands in her lap and exhaled. “I never meant to deceive you. Truly. It was a series of unforeseeable mishaps that led to it.” She glanced at him, and he was watching her, his eyes skeptical and stern, as if to tell her he had no intention of believing a word she said. She couldn’t blame him.
“I know you have every reason to disbelieve me, and I will not fault you for doing so, but I wish to explain, and I promise to be honest with you now.”
“That would be appreciated.” His voice was clipped, and she felt the censure in his words and tone. She should always have been honest with him.
“I am the Swan and always have been. I write the column for our local newspaper, and Topher delivers it. I never gave anyone to believe I was a man, but it is what people assumed, and I didn’t correct them. When we received your letter, requesting a consultation, I wanted to refuse. We had never done such a thing, and it felt…wrong.” She felt her cheeks warm and averted her eyes. It wasn’t easy to be honest about their circumstances or their behavior. “But we needed the money. It hasn’t been easy since my father’s death, and I couldn’t subject my younger siblings to hardship when there was another option. So Topher and I decided to come to Town together—I would instruct him on things so that he could meet with you for that short consultation. But…”
She paused a moment.
“But what?”
“But you asked to move the meeting forward a day. And Topher was nowhere to be found. I thought he would return by the time the meeting was set to occur, but he didn’t. We couldn’t wait for your return—we hadn’t the money to afford another week in Town. I was furious with him for ruining everything, for putting frivolity above the well-being of our family. And that is when the idea formed in my mind.”
She stared ahead, remembering those moments with such perfect clarity that the room in Upper Brook Street nearly disappeared, and Oxley along with it. “I had cut my hair to afford the journey to London, and my siblings had teased me for looking like a boy. They have always teased me that I was meant to be one, for my parents convinced themselves they were having two boys when it was discovered late into her pregnancy that my mother was expecting twins. So when I saw the extra clothes sitting in my brother’s portmanteau, I thought I would see—just see whether they fit me, whether I really did look like a boy. And I did.”
She forced herself to meet Oxley’s eyes—to thrust away the embarrassment of confessing her lack of femininity; to admit her ludicrous decision to this man whose opinion she valued so dearly. “I couldn’t let Topher’s idiocy undo all of our work, and I decided I could manage one simple hour as the Swan that people expected—as a man. And then…” She lifted her shoulders and sighed.
“And then I asked you to keep helping me. And I made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.” Oxley was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His hands were lightly clasped, one thumb rubbing the other pensively.
She nodded slowly. “I should have refused despite that, of course. I know that now. I knew it then, I think. But I couldn’t.” She didn’t say the next words that came to her. That it hadn’t just been the money. That there had been something about Oxley himself that made it impossible for her to refuse.
She wouldn’t lie to him, but she couldn’t tell him the entire truth. She had wounds enough without the pain of that type of rejection.
He was staring at her. She could feel it. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, my lord.” She couldn’t help herself. She reached for his hand, which he retracted slightly. She pulled her arm back and clasped her hands tightly in front her, cheeks flaming. “But I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you or anger you. Indeed, I wanted to help you.” She looked at
the room around her, with its fine furnishings and freshly papered walls. The four-poster bed she lay in was finer than anything she had slept in, even at Dunburn.
And she, in her brother’s blood-stained shirtsleeves, her face bare of glasses, and her head shorn of hair—she felt exposed and out of place. “We will pack our belongings.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Philip found himself hanging between two responses, both equally unpalatable. He hadn’t been able to see how any explanation could suffice to justify the charade played by the Hawthorns. He hadn’t been able to imagine feeling anything but anger and disgust at the excuses offered.
He had been wrong.
And every time he looked at Miss Hawthorn, his anger evaporated a little more.
She clearly expected no response at all from him, though. She was trying to reach for the bell pull but gave up quickly, wincing. She looked to him, apology written on her face. “Might you reach it for me, my lord?”
He rose and walked around the bed, frowning slightly at her form of address. If she had called him “Oxley,” he might have been tempted to put her in her place—to remind her that she was essentially a stranger to him. But she had shifted the way she addressed him of her own accord.
“Certainly,” he said. “You shouldn’t strain yourself, you know. What do you have need of? I will see that it is brought to you.”
“To have my maid gather my things.”
He stopped, hand on the bell cord. “What, today? Right now?”
“Yes.” She winced again and pulled the bedcovers away from herself, looking down at the place of her injury. She still wore the shirtsleeves of a man, but they were unbuttoned at the throat. She put a hand to the injury then pulled it away, inspecting her fingers with a wrinkled brow.
“What is it?” Philip moved toward her.
She pulled the covers back up to cover her side. “It is fine. Not cause for concern.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, taking a seat beside her. “Let me see.”
She hesitated a moment, watching him as if deciding whether to obey, then pulled the covers away, revealing a section of shirt that was brown with dried blood. The center was dark and wet. He reached for her hand and turned it palm up. Her fingertips were tinged with crimson.