“Gone where?”
“You tell me!” Freddy exploded. “Don’t you have her pocketed somewhere?”
“I haven’t seen your sister since we parted ways and she shattered a priceless Oriental vase to honor the occasion.”
That gave Freddy pause. “So that’s what happened to the Ming! She told Mother it was the dog.” He frowned. “So she didn’t send the brat to you, then follow behind?”
Darien shook his head. “She gave the child to a foundling hospital. Is she really fit for traveling so soon? Perhaps your parents sent her away.”
“Mum’s up in the boughs,” Freddy reported. “No note, nothing.”
Darien turned to the second man inspecting the pistols, a set custom-crafted by Wogdon, the craftsman known for making beautiful instruments of death. “Hullo, Havering. You look the worse for wear.”
“Heard your news at Boodle’s,” Havering said. “Felicitations.”
“Thank you,” Darien replied.
Havering turned to his challenger. “See here, Freddy. If your sister’s flown the coop, there’s really no call to blow Daring’s brains out, is there?”
Freddy’s scowl deepened. “Felicitations for what?”
“Parson’s mousetrap.” Havering pointed. “Charley’s bluestocking sister.”
In the gray light, the rage that spread across Freddy’s face was a dull brick red. “You’ll marry his sister but not mine? I’ll have your blood, Daring!” He roared and lunged for the pistols.
Fog skimmed the field as the men counted their paces. James, holding both teams in the narrow rut of the road, soothed the horses against the coming noise. The surgeon shook his head and retreated, his face showing what he thought of waiting for two perfectly healthy men to damage each other when so many ill people required his treatment. At least he stood to make ten times his customary fee.
Charley and Havering stood back, the viscount’s son shoulder to shoulder with the tradesman’s son, the accidental baronet. The duelists turned to face one another, two spare sons of the nobility who had been bred to no career, no vocation, no purpose in life but entertainment.
Darien had considered, in the small reaches of the night, what it would mean to his father if he lost his third son. Rathbone would become heir presumptive, and Rathbone was a man Darien couldn’t like, no gentleman in any sense of the term.
A year ago—even a few months ago—the degenerate Lord Daring would have been relieved to punctuate his life with a bullet in the chest over a woman. He had been pursuing his own destruction, letting practiced hoydens like Celeste seduce him to their beds and canny innocents like Forsythia Pennyroyal drape themselves around his neck.
But now, though the morning seeped with fog and the early stink of this bustling city, his head was clear. He had, at thebottom of his cloudy darkness, glimpsed a pure light that pierced his gloom, a woman whose good sense and energy and spirit sliced through his self-pity and despair.
There was a child who, his get or not, he had promised to support. He had no notion what a future with Henrietta might look like, but he wanted to reach for it with both hands.
Havering dropped the handkerchief. Darien lifted his right arm and shot to the side, firing into the ground. The noise thudded through the clearing, the echo dampened by fog. The horses shook their heads and stamped.
“Damn you, Daring!” Freddy bellowed, aiming at his chest. “I want satisfaction.”
“Then take your shot,” Darien said. “I ruined your sister. I made it impossible that any decent man would have her, not even Havering. Whatever her other failings, I am responsible for Celeste’s child.” He dropped his arm, the spent pistol dangling from his hand. Honor demanded he stand his ground and let his challenger take aim. “Get it over with, Freddy.”
Freddy’s arm wavered as several expressions chased across his young face. Then, hissing a curse, he swung the barrel of his pistol and pulled the trigger at the same time.
Darien flinched. Every man on the field saw his body recoil, smelled the report, and heard the odd, particular sound of a lead bullet tearing through fabric and flesh. A hammer hit him in the chest. Even from twenty paces, Darien saw the whites of Freddy’s astonished eyes.
“Ye plugged ’im!” James shrieked.
“Damn you all!” Freddy howled. “I meant to miss!” He threw the gun aside and started forward.
Darien’s hand went cold and numb. His pistol thudded to the ground, and he thought hazily it would get dirt in the inlay or damage from the damp. Together, he and Freddy stared at his chest, the spatter of bright red across his crisp white neckcloth,the dark stain spreading across his exquisite plum coat. The polish on his buttons would never be the same. The thought came from somewhere outside him, as if his spirit had already unhooked from his body.
Freddy moved in slow motion toward him, his voice coming from underwater. “Devil take it, Daring, you’rebleeding,” he stammered. Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and the duke’s son collapsed on the ground.
Havering saw to his man. Darien dropped to his knees, the cold damp seeping through his leather breeches. A dull pain started pulsing in his shoulder and chest. He wondered that it didn’t hurt more—death, that is. Darkness crept around the edges of his vision.
He’d imagined it so many times, tormenting himself in the depths of night, when another faceless woman lay in his bed and his chest ached and his heart raced over the sound of his shallow breath. Horace had not suffered, Nell had said; he’d been dead before he’d reached the bottom of the stair. Lucretius’s decline was slow and agonized, the fever racking him for days. He’d never know how Lucien died, swift and honorable and merciful, or tortured and slow and deranged by pain.
