The words split the silence like a thunderbolt heralding a storm. The old man went pale, lips curling in rage. Who, exactly, had the scoundrel just confessed to debauching? A guttural shout tore from his throat.
“Gentlemen,” Weatherby said quickly, “shall we begin? The air’s wet enough to drown a man standing.”
The pistols were loaded. Paces counted. The air was still—too still. Both men turned, faced each other. No one spoke. Then—
Two shots. The echo cracked through the fog and scattered a flock of birds from the trees nearby.
Blackmeer staggered slightly, blood trickling from a grazed ear. But Hawthorne crumpled instantly, clutching his chest, red blooming through his waistcoat like spilled ink. He hit the ground with a strangled gasp.
Weatherby dropped beside him. “My lord—my lord!”
Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His face was white, lips tinged blue. “Admit it…” he rasped, eyes locked on Blackmeer’s. “Admit it, damn you…”
Blackmeer stared down at him, chest rising and falling, the pistol heavy in his hand. “There is nothing to admit. I never touched your wife. Never once.”
Hawthorne’s lips trembled. “Damn you, Blackmeer…”
And then he was gone.
Colville kept silent. His expression was hard as he stared at the dead man’s body. Weatherby sat back on his heels, shaking his head. “My deepest apologies, my lord. He would not listen. He was obstinate.”
Blackmeer’s mouth was tight, no longer smiling. “He died for nothing,” he muttered. “He cursed me with his last breath for something I didn’t do.”
Weatherby glanced up. “He swore they saw you. That a servant saw you.”
“They did,” Blackmeer said. Then, with a bitter little smirk, “I was there. But not for that Lady Hawthorn.”
Weatherby blinked. “Then… who?” But understanding was already dawning.
Blackmeer turned, already walking away, his coat catching in the wind. Colville trailed behind him in silence, disapproval etched across his features. Neither looked back as their figures dissolved into the pale light.
* * *
The hooves of Lord Blackmeer’s stallion thudded dully against the damp gravel of the Serpentine path. It was early—too early for the fashionable crowd—and the morning mist still clung to the grass and water like a mourner’s veil. The scent of wet leaves and faint manure mingled with last night’s excess, which lingered on his coat despite the open air. The cold did nothing to clear his mind.
He’d dueled before—three times, if he remembered correctly—but never like this. Never over something untrue. The others had at least carried some seed of guilt, a flirtation, a tryst, a girl’s virtue bespoiled, a wager taken too far. But yesterday?
A man had died for nothing. And William could still see the moment clearly—the powder flash, the shot, the bloom of red, the old man’s mouth choking on blood, gaspingdamn you, Blackmeerbefore death took him. He shivered, and not from the wind.
The rhythm of a galloping horse broke the silence. From out of the fog rode a figure—dark cloak flying, bonnet tied with care, now askew in her haste. A chestnut mare drew alongside him with practiced ease, and William knew her before she spoke.
Lady Helena Hawthorne. She sat tall in the saddle, cheeks flushed not from exertion but fury, eyes glassy with something far more dangerous than grief.
“Why did you do it?” she snapped, breathless. “Why did you have to kill him? You could have shot him in the leg—or the arm—or anywhere else. But you shot him in the chest!”
William pulled on the reins. His stallion snorted as they slowed.
“Lady Helena …” he said, hoarse. “I—I am…” He faltered. For once, words eluded him.
“You killed my father,” she said, each syllable edged like a blade, “and you implied you compromised me. Now, not even a leper would touch me. I’m ruined. Because of you.” Her voice cracked.
William looked at her then—really looked at her. Not the girl who had once laughed too loudly at his jests, nor the woman who had pressed her body against his in a dark corridor at Court and dared him to take what she offered. But the daughter of the man he had killed. Grieving. Enraged. Tarnished by his name, and broken by his hand.
He straightened in the saddle, mask sliding back into place. “Where is your chaperone, my lady?” he asked coolly. “Alone in Hyde Park—how unseemly.”
Her eyes flared. “Now you care for propriety? Now?”
She closed in, the distance between their horses narrowing, her words level and sharp. “You could have admitted it and been done with it.”
