“I’ve also asked for the coach to be readied,” Cassandra explained. “Four footmen are to join you, just in case Mr. Anderson cannot be convinced.”
“You’re a treasure, Cassie. I couldn’t have asked for a better duchess.”
“I only want what we all want—Mr. Anderson’s safe return.” Her gaze dropped to his collar, a collar still damp with her tears. “People are waiting on you, depending on you.”
Is thatallyou want? His unasked question lodged in his throat. “Will you come with me?”
“No.” She shook her head. “My presence could only confuse Anderson.”
“I hate that I must do this. I hate that I must leave you.”
“This will be hard, I know.” Briefly—too briefly—she touched hisshoulder.
For a time, he would become his father. To do so, however, would mean more than just donning old clothes. To be convincing, he would also have to adopt an air he’d never been able to master. An air that, since he’d embraced his softer side, had since become abhorrent to him.
Perhaps it was better she was not there when he did so. “You said you’d be here when I returned,” he reminded. “Does that promise stand?”
She nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “Take care.”
“I will,” he assured.
She made her way back to her bedchamber and gently closed the door behind her.
“Well,” he turned to Marsden. “Do your worst.”
Piece by piece, he donned his father’s clothes. When Marsden had finished, Harbury looked into the mirror, and an altogether different man gazed back.
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the wig’s warmth, the grayish curls brushing across his shoulder blades, the brocade jacket’s weight, the silk breeches’ slide across his thighs encouraged a sense of noble authority, a license to do as he pleased.
But doing only as he pleased, without consideration of how his actions affected others, was not how he wanted to live.
Harshly wielded power worked by invoking fear. His father had known exactly how to manipulate that sword. He, on the other hand, would have to approximate.
A leader strove to better conditions for all, but fear didn’t bring out the best in people. Not like patience, inquiry, and mutually assured commitment.
Secure in the knowledge who he was on the inside could not be changed by how he was dressed, he faced his unfamiliar, distasteful reflection without shrinking. What he was about to do was not aresurrection, but a kindness. A kindness his father would never have been capable of performing.
A kindness Harbury might not have been willing to perform, had he not been made wiser by the pain of one love lost and the miracle of another, truer love found.
A love that, when this was over, he desperately hoped he could save.
He kept that hope burning in his heart as he applied himself to his mission. A short while later, he followed Lady Pennington’s carriage to the church. The ladies went inside first, and the footmen positioned themselves, two outside of the front entrance, two in the back. When Mrs. Townsend gave the signal, Harbury strode into the church with a lifted gaze.
He spotted Anderson, who was standing at the base of his father’s monument, clutching the flint and powder to his chest. The Rector, Miss Clapham and Lady Pennington were each speaking to him in turn.
“No,” Anderson said to Lady Pennington. “I won’t go with you.”
Harbury approached, staring down his nose. He kept his expression haughty, his eyes cold. Lady Pennington turned.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsey and then took a step backwards.
“Clapham, you are excused,” he said to the rector. “As are the rest of you.”
Anderson immediately rose to his feet.
“Not you. Nor the”—he added a touch of disgust—“lady.”
Moving closer to her father, Lady Pennington nodded. The rest of the room cleared.
