Tattleton meant what he said—he would hold on tight to his belief in the powers of Lady Hightower. What else was there to hold on to?
Chapter Seventeen
Roland was inhis dressing gown and dining in his bedchamber to escape a dinner with his mother. So far, he’d managed to dodge her for two days running and she’d not even seen that he’d progressed from one black eye to two.
He’d taken to slipping in via the servants’ entrance and while it appeared to frighten the kitchen maids, the dowager had not yet figured it out.
“I’d even be willing,” his valet said, “to emigrate to America. I hear it’s a rough place, but we could be some of those pioneer settlers. You know, those people who wander out to the wilderness and pick a spot and build something. Who knows—one of these days the Americans might even set up their own notions of nobility and you’d have a leg up there. You could explain how it’s done.”
Roland had been listening to his valet posit various wild ideas for the past half hour, all centered on one thought—Roland should not turn up for the three duels on the morrow.
“I see,” he said. “So we will wander round the wilderness, then build something in a likely spot. Then what? You will venture into the forest and club some sort of animal for dinner? Then you will bring it back to whatever Godforsaken thing we hammered together and the dowager will cook it?”
“Well, when you put it like that, it don’t sound so attractive,” Markson said. “What about saying you was suddenly taken with the consumption and we was sending you to the country to die?”
Roland glanced down at his well-muscled chest and said, “I’m hardly in advanced stages, am I?”
“You could say the dowager is on her death bed.”
“And then lock her up in the house so nobody notices her out and about and making calls while she’s supposed to be in the final throes?”
“All I’m sayin’ is, your chances of surviving three duels is zero. Let’s say the first duel is fifty-fifty and you come out of it. Now you’re down to fifty and you survive the next and there you are at twenty-five. Then here comes the third and you’re down to zero.”
“Your grasp of maths is tenuous indeed.”
“You understand my point, though.”
Roland sighed. “I do. The difficulty is, you do not understandmypoint. A gentleman cannot run away from a duel of honor. Not to America, not from consumption, not for a dying mother, not for any reason. It just cannot be done. The rest of my life would be no life at all.”
“I knew there was a downside to bein’ a lord, and now here it is.”
Roland could not argue with that, at least. Honor was everything and without it a lord was a titled buffoon, a shame upon his name. He would never consider it.
Markson sighed. “Very well. I’ll not trouble you further on it then. I’ll turn my efforts toward getting you prepared. Your green coat—it’s not your best, but it’s got a bit of room in the shoulders, so you’re not constrained when you go to fire. You got to be well-rested, too. I’ll send up a brandy with a drop of laudanum in it.”
Roland nodded. It was not a bad idea—otherwise he should not sleep a wink.
For all his talk of honor and his wish to defend Lady Viola’s honor, he was not an idiot. Coming out of three duels unscathed would take a miracle.
*
Now that Violahad made her decision, the dawn could not arrive soon enough. It was bold, what she planned to do, but she could not risk Lord Baderston dying on a green on her behalf. Whatever thetonchose to comment on, and they certainly would have plenty to say about an elopement, she did not care.
Though she would wish to have retired directly after dinner, she dared not stir up any suspicion. It was to be a family night in, mostly because nobody had anywhere to go. Her father was not at all downcast over it, as Miss Mayton was preparing to read more fromThe Harrowing Homecoming at Harrowbridge Hall.
They had gathered in the drawing room directly after dinner, as the earl and Darden brought their glasses of port in with them rather than tarry at table.
“Now,” Miss Mayton said, “as we know, the poor gentle governess has had her thoughts all awhirl. Both of the would-be dukes are exceedingly handsome, but she knows one of them is a scoundrel and impostor. Unfortunately, she does not know which one. The two dukes have had a rousing competition between them to see who could do things the way a duke would do them. You will recall the exciting moment when they demonstrated who could fire the butler in the most duke-like fashion. This has given our gentle governess no clarity and, unfortunately, the butler is now convinced he is fired and keeps trying to pack and leave. Thank heavens his eyesight is so bad he has not been able to find his luggage.”
“I worry for our gentle governess,” the earl said, “I really do.”
“She will be all right, Papa,” Juliet said, “they always are.”
“We shall see,” Miss Mayton said. “One never knows if the romances in these sorts of books will end happily. So far they all have, but we never know. All right, here we go, onto chapter three.”
“Well?” Duke One said, leering at the gentle governess.
“Yes, well?” Duke Two said, crossing his arms and staring at the gentle governess.
