Page 64 of Rogue Lyon

The duke flapped his hand in the air. “Oh, I don’t really know. Something about being alone with her on a private terrace. His daughter is claiming that Mr. Habsburg swore undying love to her and promised to ask for her hand…which he hasn’t done.”

“But… But that’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

“Yes…he told me. He told me that nothing like that happened.”

“He’s a slick talker.” The duke buttoned his jacket. “Always has been.” He reached for the door handle. “But it might be the last time his tongue gets him into hot water.”

“But…where is this duel? And when?”

“The gossip on the grapevine is that it’s at Green Park tomorrow at dawn.”

“Oh, dear Lord!” She pressed her hand to her chest.

“Are you quite all right?” the duke asked. “Should I get you something… Someone?”

“Yes… Yes… I am quite well. I just hate violence, any of it, and a duel, pistols… Someone could die.”

“That is the point, I’m afraid. A death settles the argument once and for all.”

He left and Meredith downed her wine. How could this be happening?

Jules.

Her Jules.

He could be dead by midday tomorrow.

And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

Or was there?

The next morning, before the sun came up, Meredith and Nancy sneaked from the Lyon’s Den. It was Sunday and no one would notice their absence for a few hours.

Green Park was a short walk from The Mall and as she and Nancy strode arm in arm up Constitution Hill, Meredith felt her stomach coiling tighter and tighter.

“It will end well. I am sure of it,” Nancy said, squeezing her hand. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Meredith appreciated her friend’s kind words, but they were hollow. She couldn’t possibly know how this would end. No one could.

The morning was misty, and the birds were unseen but noisy overhead in the branches of the ancient lime trees.

A knocker-up walked past with the bamboo pole he used for tapping on windows. There was little trade for him on a Sunday, but still he walked the quiet London streets.

Horse whinnies in the distance guided their way across the grass, each of them holding their shawls tight with one hand and their hems away from the dew with the other.

“Do you think we are too late?” Nancy asked.

“I haven’t heard any gunshots.” Meredith couldn’t suppress a shudder.

“That is true.”

A squirrel darted in front of them, a flash of orange, and then raced up a nearby tree.

“Perhaps they will be stopped by the government,” Meredith said.

“We can hope. I hear the Duke of Marlborough is an exceptional shot.”