Page 98 of A November to Remember

He looked down at the boot in his hand, the alcohol, the exhaustion, and the absurdity of the situation finally catching up with him. His eyes rolled back in his head, his gouty knee buckling beneath his weight.

Robert moved swiftly, closing the distance in one stride, catching the heavy man before he could hit the ground. He braced his legs, taking Pembroke’s weight on his shoulder, holding the man upright.

“Hold him,” he instructed the coachman. The coachman scrambled down and took his master’s arm.

Robert stepped back, staring at the slumping man. Pembroke’s anger had drained away, leaving only the humiliating reality of his public cuckoldry.

“Pembroke.” Robert kept his voice low. “Look at me.”

Pembroke cracked one bloodshot eye open, his chest heaving.

“I will not insult your intelligence by pretending you are wrong.” He delivered the truth with brutal honesty. “I climbed down your trellis. I drank your wine. I engaged in the behaviour of a scoundrel. But the affair is over. It was over before I hit the ground in your garden.”

Pembroke let out a ragged breath, holding to the boot for dear life.

“I shall never return to Lady Pembroke’s orbit,” Robert continued, his tone gentle. “You have my word on the matter. I apologise sincerely for the insult to your house. But look at me, my friend.”

Pembroke raised his head, meeting Robert’s steady gaze.

“I am a symptom, Pembroke.” He offered the words acknowledging the open secret of the Pembroke marriage. “I am not the disease, and you know it.”

The fight drained out of the older man. He knew the truth and he knew his wife’s temperament. He knew Robert was merely the latest in a long line of distractions.

“You are a scoundrel, Keathley.” Pembroke’s voice was a harsh, defeated whisper.

“I know.”

Pembroke straightened up. “If I hear your name in connection with my wife again, I will not ride through the night. I will send a lawyer. Those are worse.”

“Considerably worse.” Robert bowed his head respectfully. “You have my word, Pembroke.”

“And I do not have a second. Nor do I have a pistol.”

Pembroke extended his hand, offering the boot to Robert with the solemnity of a defeated general surrendering his sword.

Robert took the boot, tucking it neatly under his arm. “Drive safely, my lord. The roads to London are treacherous in the frost.”

The coachman grabbed his master by the arm and hauled him into the carriage. The door slammed shut. The coachman scrambled back to his seat, cracked his whip over the horses, and the vehicle lurched forward.

The sound of Lord Pembroke’s carriage wheels faded down the Netherfield drive, taking the immediate threat with it.

Jane Bennet stood on the frosted gravel, the wind whipping her blue silk skirts around her ankles. She was breathing rather quickly for a woman universally celebrated for her placid serenity. Then again, serenity was a difficult state to maintain when one had just volunteered to act as the sixth second in an affair of honour that had ultimately been resolved by the surrender of a bespoke riding boot.

An unnatural silence descended.

Jane turned her head. Mrs Bennet and Mrs Philips were hugging each other, speechless for the first time in their combined one hundred and four years. They had just witnessed a nobleman publicly admit to climbing out of a married woman’s boudoir window and through a trellis. The collision of a scandalous viscountcy with the terror of physical peril had taken a toll on Mrs Bennet’s faculties. Her mouth hung open, but no sound emerged.

Mr Bennet, still holding his glass of port, was mildly disappointed that no shot was fired.

Jane turned her attention to the man standing in front of her. Viscount Keathley was holding the recovered boot under his arm casually, as though it were a fine walking stick. His cravat was slightly askew, his confidence dismantled by the brute force of his own honesty. He had not hidden, nor had he deflected. Instead, he had taken the full weight of his consequences to ensure no one else suffered for them.

Jane approached him.

The row of gentlemen—her father, Mr Darcy, the colonel, and Boodles—parted to let her through. The viscount stared at her. For a man who usually commanded a room effortlessly, he appeared like a boy waiting for a reprimand.

“Lord Keathley,” Jane said, her voice ringing clear in the crisp night air.

He swallowed hard. “Miss Bennet.”