It Takes Two to Tangle (23 page)

Smoke rose like a faint morning mist, and a flutter of applause signaled that the seconds considered the duel at an end. The surgeon would not be needed; nor would the seconds' pistols.

Henry tramped the forty paces to Wadsworth and stood at his side. “That was not a bad shot,” he said. “We ought to be within a few inches of one another. Unfortunate for the tree, but I'm sure it'll survive this morning's work.”

The viscount gaped, quick breaths hitching his chest. “How…”

“If you are satisfied this morning, I am,” Henry added calmly.

“You… your arm…” Wadsworth reached for Henry's coat sleeve, then drew his hand back as if singed.

“You see, Wadsworth, that I can defend myself. I always will. But I would much rather sleep in of a morning than come back to Chalk Farm. Wouldn't you?”

The man looked at the gun in his own hand, then in Henry's. His cool eyes narrowed, and his mouth twitched. “Indeed.”

With a curt nod, Henry walked away. He heard grass rustling a few seconds later and knew Wadsworth was trailing a few yards behind him.

His ears were open to every sound—the high buzzing call of a starling, the crackle of a breeze blowing the drying green leaves of late summer. The sky was the color of mosaic gold and ruby-clear realgar.

The air smelled faintly of powder, but the scent did not tighten his chest, pull him back in talons to the Bossu Wood. It was just a smell. Less pleasant than, say, vanilla. More pleasant than the filthy streets of Whitechapel. It was… fine.

But the world was more than that. It was
fine
. Not in the sense of acceptable. In the sense of excellent. It was a
fine
morning.

He met Jem under the tree he and Wadsworth had shot. Poor tree. It had performed a good service.

Jem poked his forefinger into a hole in the bark. “Not three inches between your bullets,” he said in a wondering voice.

Henry handed him the pistol. “Thank you for being my second, Jem. It means more to me than I can ever tell you.”

“You could try to tell me a few things,” Jem said. “For one, how did you make that shot? Was it luck?”

“No.”

Jem darted a sideways glance at him. “How'd you do it, Hal? I was sure you'd be killed.”

Henry couldn't blame his brother for his lack of confidence. He'd never told Jem the truth, though it was simple. “I may not have known how to write or paint with my left hand when I came back to London, but I knew how to shoot with it.”

Jem was still staring at him, agog, as if Henry had asked him for help trimming a bonnet.

Henry grinned. “There's no call to practice art or penmanship during war, but a man never knows when he'll be in a tight corner and will need to fire well with both hands. I simply practiced. I practiced a long time ago.”

He patted Jem on the shoulder, prodding him into a march toward Carlson and the waiting pistol case. Jem's blue eyes were narrowed for once, not wide, and he seemed to be searching Henry's countenance in the brightening dawn.

“Well done, Hal,” he said. “Well done. If you had to have a duel, this was the way to do it. I oughtn't to say I'm proud of you, of course. Not for dueling.”

“Of course.”

Jem sighed. “Oh, Hal. It was hell, wasn't it? The war, I mean. I hated seeing you with a gun in your hand this morning, but you must have had one in your hand every morning for years. I just didn't see it happen. I didn't realize what it meant.”

“It's all right, Jem.”

“No, it's not.” Jem shook his head, squinting into the distance. “If I'd been a better brother to you, it would never have come to this point.”

Henry put his hand on his brother's arm, stopped him. “Jem. It was never your fault I had a gun in my hand.”

Jem twisted away, shaking his head. Henry tried again. “Jem. Listen to me. I know you think you control the world, but you don't.”

Jem's eyes flew wide and startled. He stared at Henry. Uncertain.

And then he laughed.

Shakily at first, then strong enough to bring a smile to Henry's face and allow him to continue. “None of it was ever your fault, Jem. I did what I thought best, and you were the best brother imaginable for letting me go against your will. You could have prevented me, you know. You're wealthy and influential. Instead, you let me make my own way.”

It had taken Henry a while, but he'd finally done it. The whole of his experience as a soldier could not, should not, be reduced to one day, one arm, one failure. For three years, he had done his best to be a good soldier, a good leader. He'd tried all his life to be a good man.

Quatre Bras had been a disaster. But he would not allow anyone to blame him for it again. He had already blamed himself enough.

It was done.

He chuckled, the sound surprising him. “I suppose that's worth an arm, after all.”

“What will you do now?” Jem asked. “Are you going to leave London for Winter Cottage?”

“I don't know,” Henry said.

That was fact: he
didn't
know. He had finished one battle this morning. He'd conquered many demons. Hell, he'd even reassured his brother, who had never been in need of reassurance in Henry's memory.

But he'd left carnage behind him last night—a brutal fight with Frances—and he did not know if the wounds they'd inflicted could be healed.

For now, though, the sun was up, and the air was sweet in his lungs.

For now, it was enough.

Henry came home to a stack of letters higher than his fist.

Sowerberry handed over the sheaf of correspondence with a sniff, telling Henry the notes had been piling up since dawn.

Henry had not realized the City awoke so early, but London was a gossipy village that just happened to have hundreds of thousands of inhabitants. There were invitations to breakfasts, Sowerberry said. Calls. Boxing, fencing, riding, hunting. All manner of manly sports.

It seemed it took a duel—one of the worst trespasses against mannerly society—to bring Henry back fully into its fold.

There was no letter on heavy paper sealed with red wax, though. Henry shuffled the notes twice to check.

Well. Why should there be?

Next to Henry, Jem yawned. “Anything for breakfast yet, Sowerberry? I could do with a pot of tea. No, chocolate.”

“My lord, her ladyship has requested that you attend her at once upon your return.”

Almost before the butler could finish his sentence, Emily pounded down the stairs and threw herself into her husband's arms. “Jemmy, Jemmy, thank God you're safe.”

Her auburn hair was tumbled down her back, and she was engulfed from neck to ankles in a quilted dressing gown of Jem's. It was frayed at the hem, and there were damp spots on one sleeve that looked like stains from tears hastily wiped away.

She looked frightful. Henry had never seen her so… undone.

Poor Emily, waiting at home this morning. Hoping for the return of both brothers, fearing only one might come back, or none.

Poor
Emily
. It was probably the first time in the decade he'd known her that Henry had thought that phrase. It was certainly the first time he'd seen her look frightful.

Jem patted his wife's back with a tentative hand. “Now, now, Em. We're fine. Everybody's just fine.”

“I was sure you would both be shot.” She took a deep breath, straightened, and smoothed Jem's coat where her embrace had wrinkled the fabric. “You haven't killed Wadsworth, have you?”

“Nobody got killed this morning. Except possibly a tree,” Henry said.

“Good.” Emily took a deep breath, nodding. “That's good.”

Then she spun to face Henry, glaring. Once, twice, she struck him hard in the chest. “You
idiot.
You damned, foolish, stupid, careless—”

Jem's head snapped back. “I say, Em. Such language.”

“—ballroom-leaving, card-cheating, paintbrush-dropping
idiot
.” The invective poured out of her in one breath. She struck Henry again before pulling him into a hug that crushed the breath from his body.

“I'm glad to see you too, Emily,” Henry said with the scrap of air left to him.

She sniffled as she pulled away, her eyes red. “I was so worried, Hal. I didn't want to say anything to the boys last night. I just prayed you'd both be home safe this morning.” She folded her arms tight across her chest and shrugged. “So, now I can get angry in peace. But I suppose you might as well have some breakfast while I yell at you.”

“That hardly sounds conducive to digestion,” Henry said with a smile. It didn't bother him at all. Not the hitting, not the cursing, not the threats of more yelling. He understood the hidden meaning there. It all meant
I
love
you
, as surely as Jem had when he had begged Henry not to duel.

Every time they called him Hal, they told him so.
I
love
you
.

How could he repay the constancy of his family? He'd tried to make amends to Jem this morning, but how could he make amends to Emily?

He'd start with an apology. Henry caught her on one shoulder as they filed in to breakfast, his fingers snarling, clumsy, in her tangled hair. “I'm sorry, Emily. The waiting must have been awful.”

She looked up at him, blinking with a force that belied the dryness of her eyes. “It was. But I'm sure you didn't have the best morning of your life, either.”

“I don't know.” Henry considered. “I might have, at that.” Emily narrowed her eyes, and he shrugged. “Hit me again if you need to. I'm sure I deserve it.”

“You do. But I'll save it till you've got a few kippers in you.”

Her hands whisked down the length of her borrowed dressing gown, and a look of chagrin crossed her face. “I suppose I ought to get dressed first. The food's ready, though. I had it laid out not half an hour ago.”

“You look lovely, Em,” Jem said. He kissed his wife on the nose, then moved to the sideboard and began lifting dish covers. “Even wearing my dressing gown. You're the loveliest thing I've seen all day, and I've already been up for a couple of hours.”

Emily laughed shakily. “Since you've only seen a passel of men, Jemmy, that's not much of a compliment.”

“Sure it is.” Jem began serving eggs onto a plate. “I saw Hal duel and not get himself killed. That's something.”

Behind Jem's back, Henry's eyes found Emily's. She offered him a watery smile as Jem talked on, heedless of the compliment he'd just paid both his wife and brother.

“Gad, you can't believe how he can shoot. Em, it was amazing. He just waited, cool as any of Gunter's ices, then took his shot. Deloped, really. Hal, I don't think Wadsworth will ever be the same. Nor the tree, for that matter.”

He chuckled, turning with his filled plate. “Oh. But I'm not proud of you. Not for dueling.”

“Of course not,” Henry and Emily said in unison.
Proud
, Jem kept saying. It didn't matter that it was prefaced with the word “not.” Henry could tell what he meant. Jem never was good at hiding his feelings, even behind disclaiming words.

This type of pride was very different from the precarious feeling that had hacked at Henry's peace of mind since he returned to London. There was
pride
, and there was
proud
of
. He'd had a bitter surfeit of the former. The latter was sweet, much more to his taste.

Jem seated himself, but before he could draw in his chair, Emily perched on his lap. Jem's light eyes flew wide open. “I say, Em. Ah… are you all right?”

She laid her head on her husband's shoulder. “Not yet,” she said, tugging at his lapels. “But I will be. Now tell me everything that happened. And if you leave anything out, I'll rub bacon grease all over your coat.”

Jem needed no further encouragement to begin, forking up eggs with his right hand as his left held his wife tight. After a few seconds, Henry began to feel distinctly superfluous.

It wasn't that he was embarrassed watching Jem and Emily cuddle and talk; it was comforting to know that a husband and wife could still care for each other so much after ten years of marriage. No, it was more as though his part was over. He'd played it this morning at Chalk Farm. For an encore, he'd allowed Emily to batter him, and he'd given her an apology.

And now there was nothing to do but leave the stage. Perhaps he
had
better go to Winter Cottage. There would be no shame in it now. It might even be peaceful.

But regret twanged through him. All the letters that had poured in this morning, just because Henry had acted like a damned fool—or maybe like a man who'd come to his senses after long insanity. It was a small comfort to know that he could move easily through polite society again.

Only a small comfort, though. The letter he most wanted he had not received. And the woman who might have written it didn't exist.

No sense in filling a plate with unwanted food, listening to Jem hash over the morning. Henry had little appetite for any of it.

He started to move toward the door of the dining room, but Emily called him back.

“Wait, Hal.” She patted at the bulky dressing gown, finding a pocket and pulling forth a folded square of paper.

As she held it out, Henry's fingers began to tingle. He felt more shaky and uncertain than he had when waiting for Wadsworth to take his shot.

“This came by runner this morning, just like all the other letters. It arrived about a quarter hour after you left.” Her mouth curved, her smile knowing but tired. “I set it aside. This one's special.”

Henry reached across the burnished wood table and took the square. There was no seal on the wax; it was just a heavy blob of red.

He knew who it was from, though. He knew from the feel of the paper, the heft of the letter in his hand. Even before he cracked the seal, he knew.

What it said, though, he could not imagine.

Only
one
way
to
find
out.
“Excuse me,” he said, and hurried up to his bedchamber as if carrying a forbidden treasure.

The letter was thick, several sheets folded together. Page after page of Caro's heavy paper. Line after line in Frances's hand. She'd falsified its form, he realized, when she showed him her handwriting during their writing lesson. She'd hidden her true self, but here it was.

He took a deep breath and found a chair. None of this sitting on the ground nonsense.

And he read his letter.