Chapter Two
April 1820
“You have a visitor, my lord.”
Damien Beecham, Viscount Quint, did not bother looking up at his new butler, his attention instead focused on the rows of letters in front of him. He had to get this idea down. Now—before it was too late. “Pass on the usual response, Turner.”
The butler cleared his throat. “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but the name is Taylor.”
Quint grimaced. He could hardly be faulted for forgetting the lad’s name, could he? Taylor had only been on the job for a few days. Or was this further proof of Quint’s worst fear becoming a reality?
Nearly three months since the shooting. Three months and he was no better. Oh, the wound had closed, the fever abated, yet everything else that followed had only worsened.
He exhaled and dipped his pen in the ink pot. The invocation he’d adopted these past weeks went through his head:
Remain occupied. Engage your mind while you can. Prepare for the worst.
He looked back down at his cipher. “Apologies, Taylor. No visitors. Ever. Until further notice, I am not receiving callers.”
“She said your lordship might say no, and if so, I was to tell you her name—the Lady Sophia Barnes. I was also to mention she planned on coming in whether your lordship allowed it or not.”
Quint felt himself frown. Sophie, here? Why? Displeasure was quickly replaced by an uncomfortable weight on his chest. He could not face anyone, most especially
her
. “No. Definitely not. Tell her—”
Before he finished his sentence, Sophie charged into the room. Smothering a curse, Quint threw down his pen, came to his feet, and snatched his topcoat off the chair back. He pulled on the garment as he bowed. “Lady Sophia.”
He’d known her for years—five and three-quarters, to be precise—and each time he saw her, he experienced a jolt of heady awareness. There’d never been a more remarkably remarkable woman. She had short honey-brown hair that gleamed with hints of gold in the lamplight. Tall for a female, she had long, lean limbs that moved with purpose, with confidence. Her nose and upper cheeks were dusted with freckles that shifted when she laughed—which was often. People fell under the spell of that laugh, himself included.
“Lord Quint, thank you for seeing me.” Holding her bonnet, she bobbed a curtsy in an attempt to give the impression of a proper young lady. No one who knew this particular daughter of a marquess would ever believe it, however. She and Julia Seaton, the Duchess of Colton, were close friends, and the two of them had landed in one absurd scrape after another over the years. Last he’d heard, the two had required rescuing from a gaming hell after a brawl erupted.
“As if I’d had a choice,” he said dryly.
She laughed, not offended in the least, and Quint noticed Taylor, mouth agape, hovering near the threshold, eyes trained on Sophie. Good God. Not that Quint hadn’t experienced the same reaction in Sophie’s presence a time or two. “That’ll be all, Taylor. Leave the door ajar, will you?”
The butler nodded and retreated, cracking the heavy door for propriety. Ridiculous, really, when the entire visit was already deuced improper. “I hope you at least brought a maid, Sophie.”
“Of course I did. She’s in the entryway, likely planning to flirt with that baby you call a butler.” Her lips twisted into a familiar impish half-smile. Once, she had given him that smile, leaned into him, and parted her lips . . . right before he’d kissed her.
The memory nearly distracted him from the fact that he didn’t want anyone in the house. Bad enough he had to keep the staff. “I am not receiving callers,” he told her. “And this is not going to help your reputation.”
She waved her hand. “No one worries over a spinster nearing thirty years of age. Now, shall we sit?”
He happened to know she was only twenty-seven, but no use quibbling with her. He glanced about. Books, papers, and various mechanical parts littered every surface. Not to mention there were the three heavy medical volumes on his desk—all on mental deficiencies. With rapid flicks of his wrist, he closed each one and moved the stack to the floor behind his desk. He then came around and cleared a chair for Sophie.
“Thank you.” She lowered gracefully into the seat and arranged herself, bonnet in her lap. “I apologize for barging in. Your butler did try to turn me away, but I haven’t been able to locate you elsewhere. You’ve become something of a recluse.”
Better to be a recluse than take a trip to an asylum. He sat in his desk chair and said, “I have been occupied.”
A tawny eyebrow rose. “So occupied you missed the opening lecture at the Royal Society last Tuesday?”
“I had a conflict,” he offered, lamely.
“A conflict? With what? You’ve never missed one of the opening lectures before. Not in recent memory, at least.”
He tried not to react, though he wanted to grit his teeth. “I did not realize my schedule was your concern.”
She sighed. “Oh, dear. I’ve upset you already—and I haven’t even arrived at the purpose of my visit.”
“Meaning that learning the purpose will only upset me further?”
“Yes, I daresay you shall not approve, but I’ve nowhere else to turn.”
“Why do I feel a pressing need to close the door before you speak?”
She shot to her feet, so Quint started to rise as well. “No,” she said, “please, stay seated. I think more clearly when I am standing.”
Reluctantly, Quint lowered. He had no idea what she wanted, but with Sophie it could be nearly anything.
Whatever her troubles, Quint did not care. Could not care. A healthy distance between himself and others must be maintained, especially with anyone who’d known him before the accident. Therefore, he’d hear her out and then show her to the door.
He waited as she traveled the study floor, slapping her bonnet against her thigh. Nervous, clearly. Her dress was both expensive and flattering, yet her boots were worn. No jewels. A practical woman underneath the trappings of a lady.
Interesting.
And he hated that he still found her interesting, even after she’d so thoroughly rebuffed him more than three years ago.
“What in God’s name is
that?
” She pointed to an abandoned teacup on the desk.
He shot up and grabbed the forgotten porcelain container, which held a greenish-brown gelatinous mixture comprised of various herbs and spices. It looked every bit as terrible as it had tasted. He set the cup inside his desk drawer.
“Why are you here, Sophie?”
She folded her arms over her chest, a motion that called attention to her small, enticing breasts. He forced his eyes away as she spoke. “I would normally approach Colton or Lord Winchester with this request, but as you know, they are both unavailable. You are the only person I can ask.”
“Your flattery overwhelms, madam.”
She stopped and pinned him with a hard stare. “I did not mean to offend you, as you well know. Stop being obdurate.”
“Fine. I readily acknowledge I am to serve as the last resort. Pray, get it out, Sophie.”
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “I need you to serve as my second.”
Lord Quint never sputtered. He did not fluster or ever forget himself. Logical, reasonable, and maddeningly unflappable, she knew the viscount could be counted on to keep a level head. It was one of the things Sophie liked best about him.
So when his jaw dropped, she braced herself.
“Your
second?
” Quint’s brows flattened. “You need me to serve as your second? For a
duel?
As in, ten paces in a field at dawn?”
“Yes. Precisely that.”
“And with whom in the name of Heracles would you be dueling?”
She nibbled her lip. What were the chances she could avoid explaining it before he agreed? “Does it matter?”
He traveled around the bulk of the desk and stopped in front of her. Though she was on the tall side, he was a few inches taller. She liked that he didn’t loom over her. It allowed her to better see his face, and he had an interesting face. Astute brown eyes with golden flecks. A strong, angular jaw. High, sharp cheekbones that set off a nose too masculine to ever be called pretty.
His hair was shaggy, his clothes rumpled and appallingly ill-matched. No, he did not inspire swoons in the ballroom, but perfection had never interested Sophie.
And there was the root of the problem.
The man was intelligent in ways most people couldn’t even comprehend. They thought him odd. Unsocial. Aloof. He never danced or paid afternoon calls. But those opinions, if he even paused to hear them, didn’t affect him as far as Sophie could tell. He exuded confidence, unshakable beliefs that were based on well-researched facts. His ability to recall the smallest detail he’d read fifteen years ago fascinated her.
Quint folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, it very much matters. And it’s not as if you can hide the other party’s identity, if I’m to serve as your second—unless you plan to blindfold me. But all of that is irrelevant as I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to go through with a duel.”
Without a cravat, the strong column of his throat shifted and rippled as he talked, and she was reminded that she’d once had the opportunity to experience the power in his lithe frame. Had once shivered as he’d clutched her so tight she could hardly breathe.
But that was long ago, years now, all before he’d fallen in love with someone else. A lump formed in her throat, regret nearly choking her, but she forced it down. “And I cannot see how you can possibly prevent it. I do not need your approval.”
Cocking his head, he studied her with shrewd scrutiny. “What happens if I say no?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I shall muddle through somehow.”
“If you do, your reputation will suffer.”
“My reputation has already suffered—which is why I have accepted the challenge. To
repair
it.”
He huffed a seemingly exasperated laugh. “That is ridiculous.”
“Oh, because I’m a woman I cannot have honor?”
“I never said that. Women can duel if they so choose, as far as I’m concerned. Stupidity is not ascribed to gender. What’s ridiculous is thinking no one will learn of it. Nigh on impossible to keep a duel private these days.”
“Yes, but you won’t tell anyone. Neither will I, for that matter.”
“Your opponent might, as could the surgeon who is taxed with removing a ball from your chest. But it hardly matters because I cannot serve as your second.”
“Cannot—or will not?”
A flush stole over his cheekbones. Was he embarrassed? She’d never, ever seen him blush. “Cannot,” he said. “And you’d better not go through with it.”
Intolerable, high-handed males. Sophie had suffered them her whole life. Between idiotic rules and unrealistic expectations, an English woman’s life was more constricting than stays after a five-course meal. “I must. And will you tell me why?”
“No. Will you tell me why you need to duel?”
She shook her head. “No. I cannot.”
He shifted, coming close enough to send her pulse racing. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, the shadow of tomorrow’s beard on his jaw. Strong, wide shoulders, lean waist. Heat radiated off his body to warm her in all the places ladies never mentioned—places that Sophie happened to like quite a bit. He was such a complicated specimen of brains and brawn, a combination she happened to find particularly appealing.
Not to mention he had full, strong lips that she knew firsthand were quite adept at turning a woman’s insides to jelly. Well, hers, at least.
“Cannot, or will not?” he asked, refocusing her attention.
She hated having her words turned around on her, so she ignored the question altogether and sidled away. “Will you at least teach me how it’s done?” She peered at the stack of books on the floor behind his desk, the ones he’d hidden when she entered. They were all medical journals on . . . diseases of the brain. Every single one. Now why hadn’t he wanted her to see those?
“Dueling? You want to learn how to stand on a field and shoot at another person?”
She glanced up at him. “Yes. I’ve never even fired a pistol before.”
“Firing is not the hard part. Hitting something is the trick.”
“I thought the point of a duel was to miss.”
“Deloping is considered ungentlemanly. Have you not even read the
Code Duello
? The point of a duel is to restore your honor while not getting yourself killed. And to place your bullet where it will do the least damage.”
“See how little I know? You can teach me.”
“No. I cannot involve myself in this. You should merely apologize to whichever lady you’ve slighted and end it.”
“It is impossible to apologize. And why can you not be involved?”
He placed his hands on his hips. “Many reasons. Six, to be precise. Would you like them in alphabetic order or order of importance?”
She sighed. This was going badly. She had no one else to ask, no one with a chance of keeping her secret. And she and Quint were friends . . . of a sort. Based on their previous history, she’d thought he’d agree. That he would, at the very least, want to protect her. What could she do to convince him?
“Fine. I shall ask someone else.”
He quirked an eyebrow, his expression too knowing, drat him. “And whom shall you enlist in this tutelage?”
She rapidly searched her brain for a name, for any bits of gossip she’d overheard. “Lord MacLean has been rumored in a number of duels. He must know the way of it.”
“And he’s a rake. Burned through the entire lot of Edinburgh innocents and had to come to London just to ravish more. Your reputation would never survive it.”
“That hardly signifies.” In more ways than one. “I merely want the ins and outs of the thing. And if you will not show me, I will find someone who can.”