When You Wish Upon a Duke (36 page)

“That’s a very noble endeavor, to be sure,” Aunt Sophronia said, patting her lap for the dogs to join her, “and I’ve no doubt that the duke intends only to win. Gentlemen always believe they’re invincible, don’t they? Brave oaths and pistols at dawn, then pop, pop, one man is dead in the grass and the other’s off to France to avoid being charged with murder.
Very
noble indeed, I am sure.”

Charlotte’s fingers spread over her belly, as if she could cover the ears of her unborn child to keep it from hearing that.

“Forgive me, Aunt, but I would rather be more optimistic,” Charlotte said as firmly as she could. “For the sake of my child.”

“Of course, of course,” her aunt said, glancing down
at Charlotte’s waist. “I’ve not seen you since you became
enceinte
. I congratulate you on your efficiency, Duchess.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” Charlotte murmured. “We were blessed.”

“The duke has proved to be quite the virile gentleman, hasn’t he?” Aunt Sophronia laughed and winked, bawdy enough to make Charlotte blush. “Now that he’s filled your belly properly, we can only hope that you carry a boy to secure the dukedom no matter tomorrow’s outcome. I’ll never forget the dreadful trial for your poor mother, those long uncomfortable months in mourning, only to give birth to another daughter and lose your father’s estates entirely.”

Why must her aunt say such dreadful things, thought Charlotte unhappily, as if her father’s early death and her mother’s grief-stricken last pregnancy weren’t already mixed in with her fears for March?

But she must not cry. For March’s sake, she must be strong.

“I don’t intend for the duel to have that sad outcome, Aunt,” Charlotte said. “I mean to have it end before it’s begun, with no one grievously hurt, let alone killed.”

Her aunt made a puffing sound with her lips puckered together. “How would you accomplish such a thing? Surely you must know by now that when gentlemen have determined their course, no mere woman can deter them, no matter how she wishes it.”

“But
I
will, Aunt Sophronia,” Charlotte said, her voice resonating with resolve. “That is why I have come here.”

Her aunt frowned suspiciously. “What manner of mischief is this, niece? Need I remind you of your rank, or that your husband is willing to risk his life to defend your honor?”

“You needn’t, because that is exactly why I must do this,” Charlotte said, and quickly she shared her plan.

Her aunt listened, her head tipped skeptically to one side as she slowly combed her ring-laden fingers through the curling fur of one of her small dogs.

“None of that will be easy, child,” Aunt Sophronia said when Charlotte was done. “You are counting on a great many things falling exactly your way to make such a plan succeed, and there is still much room for disaster.”

“I know all of that, Aunt,” said Charlotte, and again she felt her eyes well perilously with tears. “But I cannot sit back and be idle, not when March’s life is at risk.”

“Fah, at risk from his own male foolishness, you mean to say.” Aunt Sophronia raised her head and thrust out her chin, her nostrils flaring, and all Charlotte could think of was how March called her the dowager dragon. “Truly, it is not to be borne. But then, you are a Wylder, and it’s not in your constitution to be idle in such a circumstance.”

“Will you help me, Aunt?” Charlotte asked. She came as close to pleading as she dared; she’d no other recourse if her aunt refused. “Please?”

“Of course I shall help you,” Aunt Sophronia declared. “We have all gone through a great deal of trouble to secure His Grace as your husband, and I will not see him wriggle free to the hereafter without a fight.”

“How can you tell me Her Grace is gone?” March glared at the line of servants before him: coach driver, housekeeper, butler, footmen, grooms, parlor maids, Giroux, and Charlotte’s maid, Polly. “She is the Duchess of Marchbourne. She cannot simply vanish into nothingness.”

“Forgive me, sir, but it’s as we said before,” the driver said, beads of sweat thick in his eyebrows. “We carried Her Grace to Lady Sanborn’s house in St. James’s, an’ she told us t’ leave her there, that she’d stay the night,
an’ return tomorrow in her ladyship’s coach. I saw her go inside myself, sir, wit’ my own eyes.”

“Then why the devil did Lady Sanborn tell me that she hadn’t seen Her Grace at all?” March demanded. “Where could she have gone?”

Not one of them answered, their eyes staring straight before them.

A mystery like this was the last thing he needed tonight. His various errands had taken much longer than he’d expected, and when he’d returned home he’d found that Charlotte had vanished, with no message or clues. He had gone to her aunt’s house but learned nothing from the dragon. He had then tried every house where Charlotte had an acquaintance, and received only pitying denials. Then he’d come back to Marchbourne House in the hope that she’d returned, but there was still no sign of her.

He was worried beyond measure, and desperate beyond reason. It wasn’t that he feared she’d met with foul play, though he couldn’t entirely put that grim thought from his head.

No, what he feared most was Charlotte herself. He remembered how distraught and angry she’d been before he’d left, and how she’d told him she meant to fight for him. He’d discounted those last words, blaming them on her distress and her pregnancy. Now he knew he shouldn’t have.

This wasn’t an ordinary woman. This was Charlotte.

He was certain she was off busily hatching some sort of plot to stop the duel. He had appalling visions of her appealing to the king himself to beg for his interference, or worse, to Andover to change his mind. He could even imagine her appearing through the morning mists brandishing pistols of her own like a pirate maid. The only thing he knew for sure was that if Charlotte did not
wish to be found this night, she wouldn’t be, and nothing he could do would change that.

He retreated to the drawing room, determined to wait there until she returned.
If
she returned. Instead of the fine supper (he refused to call it his last) he’d planned to share with her, he ate in his armchair, alone before the fire. To keep himself busy, he cleaned the matched pair of dueling pistols, then cleaned them again, refusing to trust this task to a servant. Then he carefully replaced them in their fitted case, ready for the morning. As the hours passed on that same ormolu clock, he remained where he was, unable to bear the thought of his bed without Charlotte in it beside him.

At last he must have fallen asleep, because Giroux was gently touching his shoulder to wake him.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “It’s time to rise.”

It didn’t seem like morning. The drawing room was dark except for the candlestick in Giroux’s hand, the windows darker still. With a start he remembered his appointment at dawn beneath the oak trees, and he was instantly awake.

“Did Her Grace return?” he asked. “Is she home?”

Giroux shook his head. “No, sir,” he said sadly. “Her Grace is not at home.”

He missed her more than he’d dreamed possible. He loved her more than any man should love a woman.

But most of all, he could not bear to consider that he might die this morning without kissing her again.

“Are you certain this is the place, ma’am?” Aunt Sophronia’s footman spoke cautiously through the carriage window, not unlatching the door until Charlotte spoke. “This place, ma’am?”

“Of course she is certain, Pratt,” Aunt Sophronia said, leaning toward the window. “She is a duchess, while you are a cowardly ninny.”

“Aye, my lady,” Pratt said patiently. “It’s just that it’s a terribly dark and lonesome place to put a lady like Her Grace down.”

“But that’s exactly why we’re here, Pratt,” Charlotte said. “Duels aren’t held on the Horse Guards Parade, for all the world to see. They’re supposed to be secret. Now will you please open the door so I can climb down?”

Contritely Pratt did, and Charlotte clambered down into the grass. It
was
dark, with the sky still full of stars. The quarter moon was setting, low in the sky, and the slightest gray of the coming dawn showed on the horizon. Against this she could make out the darker silhouettes of her landmarks, the old twin oak trees with their branches widespread and sprawling, and nothing else around them except open fields and scrub.

“It’s just as well that it’s dark, Charlotte,” Aunt Sophronia
said. “No one would ever mistake you for a duchess dressed like that.”

“That’s my purpose, Aunt,” Charlotte said, “as you know perfectly well. I don’t want anyone knowing who I am.”

She settled her hat more securely on her head. She’d needed to dress for practicality, not elegance, and she was thankful she hadn’t tossed away her old boy’s clothes from Ransom, as she’d been ordered to do. She wore her fisherman’s jersey, which still smelled faintly of the sea, and her most comfortable, broken-in boots. To her despair, she’d been unable to fit into her old breeches and had had to borrow a pair in a larger size from the servants’ laundry. She’d braided her hair tightly and tucked it up into a dark knit cap, and for the first time in months, she wore no jewelry beyond her wedding ring, and that only because it was hidden by her gloves. Everything was calculated to blend in with the dark.

“Should I take down one of the lanterns, ma’am?” asked Pratt. “You’ll need to light your way.”

“Thank you, no,” she said briskly. She pulled the cloth haversack from the coach and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’ll see well enough.”

“You are certain about this, Charlotte?” asked Aunt Sophronia, a quaver of worry in her voice. “It’s all quite mad, you know.”

“It
is
quite mad.” Charlotte smiled up at her aunt. Now that she was actually on her way, she was more excited than fearful. “But so are duels.”

“Take care, Charlotte,” Aunt Sophronia said. “And may God be both with you and with His Grace.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” Charlotte said. Excited or not, she knew she needed all the heavenly protection she could muster. “Hurry now, Pratt, I don’t have time to lose.”

With the footman trudging respectfully behind her,
she led the way across the grass to the larger of the trees and looked up into the branches. The tree was old, the branches weaving and thick, with plenty of leaves. She couldn’t imagine a better tree to climb.

“Give me a hand up, Pratt, if you please,” she said to the footman.

“Ma’am?” he asked uncertainly.

“I need to reach the first branch,” she explained, “and then I’ll do well enough. Pretend you’re helping me mount a horse.”

“Very well, ma’am.” He linked his hands together to make an impromptu step, and helped her up.

She was glad of his help. She was heavier than her old self, and she doubted she could have climbed up to the first branch without him. Now she’d be fine.

“Thank you, Pratt,” she said, breathless more from excitement than from exertion. “You may go now, and tell the driver to leave.”

“Ma’am?” asked the footman, his upturned face pale beneath her. “You’d have us leave you here alone, ma’am?”

“Yes, yes,” Charlotte said. “I won’t be surprising anyone if they see my aunt’s coach, will I?”

“But ma’am, Lady Sanborn’s orders—”

“My orders are that you leave me here, and at once,” she said, striving to sound again like a duchess and not a thick-waisted boy in a tree. “I’ll be well enough. I’ll be returning home later with His Grace.”

“Very well, ma’am,” Pratt said, his reluctance obvious. “Take care, ma’am, and good fortune to you.”

“Thank you,” she said, and resolutely began climbing deeper into the tree. It was easy to see where the duel would take place. The branches of the two trees arched together like a natural roof, with a wide flat place beneath that was bare of grass. The branches were so wide
that the climbing was easy, and she soon found a comfortable place where she’d be in perfect position, yet well hidden by the leaves. She braced herself against a crook, then took the haversack from her back and settled it in her lap. All she must do now was wait.

When she’d made her plans this afternoon, it had seemed wonderfully clever and daring, sure to succeed. Now reality was stealing away much of the cleverness, and the danger and uncertainty of what lay ahead took the excitement from the daring. As she watched her aunt’s carriage lumbering off into the darkness, she shivered, and not from the early morning chill, either. If she couldn’t make this work, then all she’d have accomplished was securing a splendid view of March being shot.

She tucked her hands beneath her arms, trying to stay as calm as she could. She hoped March wasn’t too terribly angry with her for avoiding him last night, but just as he’d said he was fighting this foolish duel for her sake, what she’d done was for him. She hoped he’d slept well and was feeling keen and refreshed this morning. She hoped his pistols were ready, and that Giroux had made sure he’d had an excellent breakfast.

She hoped he was thinking of her with some kindness and not simply irritation, and most of all with love.

She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly dashed them away. She
had
to succeed. She couldn’t lose March, her husband, her duke, her lover, and her best friend. She wished he were here beside her, laughing and teasing her and kissing her, to make her feel more cheerful and less lonely.