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thirteen

I sabella shifted her position on the seat in the carriage.

The atmosphere was so thick that she could cut it with a butter knife. After Anthony had left the ballroom, she hadn’t seen him throughout the dinner. The butler had given her Anthony’s apologies for not being able to join her. The Dowager had seemed preoccupied, and Patrick had vanished as well. She hadn’t had time to discuss with Mother and Helen what had happened with the duke. She wasn’t sure she should. Certainly, she wasn’t going to mention his proposal.

Helen sat slumped in her seat as if distraught, and Mother kept fidgeting. Father seemed oblivious to the tension.

“Lovely evening,” he said. “Did you enjoy yourselves, girls?”

“Lovely evening my foot.” Mother ignored him. “What happened tonight, Isabella?”

“Why did the duke dance the supper waltz with you?” Helen asked.

“He asked me, and I said yes.”

Isabella had been lucky that something urgent had happened and Anthony hadn’t been able to sit with her at dinner, or she wouldn’t be forced to tell everything.

Her silence would be short-lived though, but she needed a moment to think about her options, and after all, Anthony had asked her to think about it. She meant to think about his proposal seriously because she liked him. She wasn’t in love, and surely, neither was he. When he’d listed the reasons why he wanted to marry her, he’d sounded like an employer looking for the ideal clerk. But she couldn’t deny they had fun together.

Still, right now, there wasn’t any need to inform Mother and Helen of anything. Their opinions and arguments would meddle her thoughts and cause more confusion. And Helen would be upset.

Father drew his eyebrows together. “He must have told you something when he invited you.”

“Very little. Then he vanished.”

If even Father started asking questions, she would never see the end of the conversation. She didn’t want to be pushed to do anything. She simply wanted a few days of peace and quiet to think on her own.

“What did he exactly tell you?” Mother insisted. “I was certain the duke would have danced with Helen before supper. The Dowager told me that. And I thought there wouldn’t be any waltz.”

“I don’t know about the waltz. As I said, the duke asked me to dance, and I said yes.”

Helen’s expression didn’t soften. “Why didn’t you refuse?”

“Refuse?” Isabella steeled her voice. “I couldn’t reject the duke’s invitation, and he asked me personally.”

Mother nodded. “Isabella is right. Refusing to dance would have been a grave offence.”

“But the question remains,” Helen said. “Don’t be offended, Isabella, but why invite you? I told everyone the duke was going to dance with me after the Dowager reassured me of that. Imagine my humiliation when he had you at his arm. And you didn’t tell me anything. You could have warned me.”

“I’m sorry you felt humiliated. It wasn’t my intention, but as I said, I was in a difficult position and couldn’t say no.”

Father didn’t say anything, which was worse than him talking. Likely, he guessed she wasn’t being completely honest.

Mother patted Helen’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk with the Dowager and clear up this misunderstanding. There must be a reason for the invitation.”

Yes, there was.

“And the fact the duke and Lord Patrick disappeared,” Mother said, “makes me think that something happened and changed the plans. The Dowager looked particularly tense after the butler talked to her. She vanished for a while as well.”

“Anyway.” Helen sighed. “What did you and the duke talk about during the waltz?”

“The current unrest in Parliament about the workers’ rights.”

That shut up Helen and Mother.

She just hoped that whatever emergency had happened to Anthony would keep him busy for a little longer.

* * *

A light mist lingered over Battersea Fields the next morning as Anthony waited for the duel to begin. Dew glistened on the grass blades, and patches of frost covered the ground. Not the best conditions for a duel, especially for an inexperienced shooter.

Patrick shifted his weight from one foot to another, blowing warm air on his hands. “Bloody freezing.”

“Dawn is the coldest hour. If you had ever risen before eleven, you would know.”

“I don’t need your attitude.” Patrick shook his head. “A bloody idiot wants to shoot me. Thank you very much.”

Anthony kept a comment to himself. Reminding Patrick the situation was his entire fault wouldn’t help him survive the day. If he couldn’t keep his instincts under control, then at least he should learn to be more discreet with his paramours.

They’d spent the night shooting at targets, but Patrick was utterly hopeless with a firearm. His arm was unsteady, and his aim was terrible. He had more chances to hit McFall if he aimed at a tree.

Speaking of the devil. McFall strode towards them in his shiny captain uniform. A Victoria Cross hung from his chest—a further reminder of McFall’s excellent fighting skills.

A few rigid nods were exchanged.

“McFall,” Anthony said, “would you accept my brother’s apology and renounce the duel?”

“I’m sorry for what happened.” Patrick bowed his head.

McFall shot a glacial glare at him. “We’re ready to start. Twenty paces, then turn.”

“Would you accept me as your opponent instead of Patrick?” Anthony asked.

“Anthony!” Patrick said at the same time as McFall said, “No.”

“Your sacrifice is honourable. Unfortunately, your brother isn’t. Shall we?”

Anthony and McFall’s second inspected the guns and made sure only one bullet was in the chamber.

When McFall crossed the field to go to his position, Anthony grabbed Patrick’s shoulder. Worry gnawed at him from the inside out. He’d lost his parents. He couldn’t lose even his little brother for a damn duel. He was supposed to protect Patrick, yet here they were, risking Patrick’s life for no reason.

He swallowed hard. “Focus on your shot and nothing else. Don’t think. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Keep your arm steady, and remember to stay balanced between your feet.”

Patrick nodded. No jokes and no comebacks, a testament to his worry. He should be worried.

Anthony stood at the edge of the duelling field, wondering if he should knock Patrick unconscious, take him home, and face McFall’s wrath.

The duellists stood back to back before starting to pace in opposite directions. Anthony’s heart stuttered as he wiped his clammy hands on his jacket.

While McFall held the pistol in the correct position, Patrick was visibly shaking. He stumbled, and the pistol nearly slipped out of his grip.

“Bloody hell, Patrick,” Anthony muttered. “Come on.”

McFall finished the twentieth step and turned around with one smooth move in a flutter of coattails. Patrick staggered again, and by Jove, was holding the pistol back to front.

McFall raised his arm, his gaze as cold and unforgiving as the morning air. Instead, Patrick had turned into a bumbling ass.

His little brother was going to get killed right in front of him. Visions of the battlefields covered with dead soldiers flashed through his mind. All those young men gone. And Patrick would join them.

McFall closed one eye to take aim. Patrick wheezed in panic, paling by the minute, and cast a terrified glance at Anthony.

“Patrick!” Anthony shouted.

Patrick stood petrified. He couldn’t be an easier target.

Anthony’s legs moved before he could think. He sprinted forwards, eager to drag a frozen Patrick away. A shot rang out. Anthony pounced on his brother, and a searing, excruciating pain lanced through his face. Warm blood soaked his cheeks and lips, and white light filled his vision. The agony was so intense he couldn’t shout.

“Anthony!” Patrick’s voice seemed to come from a distance and through water.

“…damn fool…” That sounded like McFall.

Boots surrounded him as he lay on the frosted grass. The world spun. Voices called his name. Someone touched his face, shooting pain through his body. Hell, he wanted to throw up.

Anthony’s head became light, and the sounds receded.

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he was lying on a carriage seat. His head rested on Patrick’s lap, and only his right eye worked. The left one was swollen shut or maybe it was missing. He couldn’t tell.

Patrick pressed a cloth against Anthony’s face. A face that was burning and throbbing without mercy.

“What the hell is happening?” Patrick asked someone. “Why aren’t we moving?”

“A riot, my lord,” the footman said from somewhere. “The protesters and the police are blocking the street.”

“Go around them. Find another way.”

Anthony groaned. His throat and mouth tasted of copper and seemed filled with glass shards.

“Anthony, can you hear me?” Patrick’s worried face filled Anthony’s field of vision. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“The bullet?” he slurred.

“I’m not sure what happened. There’s too much blood, and the flesh is all torn.” Patrick’s voice shook with fear.

“My eye?”

“I don’t know.” Patrick was shaking so hard his teeth chattered.

Anthony wanted to reassure him, but talking required too much effort.

The carriage rolled onwards for a while before stopping with a jolt. Loud voices sounded. People thumped the carriage, yelling slogans against the government. Hundreds of feet thundered. Anthony tried to sit up.

“Don’t.” Patrick pushed him down.

“Let me.” He wasn’t sure he could sit up without feeling sick, but he needed to do something other than lie helplessly.

Patrick helped him, still pressing the cloth against the burning cheek. “You jumped in front of me to protect me. You shouldn’t have.”

What was he supposed to do? Watch his brother get killed?

He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and replaced Patrick’s hand with his. The world tilted again, but if he rested his head on the wall, he could sit without feeling sick although the protestants rocked the carriage right and left on the spot. The horses snorted.

“Take us out of here!” Patrick yelled to the coachman.

“I’m trying, my lord.”

The cloth was soaked, and the pain was agonising, but Anthony’s mind was clear. He took deep breaths, glancing out of the window. Men waving the flag of the Social Democratic Federation were clashing against another group he couldn’t identify, and his carriage stood in the middle of the riot.

“What’s this?” Each word was like a stab to his face.

“Socialists against protectionists. It’s a huge riot. Every bloody street seems blocked.” Patrick let out a sob. “I’m sorry, Anthony. It’s my fault.”

He didn’t have the strength to reply. Lying down seemed like a bloody good idea.

The last thing he heard before closing his only working eye was Patrick apologising again.