Page 36 of Love, Lies, and the Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“Have a little faith, Anastasia.” He kissed her hand. Once they’d returned to the inn, she bid him good night and averted her gaze. She did not want him to see the tears in her eyes.

The next day, Anastasia rose early. Her sister slept soundly, and she dressed quickly and threw on her cloak, tiptoeing across the room. She tried not to step too heavily on any of the floorboards, when—

“I’m coming with you,” Betsey said.

“Fine, but hurry.”

Faster than she would have imagined, Betsey was dressed, and together, the two sisters stepped out of the inn and hurried to the hill, the dirt road and pebbles crunching beneath their boots.

“There, I see them,” Betsey said, pointing.

They climbed the hill, where a handful of men stood. The air was misty in the cold hours before dawn. The women lifted their skirts and climbed, not caring for the damp grass that quickly soaked the hems of their skirts.

“It’s muddy,” Betsey complained.

Anastasia ignored her. “Come on.”

The sisters climbed to the top, where Mr. Hardwicke stood with the blacksmith from the day before, who carried a black case. Not far from them stood the Jemisin brothers.

At the young women’s arrival, Percy came forward. “No, absolutely not. Betsey, I want you to turn back and go back to the inn. Right now.”

“No. I’m not going anywhere. Not until you stop this foolish duel.” She raised her chin.

“You know we cannot do that. It’s a matter of honor. I have to stand by my brother,” Percy said, “Even if I disagree with his actions.”

“But you could die,” Betsey said, reaching for him. “What if the constables see? You could be arrested.”

They held hands, and it quickly became apparent this was a private moment for the two of them. Anastasia turned away and met the eyes of Mr. Hardwicke.

“Miss Banks. Good morning.” He bowed.

“Mr. Hardwicke.” She curtsied, unable to stop a small blush from warming her cheeks.

He came close to her. “I won’t attempt to tell you what to do. You make up your own mind. But I wish you would not be here.”

“I wish you weren’t here at all.” She looked up at him. He wore the same clothes he’d worn last night: light-beige trousers, a white shirt with a light waistcoat, and a heavy, dark cloak and suit jacket.

“Are you cold?” He began to remove his coat.

“No, I’m fine,” Anastasia said. “Please. If I cannot convince you to stop this foolish duel, then at the very least, I don’t wish to distract you.”

He murmured, “You have been a distraction since the moment we met.”

She blushed harder, and he laughed, a warm sound. Their eyes met, and she smiled back.

“Are we going to do this or not? Some of us have things to be getting on with,” Jeremiah called. “If you two aren’t busy.”

The couples separated, and Anastasia stood back with Betsey as Mr. Hardwicke’s second, the blacksmith, motioned Jeremiah and Mr. Hardwicke close. He opened a box, revealing two dueling pistols. The man handed one to Percy and loaded the other himself.

Once Jeremiah and Mr. Hardwicke both had them in hand, the blacksmith said, “Count off and walk ten paces straight ahead, then turn and shoot. This is to first blood.”

Betsey clutched Anastasia’s hands and the young women huddled together, standing back behind the blacksmith and Percy as Jeremiah and Mr. Hardwicke stood, back-to-back.

“One.”

The men began walking as the blacksmith counted aloud.

“Two.”

Anastasia’s heart began to pound.

“Three.”

Anastasia looked at her sister, whose face was pale. What had she done? She should have demanded he stop this foolish duel. Disagreements over dishonor could be satisfied without bloodshed, surely.

“Four.”

Her gaze was drawn to Mr. Hardwicke, who looked handsome and commanding as he marched, his face as cool and cold as marble.

At five, Jeremiah called, “Best give him a last kiss, Ana. That’s the last time a man’ll touch you.”

Anastasia swallowed. She would never forgive herself if something happened to Mr. Hardwicke. She would only have herself to blame.

“He really is a cad,” Betsey whispered. “Tell me why you allowed him to court you again?”

“I must have been out of my senses,” Anastasia said, as the blacksmith called out, “Six.”

“Clearly,” muttered Betsey.

“Seven.”

Anastasia fretted. Her pulse raced. She feared for his life. Even if they had only shared a few intimate moments together, she did not want it to end. She wanted him to live. She wanted—

Jeremiah turned and fired.

“No!” Anastasia cried out.

Mr. Hardwicke staggered, as the blacksmith shouted, “I wasn’t done counting! You’ve cheated, Mr. Jemisin. Shame on ye.”

“What do I care?” Jeremiah’s laugh was ugly.

Mr. Hardwicke turned and fired his pistol. Jeremiah jolted and crashed to the ground.

“No,” Percy breathed, as he and the blacksmith went to attend him.

Anastasia left her sister and went to Mr. Hardwicke. “Are you hurt?”

He shot her a serious look. “Stand aside, Miss Banks. I would not have you in the line of fire.”

“I’m not leaving you.” She put a hand to his left arm. “You’re bleeding.”

“’Tis but a scratch. A graze.”

She looked at his arm. It needed fresh linen to bind the wound. She began to kneel to rip up her skirt, when he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t. Don’t ruin your dress over this. He’s not worth it.”

“But you are,” she told him.

His face lit up in a smile.

The blacksmith said, “The duel is over. Unless the parties or other second protest?”

Mr. Hardwicke said, “I am satisfied.”

Percy shook his head. “I make no protest. The matter is over and done with. We are satisfied.”

Jeremiah groaned and cried, “My eye…”

Percy stood back as the blacksmith attended to his brother. He went to Betsey. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. But I’m worried about you.”

He kissed her hand. “I’m fine.” Percy took her by the hand and they walked a little ways.

“I should chaperone them,” Anastasia said to Mr. Hardwicke.

“We can observe them together.” He stood back as the blacksmith came over a moment later to bind his arm.

The swarthy blacksmith had a small, leather bag over his shoulder and he opened it to reveal a set of iron scissors and a roll of fresh linen bandage.

“In my line of work, it pays to be prepared for anything. The number of times I’ve seen a would-be wedding fall apart into fighting…

” He shook his head and ordered Mr. Hardwicke to remove his coat and roll up his white shirt sleeve.

“That was a good shot, by the way. Were you in the war?”

“No. Just good at hunting.”

As the men fell into easy conversation about hunting grouse and shooting, Anastasia let out a sigh of relief. Mr. Hardwicke was going to be all right. He was out of danger. Jeremiah hadn’t killed him. She blinked away a tear and smiled.

On the ride back to London with her uncle, sister, and lady’s maid, Anastasia reflected on how lucky she had been.

Her uncle had awakened none the wiser, although the young ladies told him what had transpired.

Alarmed at the duel and wanting to be nowhere near such activity, he was most quick to hustle them into the awaiting coach and return to London, where their aunt could watch over them.

Once they were all safely inside, he had closed the door with a snap and said, “Too much excitement for me, I say. Too much excitement by far. When a gentleman reaches my age, girls, he wants a strong glass of wine and a good book. None of this dashing about by daylight business, crossing swords or pistols.”

Anastasia watched from inside the carriage as the roads seemed to blur outside, with a light patter of rain and gray-blue skies.

Mr. Hardwicke had indeed escaped the duel with just a graze, whereas Jeremiah had lost an eye.

It would give him a rakish look, no doubt, which he would use to his advantage.

And in good time, and not a moment before, a few days after they’d returned to their aunt’s townhouse, Betsey came to Anastasia with the happy news.

She took Anastasia’s hands and danced about the parlor.

“Aunt wrote Papa and told him about the duel, but Percy also wrote him and apologized and said he would do anything to prove himself worthy of me. Isn’t it romantic?

I have no doubt that as soon as he turns twenty-one, he will again ask me to marry him. Could anyone be so happy? I love him.”

Anastasia laughed and sat down, hugging a pillow to her chest. She was happy for her younger sister.

After all the trials they’d suffered, Betsey was making a match, with a man who cared for her.

They would struggle and would need help to get established, but she did not doubt the match would be a happy one.

It was the next morning that Anastasia’s uncle was reading The Times , when he said, “That fellow who was in the duel with Mr. Jemisin. The name was Hardwicke, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, why?”

“He’s getting married.”

Anastasia’s blood ran cold.

“What?” her aunt said, shedding a mouthful of crumbs over her dress.

“It’s here, the betrothal announcement. See?”

“But I thought…” Her aunt reached for the paper and read its contents. She slowly looked up at Anastasia and passed her the paper. It read:

An engagement

We at The Times wish to congratulate the family of Mrs. Eliza Sherwood, of Southwell village in Nottingham, and the family of Mr. Theodore Hardwicke, of Park Street in London, on their engagement.

The banns will be read the next three Sundays in their local parishes, with a wedding due to take place in London, on the last Sunday in May.