Page 7

The Barbours were one of the few couples Peregrine genuinely and unreservedly liked.

Most people did. They were gently eccentric, filling their vast circle of acquaintances with artists, authors, and scholars.

Barbour, in fact, was the one who introduced him to the Royal Academy and Sir Thomas Lawrence.

“That is because you should be painting people instead,” Lady Barbour said matter-of-factly .

Peregrine smiled politely and tried to steer the conversation. “Speaking of people—do my eyes deceive me, or did I spot that banker—what is his name, Rothschild? Amongst the guests?”

Barbour’s eyes lit up. “You did. Cavendish put a cat amongst the canaries, inviting the heads of the three largest banks. It is not a very popular topic among the less progressive aristocrats—I am sure you are not surprised by this—but there is much discussion about Britain’s economic future, now that the soldiers are home.

Manufacturing, trade, the building of the railroad to support it.

Cavendish has been optimistic that such modern things can do a great deal to improve society and England’s standing in the peace that will follow the talks this fall.

But… these things take funding,” he whispered, as many of the nearby aristocrats would think the word vulgar.

“I have never seen someone try to bring conversations of this sort to a ballroom.”

Perry mostly knew Nathan Rothschild by reputation.

Many aristocrats had been hotly speculating about how he had made a fortune in the markets.

The times were definitely changing. Industrialisation was already causing turbulence in the countryside.

On the continent, now that war no longer blockaded the coasts, the face of trade would change.

Powerful countries were eager to divide the spoils of France’s empire.

Concluding his chat with the Barbours, Peregrine glanced in Selina’s direction, but she tapped her fingers idly together in front of her, the gesture that he knew meant not now .

So Peregrine decided to step out for air, now that the atmosphere in the room was stifling with so many guests. He made his way to the balcony and eased outside, not realising until the door closed behind him that he was not alone.

The Duchess of Atholl stood by the balcony rail, looking just as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

Charity had startled as the door opened, and hastily attempted to marshal her face into something befitting her rank.

But then her breath caught in dismay. Since her vision had already adjusted to the dark, she had no difficulty identifying the man who stepped outside before he recognised her in return.

And the moment he did, he froze.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to intrude upon your privacy,” Peregrine said stiffly, already turning to leave.

“No. Wait!” Charity cried, her hand flying to her mouth as if astonished that the words had escaped her lips.

He halted his steps, turning back to her. Flushing, she cast about for something to say. “You… need not leave, if you came seeking solitude. I was on my way back inside,” she offered at last.

Somehow, even cloaked in shadow, his posture made plain that he knew her words for the lie they were. Even though what he said was, “as you wish,” as he stepped away from the door so she could go through it.

She had longed for this moment. Dreaded it. And now that he stood before her, waiting to see what she would do, her courage deserted her.

Charity had thought that his absent silence was the worst torment her mind could devise. But that had paled compared to the agony of watching him circulate on the floor, pointedly not looking in her direction. His cut had been what sent her to the balcony for some measure of peace.

Here, face to face, neither one of them could hide from each other. Especially not as he was appraising her with an expression of flat inscrutability, as he had at Carlton House.

He concealed it well enough, but she had learned to read the signs beneath his mask. She marked the lines of fatigue and tension at the corners of his lips. The way his shoulders rose as his breath came so slightly faster. He wasn’t unaffected .

Say something! Her mind hissed as silence stretched. Fix this! Make him understand!

“You are looking… better,” she began lamely, trying to find an opening for a conversation that would be safe. “I…”

The moment the words slipped from her lips, she knew she had chosen poorly. Peregrine looked out over the gardens and closed his eyes. The night was so quiet that she could hear the long, soft exhale through his nose. Frustrated resignation, not impatience or dismissal.

Abruptly, Charity cut off the apology that had been forming again on her lips, and a different emotion lit within her breast. It wasn’t an unfamiliar one, but one that had gone dormant in the face of her guilt.

Anger. And she clutched it to her breast.

It was a better feeling than the rudderless feeling of uncertainty. Anger made her feel strong and capable, not weighed down with a sense of… powerlessness.

She hated the way he looked at her now, as if she were worse than a stranger. And even more, she hated the memory of the way he had watched her before that, when he had studied her like an enemy.

All these unspoken things. All these inconvenient emotions. Bile burned the back of her throat as she thought about the apologies he refused. But perhaps he had refused it because he sensed her words had been… well, if not exactly a lie, neither had they been fully the truth.

Bitterly, she looked out on the night, discarding all her carefully rehearsed speeches stored against this moment, folding her arms over her stomach. “Do you ever wonder if the universe is mocking us?”

“How do you mean?” The words came reluctantly, as if he did not want to encourage conversation.

Charity couldn’t help but let her unhappiness stain her voice. “ We find each other, hurt each other. Every time we go away and try to lick our wounds, somehow fate finds a way to put us together just long enough to hurt each other more.”

Peregrine’s hands dropped to the railing, gripping it just hard enough to make his knuckles stand out sharply beneath the leather of his gloves. Little signs, the only glimpse he’d give her of what he was thinking or feeling. “You, of all people, should know I do not believe in fate, Duchess.”

She let out a short laugh. A terrible idea, because she had to pinch her lip with her teeth to keep it from turning into something more humiliating. Like weeping.

“How can you not, Peregrine?” she said tiredly, sweeping her hand wide to indicate the two of them and all that lay between.

“Here we are, on a balcony together. Again . Forever at odds, the sun and the moon, chasing each other in circles. Can there be such patterns by random chance? Does this not feel like a cruel joke of fate?”

He tipped his head downward, chin to his chest. His forelock fell over his face, a curtain over his expression. You are being too forward. Too emotional , her mother chastised. Any moment now, he is going to get impatient with you and leave again.

But he did not leave. He stayed.

And finally, he lifted his face to hers, meeting her gaze fully. And she saw, just for an instant, the same soul-deep weariness and pain that had been naked on his face when she had cut him to the quick a week ago.

“If fate alone commands us, we are puppets, performing under the direction of an unseen hand,” he said softly, still not looking away.

“We are acting stories that are already written. Aping the illusion of choice, living for nothing. All of it, meaningless—what we want, or choose, or think, or feel. How can that possibly bring you comfort?”

It was a fair question, and one Charity had asked herself. But the answer felt so selfish. So small and ugly. “It doesn’t. Not really. But at least I have the comfort of knowing some of the misfortunes of my life may not be orchestrated by cruelty.”

Peregrine would probably take those words badly, but her thoughts had slipped backwards again, to the suffocating blackness of those helpless nights as the prisoner of his mother.

The time she had spent wondering if she would ever be let go.

Thinking about what her life would look like after being so thoroughly ruined by Marian Fitzroy.

Trapped in the memories of the past, her breaths grew closer, and Charity abruptly discovered she couldn’t draw in enough air. The night was close and smothering, and dizzy, she reached out to put her hand on the railing to steady herself.

Suddenly, Peregrine was in front of her, pushing her away from the balcony’s edge and backing her towards the wall where they could not easily be seen out the window.

For only the briefest of instants, his face was unguarded.

And Charity saw something that resembled concern.

Like a spark, it was there and then gone.

“We live mostly in the hells of our own making.” His hand was wrapped so tightly around her wrist that her bones nearly squeaked together. As though he was afraid she would fall.

Or maybe he was trading his torment for physical pain. A punishment.

Charity didn’t protest. The pinch of muscle and sinew brought her back to the present, grounding her and helping her steady herself. Discomfort of the body was so much easier to endure. So small compared to the vaster world of emotional destruction she now knew was possible.

And he wasn’t really harming her, was he? Peregrine could, easily, with his greater strength or with any of her secrets. He could have sliced her to pieces a hundred ways to get his revenge. Instead, he had kept her from stumbling against the railing, reaching out to pull her to safety .

Suddenly she knew, she knew , that spark of concern was proof there was something still there to salvage betwixt them. The fractures in his soul showed so clearly under stress, and right now, his nearly glowed, dimmed only by the suppurating sores of her betrayal.

So she dug her fingers into that wound, lancing the infection.

She looked into his eyes. “That is the real reason you do not want to believe in fate, is it not? If there is only a plan, if there is no choice, there can be no justice. And your tally of wrongs done might go unaddressed… like what I did to you.”

Charity had expected him to react to such a forceful prodding, but with this, the carefully kept mask shattered. Peregrine boxed her in, one hand planted on the wall on either side of her as he leaned in, furious.

“You talk as though it has only happened once. As if you haven’t stuck me every time you found a vulnerable place, every time I gave you the slightest bit of trust. Then you gammon me with this trite speech about fate?

I watched you do it to me half a dozen times, Charity, beginning from the very moment you spurned me over my insufficient name and title. You , not fate.”

His words held truth—even if it was only a part of it—and she gave him a small, sad smile. She had mustered her anger to bring a sense of order. To lessen the helplessness of her thoughts. He was using it as a way to protect himself and armour his tender spots—against her.

This was wrong; she had laid him bare, and his anger was the only defence he had left. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her apologies. It did nothing to balance the scale between them.

How did she fix this?

That night he had accosted her in her bedroom came to mind with sharp clarity. When she had been at her most powerless, and he had put a knife in her hand, offering her the means to destroy him .

“You are right. I am sorry for certain things,” she began slowly, reaching for the hand beside her that had held her wrist so bruisingly. “It was… an act of cowardice to let you believe I was a title chaser. That when I spurned you, the fault lay with you.”

He didn’t jerk away from her touch, but he stiffened.

“Fate or not, we had so little control over what happened last year. I regret that I hurt you when I said no matter what we had chosen then, we wouldn’t have found happiness.

But that still feels true. Or do you think your mother would have held her tongue? ” she murmured.

Standing this close, she could hear his breathing take on a ragged edge, and she knew her time was running short to make her point.

“But this… The bargain I had to strike with the Queen was not the one I went there to make, Perry. I am sorry I was not better at negotiating with Charlotte. Perhaps I can never undo the damage I did. But I will never apologise again for making the choice to accept her bargain, because I believed it was the only way I could save your life.”

Even at his worst, when he had her at her most vulnerable, he had responded to her fear. Her helplessness. And in spite of the fact that he had believed she had meant to frame him for treason, he had restored some measure of control to her. It was time she did the same for him.

Trying to control the tremor at such forwardness, she raised his palm and laid it upon her chest, not quite able to meet his gaze.

My heart is here .

With her eyes downcast, she could see his throat working. She knew he understood the gesture for what it was. But when she finally lifted them to his face, his expression was stricken—something she did not expect.

So much of her perception was focused on Peregrine that she was stunned when suddenly his attentiveness was ripped away. He turned, removing his hand from her, his head cocked as if hearing the strain of some distant battle horn.

“Perry?” she asked, wondering what was wrong.

“Do you hear it?” he asked her.

Hear what, she almost asked, before she, too, let her senses sharpen enough to pick up other sounds. There was an angry susurrus in the distance, which gradually resolved into the voices of many shouting men.