It Takes Two to Tangle

Twenty-One

“You have to be playing a joke on me,” Jem said. His light eyes were open so wide, they appeared to be trying to escape his head. “That’s what this is. A joke? You’re very funny, Hal. Very funny.”

The earl sat heavily in the chair at his study’s desk, breathing hard. His cravat was starched and tied high and tight as fashion dictated, and he tugged at it fruitlessly with a forefinger. “God, Hal. An excellent joke. But you must not say it in that serious way. I almost believed you for a second.”

Once again, Henry faced his brother across the massive desk in Jem’s study, but this time he needed no advice. He had made his decision; now he needed only the blessed, unthinking relief of action.

“It’s true,” Henry said. “I challenged Wadsworth to a duel. We’ll meet tomorrow at dawn.”

Which was just the way Henry wanted it. He was spoiling for a fight, for the chance to prove something, anything. He must win. His letters had not been enough, a minuet had not been enough, his body had not been enough. He was not sure how much of his heart had been ventured. Too much for comfort’s sake.

He smiled, knowing the expression must look gruesome.

Jem unsnarled the end of his cravat from its elaborate folds and coaxed the long starched rectangle away from his throat. “Good God, Hal. I can’t credit it, even from your own lips. You issued the challenge. For a duel.”

“He struck me, Jem. I couldn’t let that pass.”

“He struck you?” Jem blinked, then shook his head, loosening the cravat further. “No, no. That can’t be overlooked. But how did it ever come to that, Hal? Wadsworth outranks you. He should never have struck you in public.”

“Apparently he disagrees.” Henry shrugged. “I suppose I baited him. I meant to.”

Jem rubbed a hand over his eyes and pressed at his temples with long fingers. “You baited him in Caro’s house, before an audience? He could hardly ignore the humiliation you caused him.”

“Just as I could hardly ignore his own insults.”

“But a duel. Damn it, Hal.” Jem fixed him with bright blue eyes. “Maybe the situation can yet be smoothed over if you both send apologies. Who is your second?”

Henry had expected this part to be difficult. “Well.” He crossed his left arm over his chest, gathering his thin right arm into his grasp. “Well, I hoped you would do it.”

Jem sat up straight in his chair. “Did you, now? Me, your second to a duel.”

Henry nodded. “I couldn’t ask Bart to do it. He’d never have the stomach for it. Also, he’s leaving London any day for the country. I don’t want to ask him to postpone his journey for—”

“An illegal and quite possibly fatal duel,” Jem interrupted. “No, of course not. No one should regard that with any degree of seriousness. It’s only a duel. Hal.”

This last word was groaned, as Jem rose from his chair again and grabbed a brandy decanter from a sideboard. He splashed brandy into two generously sized snifters and shoved one across the desk to Henry.

“No, thank you,” Henry said. He felt remarkably calm now. The die had been cast, and he had only to do what came next, and next, and next. No more choices until the duel was over. By then, everything else might work out.

Many more impossible dreams than this had come true. For others.

Jem shrugged and drained one snifter, then the other. With a cough, he sat back down and began fussing with the items on his desk. A ledger, an inkwell, a fistful of quills. A quizzing glass. A watercolor miniature of Emily that Henry had painted long ago.

Jem had never wanted to snap the tiny portrait away inside a watchcase as Henry had intended. He said he wanted to look at the miniature always because it would remind him of his wife and his brother, two of the people he loved best in the world.

Henry sighed. “I should have brought you an ice from Gunter’s,” he muttered. He should have done a lot of things. He should have tried harder to make his brother happy, time and again. Happiness was all Jem had ever wanted for him, and this was how Henry repaid him.

No wonder Jem had had to loosen his cravat. It was a wonder his head hadn’t blown apart, like a kettle with no outlet for steam. But it was too late to go back now, and Henry would not change the path he was walking even if it were possible.

Jem lined all the quills up into a neat row, and Henry remembered Frances teaching him how to hold a quill in his left hand. A quiet day in this very house. He’d had such hope then, but already the two women—Caro and Frances—had begun to mix and muddle in his mind, and he did not know exactly for what he ought to be hoping.

“Those are taken from the left wing of the goose,” Henry said stupidly.

Jem looked up. “These are from a swan.” He stretched his mouth into a tight shape that approximated a smile.

He looked calmer now, as if the ritual of shuffling the objects on his desk—not to mention gulping two snifters of brandy—had soothed him.

“So you want me to be your second,” Jem said again. He leaned back in his chair again and spun one of his long swan quills between his fingers. The feathery barb tapped against his thumb, over and over, and Henry began to wonder what his brother was thinking. It was rare that he ever had to speculate. Usually the expression on Jem’s face was as easy to read as a printed page.

“That’s a hell of a thing for you to ask of your brother, you know,” Jem said mildly, still spinning the quill.

“I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

“That’s a hell of a way to be.” Jem set the quill down on his desk and nudged it into a neat row with its fellows. “But I suppose it makes sense. A man with many friends doesn’t find himself getting snared in a duel in the first place.”

“Anyone could get into a duel with Wadsworth,” Henry said. “You’d have challenged him too if he’d insulted you in front of Emily the way he insulted me before—” He cut himself off just in time. Frances did not want anyone to know about their relationship. He wanted to give her all that was honorable: his name and everything he owned on earth. But in her shame for him, all she wanted was secrecy, so he could at least give her that.

“Your lady,” Jem finished, and Henry nodded his gratitude. Jem’s mouth curved again, and this time it seemed a real smile. It was only a shadow of his brother’s usual buoyant grin, but it would do for a start. “Yes, I suppose I can understand that. I’d have wanted to kill him with my bare hands.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Henry protested.

“I’m not saying I would have succeeded. But I would have wanted to. Why are you belittling my skill, though? You want me as your second, don’t you?”

“You’ll do it?” Henry didn’t know why he was holding his breath, as if everything rode on this. He didn’t have to have a second.

“Ah, Hal.” Jem raked his hands through his hair. It was still the rich dark of lamp-black, but Henry noticed that it was beginning to gray at the temples. He had a sinking, shuddering feeling of having been gone for an unutterably long time, of having missed an unfathomable amount.

Jem, it seemed, agreed with him. “Hal, the war is over. Our society rests on peace now, and we must keep peace amongst each other. You can’t threaten people and challenge them to duels. You especially can’t challenge a peer. We don’t kill here. The whole world knows that.”

“Bollocks,” said Henry. He disliked the idea of the whole world facing him down, telling him where he’d gone wrong.

“What does it do to your lady’s reputation if it becomes known that you are going to fight a duel on her behalf? Are you going to offer for Lady Stratton?”

Henry stared at him. “No, indeed. And I’m sure she wouldn’t have me if I did. I’m fighting for myself, not for her.”

Jem drew in his chin until it was hidden amidst the loosened points of his cravat. He peered at Henry with what was apparently intended to be a terrifying stare. “Not Lady Stratton after all. So who is your lady, then?”

Henry suddenly felt ashamed. His left hand grasped his wasted right arm more tightly, reminding him. “Mrs. Whittier. Or…I thought she was.”

“Mrs. Whittier.” Jem tilted his head. “Is she, now? That’s an interesting choice, Hal. I like the woman myself. But what do you know of her family? You’ll be opening yourself up to a lot of talk if you court a lady’s companion.”

Henry’s fingers gripped his right arm so hard that it would have gone numb if it was not already. “She’s the daughter of a baronet. And she’s cousin to a countess, so that ought to be a lofty enough connection for any of the gossips.”

Jem drummed his fingers on his desk, once, twice, then nodded his agreement.

“Such questions don’t matter,” Henry said. “As I told you, I’m fighting this duel for my own reasons.”

Jem leaned forward, propping his elbows on his desk, then gave up on trying to look terrifying. He folded his arms on the desktop and sunk his chin onto them. He looked tired, as tired as Henry felt inside.

“All right, then. I’ll be your second,” Jem said quietly. “Oh, Hal. I’ll do what I can for you. I’ll help you go through with it and hide the scandal however I can, or if you want to call it off, I can try to negotiate with Wadsworth’s second.” He lifted his head up, hope sparking in his blue eyes. “What d’you say? There’s no shame at all in that. Calling it off. I’m sure I can get some sort of apology from Wadsworth if you’ll offer one of your own.”

Henry appeared to consider this. He gave it his best, dropping his right arm and stroking his chin in an expression of thought, though he knew it was impossible. An apology would not protect Henry. He needed the certainty of having defended himself. Of having fought and won at last.

Before he could demur, the door flew open. “Jemmy!”

Emily bustled into the room in a whirl of poppy-red muslin and a cloud of rose perfume, waving a note. “Jemmy, you will not believe what Caro told me. Only listen! Oh, Hal, hullo. Er…” She looked uncertain, and her hand with the note in it dropped to her side.

Jem sat up straighter. “Em, this isn’t a good time. We’re discussing… well, men’s business.” He tried to compose his face into a stern expression.

“Fiddle,” Emily said. She sat on the edge of Jem’s desk, twisting her torso so she could glare at both brothers at once. “If you’re discussing what I think you’re discussing, then you both ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

“What do you think we’re discussing?” Jem was tugging at his cravat again.

“One of you has done something very stupid.” Emily waved the note again. “Maybe both of you have. Hal, you young idiot, Caro has told me everything, and I simply can’t believe you would let yourself be—”

Henry could not be seeing right. He snatched at the paper. “This is from Caro?”

“Yes, and as I was saying, she told me all about the challenge you issued. Jem, you must make this tangle go away. You can’t permit—”

Henry cut her off again. “This note. This one in my hand. This is from Caro.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

She kept talking; Henry heard the smooth flow of her words, lifting every once in a while for emphasis. Sometimes Jem’s low voice would answer. But Henry had no idea what they said. He just stared and stared at the paper in his hand.

It was wrong. Something was very wrong.

He knew this paper well, the heavy, cloth-like feel of it. He knew the seal pressed into the thick splotch of red wax. But he had never seen this handwriting before in his life. It was a careless thread of nearly illegible loops, not the angular, confident script he knew as Caro’s.

Yes, Henry had done something very stupid, though he did not know what. And someone else had done something stupid too. He felt as if he were stumbling through the Bossu Wood again, seeing nothing that was important.

“This note was written by Lady Stratton?” he demanded through the clutter of voices. One last time, to be absolutely sure.

Emily and Jem fell silent, and Emily looked more worried than Henry had ever seen her. “Yes,” she confirmed. “But if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to clout you with a poker.”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Henry said. “Excuse me, I have to go. Emily, if you need to clout someone, Jem will have to stay behind and serve the purpose.”

He took the note with him, and he left.