Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
U nsurprisingly, Tiffany was confined to her room once more, and this time a sturdy footman was posted outside the door. Elinor shouted at her a lot, went away to find Cornforth, then came back and shouted at her again.
‘Your brother is dressing for the day. Had I not risen early to walk with Lady Greensword we might never have known you were missing! What were you thinking , Theophania?’
Tiffany, who wanted a hot bath so badly it almost made her cry, sat on the bed and contemplated her future.
She would have to marry the Duke. If he would offer for her, at least. Because despite her best efforts he still did not know every rule of etiquette in this country, and perhaps he might think he could get away with it.
He probably could. He was a duke, after all. But she would be ruined forever. Denied entry to Society for the rest of her life. Oh, the balls and the parties she could do without, but being snubbed by absolutely everyone forever? Elinor would keep her locked up here at Dyrehaven—or worse. Tiffany was absolutely sure women had been confined to Bedlam for less.
And if he did offer for her? How could she possibly be a duchess? This was after all the man who had blackmailed her into helping him.
Although … he hadn’t seemed all that upset about her using magic so far. He’d rather seemed quite impressed by it. But the fact remained, he’d blackmailed her. Or at the very least manipulated her.
She would escape and go to Aunt Esme’s. As soon as Elinor left she would summon a raven and send word, and then she would climb out of the window again and go—somehow, although she was hazy on the details of coach travel—she would go to London, or to Kent. Tiffany wasn’t completely sure where Kent was, but she was sure someone would have a Paterson’s Roads she could consult. The stagecoach came through the village a few times a week. Perhaps Amy Proudbody could shelter her, and?—
‘Theophania! Are you even listening to me? I have never known a girl so rude.’
Tiffany looked up at Elinor, in her ostentatiously simple dress with her hair artfully styled to look effortless, at the red blotches on her cheeks and the white patches on her knuckles. And she realised she wasn’t afraid.
‘Please stop calling me Theophania,’ she said.
Elinor looked nonplussed for a moment, then rallied. ‘That is the name your parents gave you.’
‘Well, it is the name my mother gave me,’ said Tiffany. ‘My father having avoided me all my life and my mother having abandoned me when I was too young to remember. Perhaps their choices are not the ones we should be honouring right now.’
Elinor gasped. ‘It is a sin to not honour thy father and thy mother!’
A sin, Tiffany decided giddily, that could probably wait to be dealt with, after all the witchcraft.
‘You are so ungrateful!’ Elinor stormed on.
Tiffany took in a deep breath and let it out. ‘I am very grateful to you,’ she said, ‘and Cornforth, for raising me and introducing me to Society.’ That part wasn’t entirely true, but she thought she ought to give Elinor something. ‘But I should not have been left with you. It is not a sibling’s duty to care for children. I don’t see why I should be grateful to parents who clearly had no interest in my welfare from the moment I was born. And probably before that,’ she added, considering her father had left long before her birth.
‘Wicked girl!’ Elinor gasped.
‘Well then, isn’t it well that you will soon be rid of me?’ said Tiffany. She felt lightheaded, as if she could float away. The future she had dreamed of, leaving Elinor and becoming independent, was almost upon her. Aunt Esme would know what to do.
Santiago would know what to do, too, but she should probably keep her distance from him for now. Besides, he would want a proper wife soon enough, and Tiffany was to be ostracised from Society.
He might offer for you . But if he did, should she say yes? She didn’t want to be married! The closeness they had shared last night would never translate into marriage and besides, being married meant being someone’s property, and the prospect of that after the hope of independence was too much to bear.
She tried not to think about how perfect it had felt to fall asleep in his arms last night.
‘Theophania,’ said Elinor, a calculating look in her eyes. ‘Did you plan this?’
‘No,’ said Tiffany wearily. ‘Believe me, marrying the Duke is the last thing I want to do.’
* * *
It was the only thing Santiago wanted. And the one thing he couldn’t do.
‘… perhaps not your choice of bride, but you must understand there is no alternative,’ said Lord Cornforth.
He was seated at his desk in his study, a neat room with estate maps on the walls. He seemed somewhat hastily dressed, and Santiago realised it was probably not even breakfast time for the gentlemen who had stayed up late playing billiards and drinking.
‘Theophania is, of course, an earl’s daughter, and has been raised in the expectation of running a large household. I am sure she will make a most acceptable wife. We can apply for a special licence; I am on friendly terms with the Bishop of Westminster, so we can simply announce it as a love match, cemented during a house party, and hold the wedding as soon as?—’
‘No,’ said Santiago.
Cornforth blinked. His eyes were not the same blue as Tiffany’s. They were somewhat insipid.
‘No?’
Santiago took a deep breath. He was a duke, after all.
‘Lady Tiffany has made it clear that she does not wish to marry. And therefore, I will not force her.’
Cornforth blinked a few more times, as if it would help him to understand. ‘But, Your Grace—she has been compromised. Her honour has been compromised.’
Santiago thought about protesting that he had very carefully not compromised her honour in any way, and realised that even if he were believed, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Hadn’t Tiffany told him, that very first night, that simply being alone together was a risk?
This stupid goddamn country and their stupid goddamn rules.
‘I must honour her wishes,’ he said.
Cornforth looked down at his desk, and then out of the window. Then he said, ‘Your Grace, you were seen by Lady Greensword and the Misses Belmont and my own wife. We cannot pretend it didn’t happen.’
In a somewhat detached manner, Santiago considered that they probably could, because he had met very few problems in his life that couldn’t be fixed with enough money.
His fingers absently came up to stroke the scar on his face. That had been one of them. This was another.
‘If you refuse my sister,’ Cornforth said, his voice steady, ‘then you understand I will have to meet you.’
‘Meet me?’
‘In a duel.’
Santiago exhaled sharply. ‘Just like my father,’ he said, and for some grim reason that made him laugh.
The hands of the past reached forward for him again, and this time they had him in their grasp. He was turning into his father. Dishonouring a woman and killing her brother in a duel?—
But he had no intention of killing Lord Cornforth. He opened his mouth to say so, and then caught the other man’s expression.
Cornforth had that very English complexion that stained red on the cheeks, and right now they were crimson. His nostrils flared. His lips were tight.
‘You think this is a laughing matter?’ he said.
Santiago held up a conciliatory hand. ‘No. Of course not. I was only thinking?—’
Cornforth stood abruptly. ‘I advise you to name your second, Your Grace. I will be asking my brother to stand up with me. I will give you time to make the arrangements.’
‘Arrangements?’ Was the man serious?
Cornforth’s eyes were cold. ‘You have seriously maligned the honour of my sister, and as such I must challenge you. You will meet me in a duel, Your Grace.’
‘And if I do not?’
Lord Cornforth looked down at him through centuries of breeding, and said, ‘You will.’
* * *
By dint of drawing a raven feather and using it to summon a bird, Tiffany was able to send a message to Aunt Esme, but however fast ravens flew, it wasn’t fast enough to get her there before a full day had passed, during which time Tiffany was confined to her room with only Morris bringing her the occasional meal.
‘What is happening?’ she asked each time, and Morris got that terrified look she had when Elinor shouted at her, and said she didn’t know.
Had Santiago offered for her? Had Cornforth refused? She couldn’t think of any reason why he would—Santiago was a duke, for heaven’s sake, and a wealthy one at that, and there were no obvious stains on his character—at least, none that Society appeared to know about. Not that she wanted to marry him, of course, but … but … why hadn’t he asked?
She spent the whole day, from dawn to dusk, fretting and planning. Her mind wouldn’t settle. She would convince herself that everything would be all right, and she could go and live with Aunt Esme and be a witch, and then just as quickly despair that she would never be allowed to attain her dream, because what woman did? She would be forced to marry Santiago and spend the rest of her life bearing his children and marrying them off. She would become cold and manipulative, like Elinor, and Santiago would pay her less and less attention until they barely spoke.
Once or twice she considered making herself unseen and climbing out of the window, but she was too tired and too out of sorts to make it work, and besides, where would she go?
When she tried to sleep, her mind strayed to the feeling of Santiago’s warm, hard body against hers. It had been pleasant. And the way he’d looked at her in the lane just before they were discovered had her feeling decidedly warm inside. Perhaps marrying him wouldn’t be so bad. She still had his neckcloth. Maybe she could use it to find him.
Only … if he were going to offer for her then surely he’d have done it by now? And someone would have come to tell her? Why was she being kept in isolation? Perhaps Elinor feared her moral decay was contagious.
And then, some time in the early morning, there was a commotion in the hall that came closer and closer to her room.
There was Elinor’s voice, arguing and complaining, and then?—
‘Oh do be quiet, child, and get out of my way.’
Aunt Esme!
The door was unlocked and Esme stood there in what appeared to be a coachman’s caped greatcoat and boots. ‘Tiffany,’ she said, her face full of hauteur. ‘Have you been locked in here all this time?’
She nodded.
Esme turned to Elinor and for a moment Tiffany thought she would strike her. Instead she snapped, ‘Dreadful woman,’ and swept into the room, locking Elinor out of it.
Carefully placing the key on the dresser, she waved her hand and muttered something under her breath. ‘There, now she can’t hear us. Are you all right?’
Tiffany nodded. ‘I’m bored more than anything. They won’t tell me what’s going on. Is Santiago all right?’
‘I have no idea. They said he has gone,’ said Esme.
Tiffany’s stomach dropped. ‘Gone?’
‘Yes. They didn’t say where. He is a resilient young man, I am sure he will be fine.’
Of course he would. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that he had been out all night with her and ought to offer marriage and instead he had just … gone.
I suppose it is a good job I did not want to marry him.
But she could not quiet the sick, dull feeling inside her.
Esme sat beside Tiffany on the bed. ‘Your message was not detailed. Tell me what happened.’
Tiffany did, earning approval for her building of the shelter and frank admiration for the rough music.
‘I see you have become better at threatening people,’ Esme said.
‘I told him he could sleep in a ditch. I do hope he didn’t wash away,’ Tiffany said, frowning.
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Esme. ‘Now. Is there any chance you could be with child?’
Tiffany felt herself go cold and then hot. ‘I—I don’t know,’ she said. ‘How would I know?’
Esme’s eyebrows rose, and then she glanced at the door where, no doubt, Elinor was trying to listen in.
‘She has not explained these facts to you?’
Tiffany shook her head, and then Esme proceeded to explain in brisk, mortifying detail precisely how a woman could get with child. It sounded… Well, it sounded terrifying, if she was honest.
She told herself this made it even better that the Duke didn’t want to marry her.
‘Nothing like that happened,’ she said faintly, when it was over. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Good. That makes things simpler. Madhu made you up a remedy just in case,’ she added.
‘Madhu? But … what do you mean, just in case?’ Tiffany said.
‘I have seen the way you two look at each other,’ said Esme. ‘Frankly, it is only a matter of time. Now. Do you wish to marry him?’
‘It doesn’t appear to be my choice,’ Tiffany said, despairing.
‘There is always a choice,’ said Esme. ‘You could exit Society completely and come and live with me. I have a house in Cornwall. It is very pleasant.’
Cornwall. About as far from London as you could get. It wasn’t quite the life of independence Tiffany had been imagining. It was a life in exile.
But if she married him, she’d be stuck with him forever. And he might seem handsome and charming now, but what if he, a well-travelled man, got bored of London Society and vanished to travel the world again? She would be left behind with the children, doomed to repeat her mother’s mistakes. Marry in haste, repent at leisure.
Esme watched her face. ‘We shall leave right away,’ she said. ‘What do you want to take with you?’
* * *
The private parlour at the Pale Hound Inn was not particularly large or luxurious, but it was private, and it was the only one in Churlish Green. The village was all abuzz about some event that had happened the night before, and they had been fascinated to see a personage such as the Duke of St James stride in with his valet and demand a bedchamber.
‘How many nights, Your Grace?’ asked the innkeeper.
‘Just one for now,’ said Santiago bleakly. After all, he might not be here when dawn broke.
All those years he’d been determined not to turn into his father.
William had arrived that evening, and calmly instructed Santiago on the rituals of a duel. Billy, inevitably tagging along, was a mixture of excitement and fear.
‘But you’ll win, won’t you, guv?’ he said.
‘I shall strive to,’ said Santiago.
He was now, under William’s quiet instruction, writing notes. To his solicitors, instructing them what to leave to William and to Billy and Robinson; to de Groot, asking him to keep an eye on the business until William could find a replacement; and to Tiffany, to…
To say what?
I know you don’t want to marry me, but your family thinks you should, and for that reason your brother and I are going to shoot each other at dawn.
Lord Cornforth was an English gentleman. Tiffany had explained to him that such young men were educated by tutors and boarding schools, and not just in Greek and Latin but in how to shoot and fence, too.
Santiago had not. Oh, he knew how to handle a pistol, but the damn things were temperamental and inaccurate and whenever he’d needed to use one he generally hadn’t had the time to stand quietly and take aim. He preferred fighting with his fists. You could take someone out without killing them, with fists. But a pistol? It really only had one purpose, and that was to kill.
‘William, this is stupid,’ he said, not for the first time.
‘Yes, it is,’ agreed his brother, who was drinking small beer and staring at the window, waiting for the sun to begin peeping over the horizon. They had, by mutual decision, lied to Billy and Robinson about when the duel was to take place, and so those two were both still asleep upstairs.
‘And it doesn’t solve anything! Look at our father.’
‘Every time I look in the mirror,’ murmured William.
Santiago stared down at the letter, which so far only bore a salutation. And not the one he wanted to write anyway.
My dearest, Tiffany.
I want very much to marry you, but you do not want to marry me, and so I will not force you. I hope you can find the independence you crave and that you will live your glorious life in the best way possible. And I hope you see the pyramids.
With all my heart, your Santiago.
But he didn’t write that. He simply wrote ‘ I’m sorry ,’ and folded the paper.
‘We should go,’ he said. ‘Before it gets light. We mustn’t be late.’
The site of the duel had been set, with incredible irony, as the monastery hill that was to blame for their situation in the first place. Perhaps then, if Cornforth shot him, his last memory would be of holding Tiffany in his arms.
Santiago had faced the prospect of death several times—at sea, on desperate streets, by the blade of a pirate queen. But he had never been offered an appointment for it.
Quietly, they left the inn. The monastery hill rose over the village, black against the moonlight. Everything was silent.
‘Let’s go.’
* * *
Tiffany glanced up at the sky as they hurried along the sunken lane towards the village. Amy Proudbody would probably still be abed, but Tiffany could at least leave her a note. She wanted to know that she was doing well, and she wanted Amy to send on word of Henry as soon as she could.
‘We will have to use a door at the inn,’ said Esme. ‘Really, it would have been much more convenient to leave straight from Dyrehaven.’
‘Convenient, but not necessarily right,’ said Tiffany.
Esme had grumbled that she couldn’t open a door between two places if she didn’t know one of them, and had only managed to get them out of the house by staring out of the window at a stable door. Tiffany didn’t really understand how any of that worked, but given it would only take a few minutes to get to the village, she couldn’t see it doing any harm.
Then she saw the light up on the hill.
‘Do you?—’
Esme squinted at it, and then she made a sort of gesture with her hands like she was stretching out the air in front of her to magnify the view.
‘There are people up there. Men. Some sort of village ritual? We are well past Beltane and it is not yet the Solstice.’
‘I can’t think of anything,’ Tiffany said. ‘What are they doing?’
Esme peered, and then her face changed.
‘They are pacing away from each other. Holding pistols.’
‘A duel?’ said Tiffany. Her stomach clenched. There was only one reason for a duel she could think of—and only two people who could be involved. She dropped her bag and began to run.
She was halfway up the hill when the shots rang out.
* * *
William rubbed his hands together as he returned from meeting with Cornforth’s second, a brother he’d rustled up at short notice.
He shook his head.
‘It’s marriage or nothing,’ he said. ‘Mr Worthington says his lordship won’t budge.’
And neither will Tiffany . She had been unequivocal.
He nodded, checking over his pistol. It had been supplied by Mr Worthington—apparently the one in the diplomatic service, who had probably hushed up many duels in the past.
‘Do you intend to delope?’ said William.
‘Fire into the air? Yes. Of course. I have no reason to kill him.’
I am not my father .
‘He might kill you.’
Santiago glanced up from his pistol to where Cornforth was standing ready. ‘He might.’ He took off his coat and handed it to his brother, then reached into the pocket and took out the necklace Tiffany had given him, winding its ribbon around the fingers of his left hand.
Then he moved to stand back-to-back with Cornforth.
‘You will take care of Tiffany,’ Santiago said quietly, over his shoulder. ‘She is very special.’
‘She is.’ There was no discernable tone to Cornforth’s voice.
‘Ready?’ called William.
‘And you will apportion her no blame for this,’ said Santiago urgently. ‘She did nothing wrong at all.’
‘Are you ready?’ said Cornforth in reply.
Santiago squeezed the pendant in his fist. ‘Ready.’
They paced the agreed fifteen steps and turned.
Santiago thought of Tiffany, glowing like moonlight as she created actual magic.
‘Fire!’
He raised his arm in the air and fired straight up, eyes on Cornforth, as the other man aimed right at him and pulled the trigger.
* * *
Tiffany saw Santiago fall, and stumbled, her heart entirely stopping for a moment or two.
No no no no no!
Someone shouted, but Tiffany didn’t even hear the words. She lurched up the hill, every step seeming to take an hour, as the other figures ran towards Santiago. Her breath wouldn’t come. It was stuck on a sob in her throat. The hill was a hundred miles high. The air thick and impenetrable.
Finally, finally, she reached him, falling to her knees and clutching at his unmoving body. Mr Nettleship knelt there, tearing at Santiago’s collar. Cornforth stood a few feet away, the pistol still in his hand.
Santiago’s coat was already wet with blood. It spread across the chest and down his right arm.
‘What have you done?’ she cried, tearing at it. ‘Send for the doctor!’
‘I’ll go,’ said someone who might have been one of her other brothers.
‘He’s alive,’ said Mr Nettleship, his fingers at Santiago’s pulse.
‘I aimed high! I aimed to miss!’ cried Cornforth.
Santiago’s eyelids fluttered, and relief flooded her. ‘Can you hear me? Santiago? Wake up. Wake up, please. I’m sorry. Please don’t die, I love you.’
His hand came up and she grabbed it, gazing down at his face as his eyes opened. ‘Tiffany?’
‘Yes! I’m here. I’m here, my love. You’ll be all right,’ she reassured him, based on no evidence whatsoever. She began tugging at his coat. She had to see what the damage was. ‘Help me!’ she snapped at Mr Nettleship.
Santiago cried out as they eased his coat down one arm, and she bit back her own horror as she saw the blood soaking his shirtsleeve and waistcoat. Her fingers shook. She needed to see where the damage was and if there was anything she could do.
‘Tiffany! You cannot undress him,’ hissed Cornforth, as she yanked at Santiago’s waistcoat.
‘You shut up,’ she said, tears beginning to fall. ‘You shot him. You just shut up.’
‘You can undress me if you like,’ Santiago murmured.
‘Sound advice,’ came Esme’s voice from behind her, and relief flooded her. Esme would know what to do. ‘Now.’ She produced a knife and sliced his waistcoat open, flipping back the gory fabric and tearing at his shirt.
His golden skin was marked by black ink and dark hair, but no wounds. Tiffany blinked in confusion.
‘The sleeve,’ Esme said, and Tiffany tore at the fabric. He cried out again, and well he might, because the wound was on the inside of his right arm. And it looked awful, but it didn’t look like it was going to kill him.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Tiffany sobbed, and threw her arms around Santiago. After a moment she felt his other arm clumsily pat her on the back.
‘You didn’t aim high enough,’ said Esme drily.
‘I am not going to die today?’ he said, and she raised her head and pressed her lips to his.
‘No, you’re bloody well not,’ she said, clutching him to her. ‘But you are a ridiculous stupid man and I already regret marrying you.’
There was a hissed intake of breath from behind her.
‘Marrying me?’ said Santiago. ‘No—’ He tried to sit up and she pushed him back down. ‘ Querida , you don’t have to?—’
‘Are you dicked in the nob? Of course I have to.’ It suddenly seemed very clear to her now.
She absolutely could not face losing him.
‘Where did you hear a phrase like that?’ asked Cornforth in a strangled tone.
‘Nora,’ said Tiffany distractedly. To Santiago, she explained, ‘You clearly need someone to keep you out of trouble.’ His blood was soaking into her clothes again. Why was she always soaking wet around this man?
‘I cannot trap you,’ he said. ‘You said you wanted your independence.’
‘Bit late for that now,’ said Tiffany hysterically.
‘But I thought—you said—you don’t want to marry me…’
Tiffany drew back a little and looked down at his face. His stupid handsome face, with its scar and its golden skin and its dark beard stubble. His gold earring gleamed in the dawn light.
‘I don’t,’ she said icily, ‘recall you asking me.’
There was a short silence.
‘Do you mean to tell me,’ said Mr Nettleship slowly, ‘that you two just decided to have a duel—to the death —over the honour of a woman, and neither of you actually asked her what she wanted ?’
Santiago’s gaze slid away. ‘You had made it quite clear,’ he muttered.
‘I am capable of changing my mind!’ she said. ‘Did you really think it was better to die than to chance it?’
Another silence.
‘I take it back,’ she said in disgust. ‘I can’t marry you; you’re clearly mentally incapable.’
‘Too late,’ said Esme cheerfully. ‘Special licence?’ she said to Cornforth.
‘I’ll … write to the bishop,’ he said faintly.
‘You don’t have to,’ Santiago said, and Tiffany wanted to let go of him but couldn’t quite manage it.
‘And get married by banns? Like anybody? I wouldn’t dream of it. Come on, up you come, back to the house. We have a wedding to plan,’ said Tiffany, and started to wonder if she’d gone mad.