Chapter 22
“You seem nervous,” Thomas said, as he cast an appraising glance over Rupert. “Like someone in desperate need of a drink.”
Rupert tried to laugh.
In truth, he was nervous. He had spent all night preparing for this evening’s ball, but still, he felt as if he had forgotten something. His jacket was perfectly fitted and had been brushed down to make sure there was not even the tiniest bit of lint on it.
His valet had spent hours making sure his hair was perfectly right. His cravat was perfectly tied, so tightly, in fact, that he almost felt as if he could not breathe. But as he came into the parlor of the gentleman’s club where Thomas was waiting for him, he still felt ill at ease.
Thomas had agreed to meet him at White’s ahead of the ball in order to have a drink and try to calm his nerves. It was kind of him, as Rupert knew his friend had business to attend to before the ball. But that was the kind of friend he was: he always made time for important conversations.
And this was important.
“I suppose I am nervous,” Rupert said, sitting down in the armchair across from his friend. It was deserted at White’s, thankfully, and no one was around to listen in on their conversation.
“Everyone is off preparing for the ball your supposed future brother-in-law is hosting,” Thomas said, as if reading his mind. He raised an eyebrow. “In case you forgot you are supposed to be going to that.”
“Of course I have not forgotten,” Rupert said gruffly. “I just needed a moment to gather myself and collect my thoughts.”
“Well. Let us get you a drink first, at least.” Thomas signaled for a waiter, who hurried over with a scotch.
Rupert took it gratefully and took a long sip.
It burned, but in a pleasant, clarifying way that helped him to see things more clearly.
When he set down the glass, Thomas was watching him with amusement.
“So, what troubles you, my friend?” he asked.
Rupert shook his head. “This whole thing troubles me. Everything about it feels off.”
“You mean the engagement.”
“Even before that,” Rupert said, frowning. “Beginning with our trip to Dover and my inability to make the sales. The fact that someone is trying to steal my title from me, or at least rid me of it. And the fact that now I must fake an engagement with the only woman that I…”
He frowned and did not continue. The words seemed to stick in his throat. It felt tighter than usual, but he thought that was just because of the cravat.
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “The only woman that you… what?”
Rupert looked at his friend testily. “I care about her, all right? Do I have to say it so plainly?”
“I think you do, in fact.”
“And she deserves better than this, Thomas! Better than a man who is going to announce to the entire ton his intention to marry her, only for him to walk away and allow her to marry someone else once the whiff of scandal has passed.”
Thomas watched him seriously. “I know,” he said. “I agree with you. The whole thing is a terrible plan. I have been trying to say that.”
“But what am I to do?” Rupert insisted. “Her brother has made it very clear that he does not see me as a worthy husband for his sister. And how can I disagree with him when I might be disinherited? What will I do if I lose my title? I will have to try and purchase a commission in the Army, but with what money? I will have nothing! All the money will go to my uncle, and…”
“And surely he would take care of you,” Thomas said reasonably.
“I suppose.” Rupert felt too hot. He really needed to loosen this cravat.
Why was it so tight? Everything felt as if it were piling up on his shoulders, on his chest, weighing him down, squeezing him until all the air would be crushed from his lungs.
“But I do not know what will happen. The dukedom will be in such disgrace that even my uncle might not be able to rescue it from ruin. And if I am married to Beatrice…” He hesitated.
“Our sons will have nothing. They will not become dukes. They will not be able to inherit anything! I cannot do that to her.”
There was a long silence as both men stared into the flames of nearby fire, which was crackling merrily in the grate, unaware of the sadness that filled Rupert’s chest, the fear that was pressing down with all the force of a five-ton rock.
“I do not know what the answer is,” Thomas murmured at long last. “But I do know that if you care for this girl, you cannot let her brother decide her fate. You have to find out what she wants. And what you want. The rest… Well, the rest is up to fate. But it seems to me that if she wants to marry you despite the burden hanging over you, then that is her choice to make. Not Lord Ashford’s. ”
Rupert stared into the flames for a long time, thinking. He knew that Thomas was right. It was Beatrice’s choice. And hadn’t that always been what she said she wanted? To decide for herself, to not let her brother decide for her?
And wasn’t Rupert doing the same thing, by deciding they could not wed? Should he not ask her what she preferred?
“My mother said something to me before I left to meet you here.” Rupert looked up, his throat very dry. “Just as I was preparing to leave, she came into the entrance hall and put her hand on my arm, and she said…”
He found he could not speak another word. He stared at Thomas, willing the word to come, but nothing happened.
Thomas frowned. “What did she say?”
The words echoed through Rupert’s head, as clear as if his mother was still standing in front of him, smiling with so much pride and happiness. I am so happy for you, my darling boy, to see that you have found the kind of love your father and I had.
It had sent shockwaves through him to hear those words. Love? Did he love Beatrice?
He cared about her, yes. He wanted to protect her, absolutely. He felt that he would die if anyone harmed her, that he would murder anyone who put her in danger. But love?
The love his mother and father had shared had been the benchmark for love his whole life. Something he could only ever hope to live up to. Something that had made him always feel inadequate, especially after the few liberties he had taken that had branded him a rake.
Love was not something he deserved.
And Beatrice…
She deserved it more than anything.
Rupert cleared his throat. “This engagement that I am about to announce,” he said. “I want it to be real.”
It was as close as he could get to repeating his mother’s words.
“So make it real,” Thomas said, leaning forward. “Once the ton accepts it, you do not have to end it, even if that is what Ashford wants.”
“But the title…”
“And we investigate that together,” Thomas said.
“Get to the bottom of whoever is trying to ruin you. Then prove them wrong. The dowager duchess can help you. She may remember old enemies of your father. And her word will count for something, when the Lord Chancellor interviews her. She has always been an honorable woman. He will believe her.”
Slowly, Rupert nodded, and when he looked back at his friend, he felt the first flutterings of hope since he had spoken to Viscount Hastings in his office.
Could it really be possible? To not lose everything, but to actually gain the woman who so often occupied his thoughts?
Thomas clapped him on the shoulder. “Come now, you really ought to get going. You would not want to be late to your own ball. You and Miss Ashford have to open the dancing.”
“You will not be long, I assume?” Rupert asked as he stood. “I know that the hell has to come first, but I would very much like to see my closest friend there.”
“I will not be long, do not worry,” Thomas said, winking at him. “Now, go and enjoy your ball. Hopefully I shall be there in time to see you get drunk enough to kiss your fiancé.”
Rupert rolled his eyes. “There will be no kissing. Her brother would have my head. And the ton has witnessed enough scandal. We do not need to give them any more.”
“Whatever you say.”
Outside, Rupert stepped up into his carriage. The conversation with Thomas had soothed him, and for the first time in days, his heart was not racing and he did not have a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe there really was hope…
The carriage trundled along the dark streets of London, going back toward Mayfair, back toward the Ashford townhouse, where everyone would be waiting for him.
He was lost in thought, thinking already of the forthcoming dance with Beatrice and how beautiful she would look in his arms, when, out of nowhere, he heard a terribly familiar sound.
Bang. Bang, bang, bang!
Gunshots!
Rupert leapt forward, staring wildly out the window, but it was too dark on the street to see anything. The carriage, however, began to move faster, as the horses were spooked by the sound.
“What is happening?” he called out to his driver, but the man made only a strange, strangled sound that filled Rupert with fear. Was it possible he had been hit? That his life was in danger?
Bang!
Another shot sounded, and this one ripped through the carriage, speeding past Rupert’s head so quickly that he felt, rather than saw, it. The force of it was so strong, that he fell backward, onto the ground, looking up to see it lodged into the side of the carriage.
Fear filled him. The carriage was going so fast. The driver outside was yelling. The horses were screaming and whinnying. And whoever was trying to kill him was firing again. He could hear the bullets whizzing through the air outside of the carriage.
“Hurry!” he shouted to the driver. “Get us out of here!”
He was clearly trying. But the speed of the carriage was too fast. And Rupert knew, with deadly certainty, that they were going to crash.
There was no way a carriage of this size could take a turn at this speed, and London streets were short and narrow.
They were going to have to turn, and then they would topple, and he would be crushed by the carriage.
Outside, he no longer heard the sound of gunshots, which at least was something. Perhaps they had left the attackers behind.
The next second, however, Rupert’s worst fears were realized, as the driver let out a fearful cry and the horses screamed even louder.
Then the carriage began to tilt. He braced himself, trying to grab onto something to keep from falling over, but his hands slipped on the window frame, and the next second, the carriage was toppling over, and he was going with it.
With a horrendous crash, the carriage smashed into the cobblestone street, and Rupert felt himself being hurled through the air.
There were several, suspended moments before anything happened when one image came to him, so stark that it seemed like a beacon of light in the dark: an image of Beatrice’s face, how she had looked at him on the road, while they were sharing a meager meal while her clothes dried behind the tree.
She had looked so beautiful then, and he had felt, in that moment, something that he had never felt before.
Something that he had been trying to deny to himself for weeks now, but which, in the last second before he smashed into the wall of the carriage and was then crushed in the wreckage, he could no longer deny. Not when his life was on the line.
Beatrice.
She was the last thing he saw, the last word that he heard ricocheting around his brain. The next second, his body smashed headlong into the side of the carriage, his head hit something hard, and everything went dark.