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.