“Don’t rightly know what I said. Only know that Peterson … oh, yes, Peterson was there. Anyway, after the blighter leaves, Peterson looks at me an’ says, ‘That was ill-advised. The man’s known to be a crack shot.’”
Robert groaned—inwardly. “So you have two choices: Apologize publicly or ignore the challenge.”
“Three.”
“Three?”
“Three choices. I can show up at Daisy Hill at dawn next Wednesday.”
The famous, or infamous, Daisy Hill on the outskirts of Bath had obtained its cheery moniker by way of a cheerless reference. Those who dueled there were known to push up daisies not long after.
“Next week? That is strange; a duel should be fought within forty-eight hours.”
“Perhaps he has a busy schedule. He might have other duels on the go.”
Robert snorted at Cassidy’s gallows humor and then frowned at the thought. “You cannot possibly wish to put your family through the consequences of such foolishness.”
“Honor requires it, Robert. Imagine the shame if word got around. I’d be labeled a coward or worse. A stain across the family name.”
“Better than being dead.”
“I’m not sure my father would agree—”
“Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. Your father would be devastated. You are his heir.”
“He has a spare.”
Anger, too acute to share, forced Robert to clamp his jaws together. He breathed through his nose for some minutes, looking for calm. He found it at last, but not until he had come to two conclusions: He had to find out the cause of Cassidy’s insult, and he had to find a way for Cassidy to make amends … that did not involve pistols at dawn.
“I know you are not that cavalier with your life, Cassidy. If you were, you would not have come here at this ungodly hour. You would have shrugged at the challenge, gone home to your own bed, and thought nothing more of it until next week. No, I am the one person you knew who would not allow it; this duel will not take place.”
“I … I don’t understand, Robert. How did it happen? I meant no disrespect to anyone. How can I insult someone without intent to the degree that requires a challenge? I … I … I’m not a good shot, Robert. I’m almost as bad as you.”
Robert laughed despite himself. “I’m sure you could hit the broad side of a barn if it was required.”
Cassidy snorted, no longer looking quite as green around the gills. “You’ll help me?”
“Of course. We’ll talk about it later, when the port has worn off.”
“It was brandy.”
“Matters not to your brain. It will hurt like the devil when you wake up.”
Robert stood, ushering Cassidy ahead of him. Even as they climbed the stairs, Robert amended his schedule to include a visit to the Black Duck, though it would have to wait until late afternoon or even the evening. Lydia Whitfield was due at the firm of Lynch and Associates at one o’clock, precisely. He did not want to leave her in Mr. Lynch’s befuddled hands. Yes, that was the only reason he needed to be present for the meeting. It had nothing to do with missing someone he had only just met.
*
Now that the journey was under way, Lydia could relax. There was nothing more she could do. Their tardiness, or lack thereof, was in the hands of the coachman. And she had impressed upon the fellow her need to arrive at the law office at one o’clock, precisely.
As expected, the verdant scenes of tranquil fields, charming village churches, and vine-covered cottages brought Lydia a sense of calm. Though it did take a full quarter hour for those wonders to penetrate her high state of tension. Another quarter hour and she was feeling quite mild.
It was somewhere in this vicinity that Lydia noticed a great deal of silence emanating from across the great expanse of two feet, and her heightened mood returned. “Cora, is all well?”
Cora, who had been staring out the window in a posture similar to that of Lydia’s, started. She turned toward her friend and frowned, then smiled in a somewhat lackluster display. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Well, you have been so quiet of late. I noticed it some weeks back and was loath to point it out lest doing so would exacerbate the … but perhaps … well, a moving carriage couldn’t be more private to discuss any number of problems. If there is a problem requiring privacy … that is.”
Cora’s weak smile disappeared entirely, and she eyed Lydia in such a way that Lydia began to regret her approach. But the die was cast—the deed was done, in for a penny, in for a pound. Might as well take the bull by the horns. Lydia was fully aware that in her anxiety she had overused her metaphors.
“Finding your way in a new household can be difficult; I know that. Family norms are different—odd to those unused to the various personalities. Still, I was certain that you would feel at home, thought your well-being secured, when you were newly arrived at Roseberry. But … well, you have not been your usual self for some weeks. Very subdued, even your manner of dress has changed, rather restrained. I would have said it to be against your nature to be so prudent. But, well, there you are dressed head to toe in gray without the least embellishment. No hint of color.
“I could not be more sorry that our experiment has not succeeded. That you do not feel comfortable and happy. I thought it a grand plan—but in trying to help, I see that I have made a mull of the situation. You should not feel obligated to remain at Roseberry if it is not to your liking. I’m sure we could prevail upon one of our school chums to—perhaps Shelley might…”
Lydia was babbling, but she was not quite certain how to stop the flow of words; they seemed to keep falling from her mouth of their own accord. “Or find you a position more suited to your needs in Bath or even London. Perhaps it is the monotony of country living that is giving you this fit of the dismals.”
Thankfully, Cora lifted her hand, stemming the flow and rescuing Lydia from her runaway tongue.
“Dearest Lydia, I am not unhappy at Roseberry. It is my sanctuary. Ivy and Tessa are delights, as is the restfulness of country living. No, all is well in that regard. Please do not trouble yourself.”
“And yet you have changed.”
“Have I? Yes, I suppose it is true.” Cora turned back toward the window, but with no apparent interest in the passing scenes.
“Cora?”
“Hmm?”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you make my heart see sense?”
Perplexed, Lydia frowned. She opened her mouth to ask her friend’s meaning, but before she had the chance, Cora continued.
“I am not the first to be disappointed in love and likely not the last.”
It was such an unexpected statement that Lydia agreed without thought. But in the lapse of Cora’s conversation, Lydia cast her mind into the past. She remembered a gentleman much taken with Cora’s exuberance during their school days—the brother of one of the other girls, if she was recalling correctly. It had not seemed to be significant at the time, and yet, now on examination, Lydia remembered a comment or two in Cora’s letters. A surprise visit upon her return home.
“Mr. Granger? From Fullerton?”