Royally Ever After

“I know you think this is a hilarious joke, taunting me to come out to this place,” she said.

“I wasn’t sure how else to get you alone,” he said.

“We are not alone,” she said.

He glanced toward Amy and Mr. Bates, who seemed to having a controversy about the weapons. “This will do. For the moment.”

“Since we are somewhat alone,” she said, “I ought to warn you: I’ve actually decided not to kill you, no matter how great the temptation. I shall fire into the air.”

“I beg you will not,” he said. “You might harm an innocent bird.”

“I most certainly will not fire at you.”

“It would only be fair,” he said. “Because I most certainly mean to fire at you.”

“No, you don’t,” she said.

“I do—and I urge you to shoot straight at me,” he said. “I promise you’ll feel better afterward. Trust me.”

Amy stomped toward them. “This is most irregular,” she said. “The combatants are not supposed to be enjoying a tête-à-tête.”

“Lord Lovedon was bored,” Chloe said. “He came to amuse himself at my expense, because you and Mr. Bates are taking an eternity.”

“What seems to be the difficulty?” Lord Lovedon said.

“The dueling ground,” Amy said.

“Ah, yes,” Lord Lovedon said. “According to The British Code of the Duel, as Miss Renfrew is now aware, the seconds must ‘choose out a snug sequestered spot, where the ground is level, and no natural, terrestrial, or celestial line presenting itself to assist either party in his views of sending his opponent into eternity.’ ”

Chloe stared at him.

“I have a terrifying memory,” Lord Lovedon said.

“Well, we’ve settled it,” Amy said. “Lord Lovedon, would you be so good as to accompany Mr. Bates. Chloe, you’re to come with me.”

The seconds chose the place where the Duke of Wellington and the Earl of Winchilsea had fought their duel a few years ago. It was the site Lovedon had suggested to Bates—fitting, Lovedon thought, today being the twentieth anniversary of Waterloo. Though Miss Renfrew evidently required persuading, she had to see it was a suitable spot, a stretch of flat ground near the river, not easily visible to passersby.

One had to cross a drainage ditch to get there. Lovedon offered to carry Miss Sharp over it.

“That won’t be necessary,” she told him. “Today I’m painfully sober.”

He watched her make the small leap. For a second, her skirts lifted, and he had a glimpse of purple half-boots. He smiled.

It was the one bright element in her attire. She’d worn what he guessed was an archery dress: The dark blue garment’s sleeves were not the vast, ballooning ones fashion dictated, but fitted tight, especially along the lower arms. Instead of an immense bonnet festooned with feathers and ribbons and lace, she wore a tiny black hat.

The costume made her a narrower target.

He supposed she’d done it on purpose to mock him. That was more or less why he’d donned dueling dress: uniformly dark clothing, including his neck cloth, which was black. He was mocking himself, as well he ought.

Thanks to boredom and drink, he’d been a stupendous lout yesterday. Yet if he’d behaved well, he wouldn’t have discovered her. He wouldn’t have had the fun of writing incendiary notes and picturing her gleefully composing her replies.

He watched the seconds gravely mark out the field. Then Miss Renfrew guided Miss Sharp to her place. Bates, wearing a look of exasperation, approached and said, “You’ll stand here—and you had better pray that nobody gets wind of this.”

“My lips are sealed,” Lovedon said.

“How I wish that were ever true,” Bates said.

He then proceeded to the halfway point between the duelists and asked if there was any possibility of reconciliation.

Miss Sharp shook her head.

Bates looked to Lovedon.

He shook his head.

The lowering sun gilded the fields. A gentle breeze caressed his face.

What a splendid evening for a duel, he thought.

Trust me.

Amy put the pistol in Chloe’s hand. It was quite small and oddly shaped, double-barreled, and stunningly ornate: gold, with exquisite enameling, and set with pearls and diamonds. She stared at it.

“It’s French,” Amy said. “You cock it with this.” She indicated a part. “Then it works the same as any other pistol, Mr. Bates said. But it has a very short range. I suspect it’s easier to injure somebody by hitting them in the head with the grip. In any event, we need to shorten the dueling distance. Do you mind? I pointed out to Mr. Bates that the minimum distance is no less than three yards. I do wish I knew what was in Lord Lovedon’s mind.”

“He’s whimsical,” Chloe said.

“Yes, everyone says so. And it’s mere form, of course. So many duels are, you know. One goes through the motions—”

“Yes, yes,” Chloe broke in impatiently. “But we must do it Lord Lovedon’s way.” She’d called him a coward and no gentleman. She’d refused to apologize. That, Amy had said, gave him the choice of weapons and terms. And the first shot. “If he wants to dirty his pretty French pistols by shooting them off, that’s his choice.”

Shoot straight at me . . . Trust me.

Though she knew—she was positive—she had nothing to be afraid of, her heart was pounding very hard. She cocked the weapon as Amy had instructed and held it down by her side.

She was aware of Lord Lovedon following the same procedure, but it was a distant awareness. So many wild thoughts raced through her mind that she couldn’t keep up with them, let alone make sense of them. Her heart wouldn’t slow. She knew nothing terrible would happen, yet she was panicking all the same.

She was aware of Lord Lovedon coming much closer.

This was too close.

They were very small pistols, but small ones tended to be highly inaccurate. She might hurt him by accident. But no, they couldn’t be loaded. He wouldn’t shoot her and he couldn’t possibly want her to shoot him.

Could he?

This was absurd. He was doing it on purpose to aggravate her. Whimsical, indeed.

Mr. Bates said, “Miss Renfrew will ask if you are ready, then count to two, and give the word to fire. Is that clear?”

Lord Lovedon nodded.

Chloe nodded, though nothing was at all clear.

“Ready?” Amy called out.

No, I’m not even slightly ready.

“One.”

Chloe sucked in air.

“Two.”

She let it out.

“Fire.”

Lord Lovedon raised his pistol and pointed it at her.

Trust me.

He fired.

A little blue and green bird sprang up from between the two barrels.

It twirled and fluttered its wings and sang, “Tweet tweet tweet tweet tweet.”

Her face was a picture. Lovedon had all he could do to maintain his composure.

Then laughter spilled out of her, great gulps and whoops and funny little snorts.

“Your turn, Miss Sharp,” he said.

She turned away, laughing, holding her pistol to her belly.

He stood watching her, marveling at the exuberance and joy of her. She laughed in the same way she’d defended her sister: with all her heart.

“Miss Sharp,” he said.

She went off into whoops again. Then she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress and returned to her dueling stance—body sideways, her glowing face straight on, pistol at her side. She brought up the pistol and fired.

A little blue and green bird popped up between the barrels and fluttered its wings and turned its head this way and that, so wondrously like a real bird, and it tweeted in the cheerful, beckoning way of a bird seeking its mate.

For a time, their birds tweeted and flirted with each other.

She watched the birds. When they stilled, she look

ed at him.

“I see,” she said in a trembling voice. “They’re French.”

“I would say excessively so.”

She held out the singing bird pistol. He took it from her, letting his hand graze hers. He put the birds back into their respective hiding places in the devices, then stepped away to return them to the pistol case, which Bates had left on the ground nearby. When Lovedon rose, he saw the two seconds walking back to the carriages, leaving the duelists to sort themselves out.