The Secret Heart, page 20
After a brief argument with her mother—who wished to serve Pennington only in order to give him a piece of her mind—Lily took in his tea and left her mother to deal with the Vernes.
Lord Pennington sat by the fire, staring into the flames. A bottle of brandy and a half-empty glass sat by his elbow. Uneasily, she wondered how much of it he had drunk that afternoon, but at least it had quietened him. After his deliberate baiting of her in the hall, he seemed to have lost interest in her. He responded with a mere grunt when she informed him tea was on the table.
Only as she left, with a quick, worried glance at him over her shoulder, did he turn toward her. His eyes glittered, and there was an ugly curl to his lips.
Returning to the kitchen, she found Pete, the stable lad, returned from Finsborough. “Didn’t see no obvious villains,” he reported cheerfully. “Apart from the ones that live there already. The strangers at the inn all had good reason to be there, and no one’s been asking questions about the Hart.”
“Surprising,” Lily mused. “Here, have something to eat before you go back to the stables.”
Only a little later, word came via one of the Bunton’s farm servants that no one of dubious character, in fact, no strangers at all, had been seen lurking in the vicinity of the inn.
Why would Pennington come here alone to face Randolph? Lily wondered. What on earth is he up to?
She had just taken a fresh pot of tea to the Vernes when she heard someone else enter the coffee room. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She knew it was Pennington.
“Come to join us, Pennington?” Verne said, indicating the free chair at their table.
“No, actually, I was looking for the girl. Lily…what is your name?”
“Villin, sir,” she said woodenly. “Lily Villin.”
He laughed. “What a charmingly apt name. Well, Lily Villin, what does it cost to hire your…services?”
He could have meant anything, but she did not like his contemptuous tone, nor the faint hesitation before the word services.
“My services are not for hire, sir. I am the innkeeper’s daughter, and I am needed here.”
“I’ll pay as much as Hay did. If you perform the same services.”
She felt the blood rise into her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Oh come, I know he hired you, foisted you on polite society to spy on us, and prevent the delectable Millie from rushing into my arms.”
Verne said sharply. “Sir, this is not civil conversation.”
“No, it isn’t,” Pennington agreed. “But it is a public room. You are at liberty to leave, although I can’t imagine Hay is a friend of yours. I know he pursued your wife for long enough. How much, Lily Villin, to draw him back here? And share my bed as you did his?”
The sheer force of his malice drove her back a step, and he advanced with a mocking laugh.
But to her surprise, Lord Verne jumped to his feet and strode in front of Pennington. “That is enough. More than enough. Lily, go to your father.”
Lord Verne could be a thoroughly intimidating man when he chose to be. And he chose it now.
But Pennington seemed merely surprised. “Do I have to deal with your father for you?”
Lord Verne stared at him. “What is the matter with you? Leave the girl alone, she has already answered you.”
“So many protectors,” Pennington marveled.
“You’re right there,” her father said ominously from the door.
Lily had seen her parent cope with fights, drunks, and ill-behavior of many kinds. Usually, he didn’t even need any help, but on this occasion, he had the formidable Lord Verne on his side.
“Time for you to leave,” her father said, advancing into the room, his hands clenching in obvious threat.
“It’s your choice,” Pennington drawled. “I’ll leave with your daughter, or I’ll wait here, but I’m going rapidly off your hovel, innkeeper.”
“Then don’t let us keep you,” Lady Verne said coldly from Lily’s side. “Lily goes nowhere with you, and you are a boor to suggest it.”
“Before you, perhaps I am,” Pennington said, thoughtfully. “I apologize for that. But you would not defend the minx if you knew what she was.”
“And what is that?” asked a soft, totally unexpected voice.
Randolph. Lily’s heart soared and plummeted. He strolled into the room at his most casual and unthreatening. He was dressed for driving, in a many-caped coat and shiny black boots. Only a few fresh mud splashes revealed he had traveled far. From his demeanor, he might have dropped in to Brook Street from Hyde Park. Unless one knew him as Lily did.
His eyes might be bland and amiable, but every inch of him was poised, every careful movement exuded danger.
“You should not be here,” she said huskily.
“Not the welcome I was hoping for, but I suppose you have had a difficult day.” As he spoke, Randolph cast her a quick, assessing glance in which she saw all his anxiety. He was no longer the same, intriguing mystery to her. She knew his thoughts, his fears, his every expression as though they were her own.
“You asked me a question,” Pennington observed.
For the first time, it struck Lily that the frightening glitter in his eyes was not simply brandy but some insanity none of them could reach.
“I did,” Randolph agreed. “And you should be very, very careful how you answer.”
“I will be,” Pennington assured him with a smile. “You asked me what she is, this Lily of many names. She is, of course, your spy and your whore.”
Verne let out an exclamation of disgust, seizing his wife’s arm and plucking her further away. At the same time, her furious father and Randolph charged forward. Her father’s fists were already raised, but Randolph caught him by the shoulder.
“It’s not you he’s trying to rile, it’s me,” he said.
Pennington smiled. “Challenge me,” he taunted. “Call me out.”
Lily’s blood ran cold. “No,” she said hoarsely.
This was the one thing she had not thought of. He had set no trap for Randolph, who had already proved he could beat him in a fight and avoid murderous tricks. He had come for a straightforward duel, where one of them would die. Don’t answer him. Don’t dare…
“No,” Randolph said deliberately.
Pennington laughed. “Same coward you always were. You witnessed it, Verne! Very well, my lord Hay, I challenge you.”
“On what possible grounds?” Verne demanded before Randolph could even speak.
“Insulting my mother’s hospitality by bringing his whore to Pennington Place. I demand satisfaction.”
“Don’t,” Lily said in a strangled voice.
Randolph didn’t even look at her. “Very well,” he said. “Outside.”
Chapter Twenty
As Pennington left the room, exuding a weird kind of relief, Lily turned on Randolph.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, stricken.
“Don’t worry,” he said vaguely.
It was rare that he said anything stupid to her, and she could only stare at him in disbelief.
“Wait here,” he said, already striding toward the door. “Verne, I think you’ll have to serve as second to us both.”
“Randolph,” Lily blurted as a confusion of feelings and understanding struggled urgently for recognition. “I think…I think he wants you to kill him!”
It caught his attention, but only for an instant. “Don’t worry,” he repeated gently, and went out, Verne and Villin at his heels.
Lily and Lady Verne looked at each other. As one, they walked across the coffee room and followed the men outside.
By then, Pennington had fetched a box containing dueling pistols, which Verne opened and took out, testing the weight of each.
“Be careful,” Pennington warned. “They’re loaded and have a hair-trigger.”
“My first duty,” Verne said, “is to attempt a reconciliation. To my thinking, the matter is easily arranged. Hay, if you took an uninvited guest to Pennington Place, you must apologize. And you, Pennington, may easily apologize for your crude and unkind words about the young lady of the Hart.”
“Can’t do that,” Pennington said before Randolph could even open his mouth.
“Why not? You know it was only to rile him. And she does not deserve such treatment from people who regard themselves as her betters. I’m serving as your second, but I own I’ll think the worse of you for this fight.”
“It doesn’t matter. Give me the pistol.”
“This is idiocy,” Verne warned. “We don’t even have a doctor present.”
“Not yet,” Randolph murmured vaguely. He took the other pistol gingerly from Verne. “But, before we do this, Pennington, satisfy my curiosity. Why are we really doing this?”
“It’s all there is left.” There was a wealth of pain in those few words, piercing even Lily’s fears so that she stared at him, frowning. Pennington laughed. “Either way, I win. If I shoot you, you’re dead. If you shoot me, you’ll stand trial for murder, or flee the country.”
“Flawed logic. If you kill me, you’ll stand trial for murder.”
“It won’t matter. I’ll finally have beaten you.”
Randolph paused, eyeing him curiously. “Is that really what all this about? Beating me?”
Pennington blinked, as though confused for a moment. Then the breath hissed between his teeth in a mirthless laugh. “It does seem to have come down to that. There you stand, Lord Perfect Manners, Lord Wealthy, who never makes a mistake. The future marquess, top of all his classes and of sports teams. Sought after by hostesses and matchmaking mamas alike. Everything always came so easily to you, didn’t it? Because of who your father was, who you would one day be, everything just landed in your lap, from wealth to success. Even the one thing I could do, beat you, literally, no longer works!”
Randolph frowned, regarding him with genuine interest. “Is that really what you think? That it was easy? Did you not know I worked for those marks at school? That I used what I was good at—making friends—to combat physical fights I couldn’t win? And if you are thinking about our little contretemps at Pennington Place, that wasn’t easy either. When I decided what I wanted to do with my life, to look after my country, I decided there would be times when I would need more…aggressive skills. I hired people to teach me. And trust me, I spent a lot of time bruised from head to toe before I began to hold my own.”
Pennington’s gaze was riveted to his enemy. He seemed to be only half-understanding.
“We can’t help the family we’re born into,” Randolph said. “But we are not born with skills or knowledge. I learned mine, often with great difficulty, and I’m still learning. What are you doing?”
Railing at a world that let him be bested by someone he’d tried most of his life to despise, Lily thought. Without making any effort at all. Even his betrayal of his country had been opportunistic, easy. Given the strength of his spite, perhaps the world should be grateful he never truly tried.
“What am I doing?” Pennington repeated slowly, then smiled savagely. “Dueling. Ten paces, Verne, you count them.”
“Ten?” Verne said, startled. “Twenty, for God’s sake. Let’s not make it too obvious a killing matter.”
But Randolph, after a quick glance toward the inn gate, merely shrugged. “Ten, it is.”
“No!” Lily exclaimed, propelled into action by the sheer stupidity of all the males concerned, including her father, who merely scowled, and Lord Verne, who seemed to be facilitating the murderous duel, if only to prevent outright murder, perhaps.
She threw herself forward, meaning to charge between the duelists, but her father suddenly caught her round the waist.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said grimly. “Stay well clear.”
After one giant but useless heave to be free, Lily stilled, for she finally heard what Randolph clearly had—the carriage bowling along the road outside, the horses’ hooves slowing as they neared the inn.
“Someone’s coming,” she said triumphantly. “You can’t duel here. It’s meant to be in secret, isn’t it? Because it’s against the law!”
“What is law compared to honor, eh, Pennington?” Randolph asked. He was pacing away from Pennington on Verne’s steady count.
A curricle swung through the gate, and with astonishment, Lily recognized Jack Hill driving, with a completely unknown man at his side. The horses halted abruptly.
“Dear God!” Jack exclaimed, his voice echoing around the yard. “No, James!”
Presumably, this meant Pennington, for she heard his voice answering, though she couldn’t make out what he said before he turned to face Randolph.
“Don’t worry,” Randolph said, not to her this time, but to Jack, she was sure. “It will be fine.”
Jack stared at him, then jumped hastily down. “Stop, James. Apologize. Don’t fire.”
“Verne won’t drop the handkerchief, will he?” Pennington said, referring to the signal to fire, Lily could only assume. “It’s up to you and me, Hay.”
“James, don’t!” Jack yelled, striding toward him. “You can’t win! He’ll delope!”
Delope? Lily searched desperately for the meaning of the word. To fire in the air, an acknowledgment of wrong.
Pennington’s face twitched. “Then he’ll die! Why should he delope? He knows he’s not in the wrong!”
“Because you are, James. You’re ill, and he knows it. He won’t fire on you. And you can’t fire on him. Because you are in the wrong, and you know it.”
Silence hung in the air. The two men stared across the inn yard at each other, pistols raised and aimed at arms’ length.
Pennington did not lower his arm.
“James, please!” Jack uttered.
Deliberately, Randolph raised his arm, pointing his pistol high in the air, and fired.
The noise was deafening, the smell of gunpowder immediate and terrifying. The horses whinnied in distress, forcing the curricle passenger to grab the reins and calm them. Jem came running from the stables, and two men fell out of the taproom, goggling.
“Delope,” Jack said. “It’s the only way to win.”
But in a sudden rage, Pennington hurled the pistol from him. It exploded as it hit the ground, and the horses snorted, trying to back the curricle into the outside wall.
Jack strode forward, throwing his arms about his brother. The passenger stepped down from the curricle, leaving the open-mouthed Jem to deal with the horses, and took Pennington’s other arm, speaking low and soothingly. He gave him a flask, and Pennington drank.
“He’s a physician,” Randolph said quietly beside Lily. “Pennington’s been ill like this before. They’ll take him away traveling for a year or two until he’s better. Pity, in some ways, but there it is.”
“A pity?” She stared at him. “Why?”
“I still don’t like the bastard,” Randolph said and walked back into the inn.
*
The Hart was chaos for several hours, with people coming and going, and long conversations going on between Randolph and Jack, then Randolph and Verne, and finally Randolph and her parents. Lily kept away from it all, angry with everyone for allowing the duel to get as far as it did. The thought of Randolph actually dying terrified her.
In the end, with Pennington’s party gone, Lord and Lady Verne decided to have dinner at the inn and to hear from Randolph all that had been going on. Verne had once been—perhaps still was—involved in the relay of messages between British spies in France and the government, a network she knew her father had aided. And which had been run, she had long suspected, by Randolph himself. So, these two knew and trusted each other.
And Lady Verne, whom once Randolph had wanted to marry. Lily was not used to jealousy, but the rare anger within her seemed to twist her emotions toward Randolph’s old love, too.
She and her mother served them dinner. She sensed Randolph watching her, uncomfortable. At last, she thought sadly, he is realizing the impossibility of our relationship. Her heart ached.
As she brought in the dessert, he said suddenly, “Sit and join us, Lily.”
She set her mother’s delicious fruit tart on the table beside the cream and slowly lifted her gaze to Randolph’s. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, my lord, would it?”
“Lily—”
“Enjoy the tart. It’s particularly good today,” she said and fled.
The ache grew worse.
However, she joined her parents and smiled as they waved off their noble patrons, the Vernes.
“Until tomorrow!” Lord Verne said cheerfully as he closed the carriage door.
“Clear up in the parlor, Lily,” her mother said, yawning. “I’m off to bed.”
Lily nodded and preceded Randolph into the room, clearing the remaining crockery from the table onto a tray, but leaving his brandy glass. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“Lily.” He came up behind her, folding his arms around her and drawing her back against him. “Stop. It’s time we talked.”
“No, we’ve talked too much already!” she burst out. “That’s why we are in this mess, why we dreamed and imagined things to be possible that simply aren’t. Randolph—” The rest was lost as he turned up her face and leaned round to kiss her lips.
Just for a moment, she allowed the sweetness of his mouth on hers, the comfort of his warm embrace. She even leaned back against him and kissed him back. But tears started to her eyes, and a sob rose in her throat.
“Lily, Lily, what is it?” he whispered, turning her in his arms.
“You must see,” she gasped. “I will always be serving you and your friends. I will never be your equal! Oh, I know, if it is just you and friends like Lord Verne, perhaps, as your mistress, I might join you, but I cannot sit at the same table with Lady Verne or Lady Masterton. We cannot even go away, for you are needed here and—”
“Oh, hush, my love, my sweet,” He pressed his cheek to hers, and in spite of everything, she loved its warm roughness against her skin. “Let me tell you what I’ve been doing. Trust me, I will not allow the world any reason to disrespect you.”
