A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

P hilip had left the ball the night before with conflicting emotions. Never had Miss Devenish shown as much receptivity to his attentions as she had there. Indeed, the shift was so great as to surprise Philip mightily. Her warm smiles, her flirting, the flush of her cheeks as they danced—it was gratifying, certainly, and he had finally seemed to find his feet. He had managed to pass the entirety of the evening without making a blunder.

It was just as Ruth had said—the more time he spent in Miss Devenish’s company, the more comfortable he felt. And the more he focused on the present, the less nervous he felt about the future.

And yet the evening had not passed in a rush of unalloyed victory. Philip had tried to hide his concern over the affair with Munroe—he hadn’t wanted to give offense to Ruth. But the truth was, he was ill-at-ease. Munroe had killed a man in a duel before—a hushed-up affair with rumors of the authorities being paid off. He was volatile and known to hold a grudge. He was also famously blind to the exploits of his sister. Philip had had no trouble believing she had followed Ruth out onto the terrace and perhaps even made advances upon him. But Munroe wouldn’t hear a word against her.

The thought that Munroe might kill Ruth made Philip feel sick to his stomach. Only now that he faced the prospect of losing Ruth did he realize how much he had come to value their friendship.

And yet, what could he do? He could try to make Archer see reason, but the fact was, if Munroe was determined to fight, there was little that could be done to avoid it. Nor did Philip harbor much hope that Archer would exercise a calming influence upon his friend. He wasn’t well-known to Philip, but he had a mulish look about him that boded ill for a reconciliation between the parties.

He laid awake an hour past the time he slipped into his bed, hoping that he could instruct Ruth well enough the next day that he might get off the first shot at least. Munroe wasn’t known as the best shot in London, but what he lacked in precision, he made up for with determination and cold-bloodedness. There was no chance at all of him deloping.

When he awoke the next morning, Philip’s stomach churned with unease, a physical reminder of the unenviable task that lay before him. His valet assisted him into his clothes for the day, and, hoping it might perhaps quell his nerves, Philip partook of a quick, early breakfast before making his way to Half Moon Street.

Mr. Archer welcomed him with a brusk manner and stony expression, and Philip stifled a resigned sigh as they stepped into a small study off the main corridor.

Mr. Archer offered him a seat, and Philip took it, setting his hat in his lap. “I appreciate your receiving me, Mr. Archer. I come on behalf of Mr. Ruth, as you know. He has authorized me to express his willingness for reconciliation with Mr. Munroe.”

Mr. Archer’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I am afraid that the nature of his offense is such that Mr. Munroe is unable to reciprocate such a sentiment. His sister’s reputation has been most grievously maligned, and it is his duty to seek reparations.”

Philip couldn’t stifle a small snort. “Forgive me, sir, but Mr. Munroe seems to be the only person who would doubt that events occurred just as Mr. Ruth said they did.”

Mr. Archer stared at him, unamused. “Mr. Ruth has, from the beginning, set himself against Mr. Munroe, always using women in his attempt to do him an injury. Last night, his choice of woman passed the bounds. Such disgraceful behavior cannot go unanswered, my lord.”

“Perhaps we might apply to Miss Munroe herself. Or to others who attended the ball. Surely someone must have witnessed the way of things.”

Mr. Archer’s lip turned up at the side in an unpleasant expression. “Is Mr. Ruth so eager to avoid a meeting with Mr. Munroe?”

Philip’s nostrils flared, and he let out a humorless laugh. “On the contrary, sir. Mr. Ruth will meet Mr. Munroe at his earliest convenience.”

“Tomorrow, then. Dawn at Kinham Common. By the pond.”

Philip nodded. “Very well.”

“Does Mr. Ruth prefer pistols or swords?”

“Pistols.”

Within a few minutes, everything was settled, and Philip left Half Moon Street with a deeply furrowed brow.

Uncle Jacob’s butler greeted Philip with a familiar welcome in Upper Brook Street and told him that Mr. Ruth could be found in the parlor. When Philip entered, Ruth looked up from his chair, a book in hand. He was perhaps a bit paler than usual but otherwise showed no other signs of fear. He seemed to recognize what Philip’s expression signified, though, and sighed resignedly.

“I tried,” Philip said, coming to sit across from him. “But Munroe will insist upon the duel. He has taken the position that you have maligned his sister’s delicate reputation”—he widened his eyes to show what he thought of this position—“and must be brought to account.”

Ruth nodded. “Thank you for trying—and for being willing to act for me.”

“Of course,” Philip said. “It is an honor.”

Ruth smiled wryly. “You are a terrible liar. I am not foolish enough to think that acting for me adds to your consequence.”

Philip waved a hand. “I have more than enough consequence.”

That elicited a laugh, and Philip was grateful for the sound. Ruth was more courageous than his appearance gave one to believe, but he couldn’t help wondering if his friend was concealing fear and misgiving behind his easy demeanor.

Philip stood. “Come. Let us prepare you to meet Munroe. I believe my uncle has a pair of pistols in the study. We can take them out for some practice.” He turned toward the door.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Philip stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

Ruth met his gaze squarely, his expression grave. “Surely you have better things to do than instructing a greenhorn in shooting.”

Philip turned. “And you have surely had better things to do than instructing me on how to avoid acting like an utter buffoon in front of women.”

“But you are paying me to do so. I cannot pay you for this.”

Philip’s brows snapped together. “I do this as a friend, Ruth. I don’t precisely wish to lose you, you know. You are the only panda in England.” He smiled. “Besides, how would I ever win Miss Devenish if I allowed Munroe to get the best of you?”

Ruth held his gaze, saying nothing for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, rising from his chair.

P hilip slowed his horse, and Ruth followed suit. They had come to a clearing, surrounded on all sides by tall oak trees whose leaves rustled as a breeze passed through. Philip swung down from his horse and took the pistol box from its place behind the saddle.

“My uncle used to bring me here to practice shooting,” he said, glancing around with a smile. “I imagine you might see the marks from some of my bullets in the trees. Come, we will start at a close range and then draw back as we go.”

Ruth had been more silent than usual on the ride there. He had chimed in every now and then with a small joke, but Philip wasn’t fooled. He was trying to hide his nerves between fits of distraction, and the only thing Philip could think to do was to help him acquire more confidence by teaching him how to shoot as well as he could in the space of the next two hours.

Philip had little doubt that Munroe would shoot to kill. Why he had taken Ruth in such violent dislike, he didn’t know, but the man was hardly the picture of reason or levelheadedness. The fact that he had challenged someone almost half his age to a duel spoke volumes.

“I haven’t held a pistol since I was ten or eleven,” Ruth said, looking at the long barrel with a frown. “Perhaps I should just delope.”

“You could, but Munroe will not. And I think you stand a good chance of getting off the first shot. You are much faster than he, and his aim is not known for being very good.”

“I am not sure whether that should relieve me or worry me,” Ruth said with a laugh. “What if he aims for my arm and hits me in the heart?”

Philip handed Ruth a pistol, watching with a sense of misgiving at how Ruth held it. It had not been false modesty when Ruth said he wasn’t a sporting gentleman.

“Here. Take a shot at that tree.” Philip pointed to the widest of the trees before them, an old oak with a trunk spread three feet wide.

Ruth swallowed and took a wider stance with his feet, raising the pistol and pointing it toward the tree. There was a slight pause, and a shot rang out.

“I missed,” Ruth said, and Philip laughed.

“You did, and it is no wonder. I think your bullet came nearer to hitting that little sapling a few yards to the left of the target. Here.” Philip put out a hand, and Ruth set the pistol in it.

Philip busied himself with reloading. “You want to provide the smallest target you can for Munroe, which means turning your body sideways. Try again.” He handed the pistol back to Ruth, who obediently turned his body sideways.

Philip frowned. The pistol looked heavy in Ruth’s hands—in need of reinforcement—but Ruth couldn’t stabilize it with a second hand without turning his body fully toward Munroe. It was a choice between improving his own accuracy—or widening Munroe’s target. Philip would have liked to see Munroe experience the sting of a gunshot and being out of commission for a time due to his own stupidity, but he would far rather be confident in Ruth’s safety.

But Ruth deserved to make that decision for himself.

Philip hesitated. He had lost a mother and a father, but the thought of losing Ruth made him feel cold fear.

“Wait,” he said.