A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

T here was something fantastically bittersweet about the evening Ruth passed with Lord Oxley in his drawing room. It felt like a bit of stolen time—an evening painful in its perfection. And as Ruth searched her feelings, she found that, more than the prospect of death or injury, she was haunted by her dishonesty. More than once, she nearly confessed everything. What was it about Oxley that pleaded with her to reveal all—that wished so desperately to know he respected her when he knew the full truth?

But his belief in her courage was also what bound her tongue. If this was to be her last night on God’s green earth, she couldn’t bear for it to be full of Oxley’s disappointment or disdain. God forgive her if that was cowardly.

“You will present yourself here tomorrow afternoon for the next lesson, Ruth. I demand it. Physical touch, is it not?”

Ruth managed a smile and nodded. Perhaps it was better that she die. A lesson instructing Oxley on such a topic would be a special form of torture.

“Get some sleep, panda,” Oxley said, mussing Ruth’s hair. “My carriage will be waiting outside your lodgings at five.”

Ruth doubted she would shut her eyes all night, but she bid him as cheerful a goodbye as she could muster then made her way through Grosvenor Square and on toward Upper Brook Street.

Topher wasn’t home—he had spent the past two nights with Rowney, returning when Ruth was already fast asleep, as Lucy had informed her. He was hurting, and she worried for him. But she knew her twin well enough to know that only time would bring him out of such a mood.

Lucy assisted Ruth out of her clothing, falling into a companionable silence once Ruth’s short, quiet responses made it clear that she was not in the mood for chatter. When Lucy left, Ruth stood in her shift and bare feet for a few minutes, eyes glazed over. There was only one lit candle in the room, but it reflected in the standing mirror beside the bed.

Ruth had been avoiding the mirror nights and mornings—the only time she wore female garments. But tonight, she glanced at her reflection and stepped toward it, forcing herself to take in the odd picture she presented.

She put a hand to her head and choked back a sudden, unexpected sob. She missed her hair—a bygone connection to her femininity. For two weeks, she had forced herself to act the part of a man, and she had done so well that she could hardly remember what it felt like to be a woman. Tomorrow, she might well die a man. And if she did, the truth would be revealed.

At least she wouldn’t be alive to witness Oxley’s disappointment in her.

She turned away and reached under her bed, pulling the portmanteau toward her and opening the clasps and the lid. Her dresses were neatly folded within, and she pulled one out.

She might well die the death of a man in the morning, but tonight, she wanted to be herself again. As much as she could be, at least. Just for a moment, she wanted to be the woman who, in another life, might have danced with Oxley rather than learned how to hold a pistol from him; who might have accepted a glass of lemonade from his hand instead of brandy; who might have used what she knew about love to win his heart rather than helping him win the heart of Miss Devenish.

She couldn’t lace the back of the dress herself, and seeing the way the sides jutted out from her body rather than hugging her like they should have, she had to swallow down her self-pitying pain. It hardly mattered. Even with the dress worn properly, she wouldn’t look the way she wished to.

“Ruth?” Topher’s voice came through the door, and she hurriedly dashed away a tear and pulled the dress down around her ankles, tossing it onto the portmanteau on the side of her bed where it would be hidden from view. She tied her wrapper around her waist and rushed to the door, taking in a deep breath to steady herself before opening it.

“You’re still awake,” he said, stepping in uninvited. His breath smelled of spirits, and his brow was furrowed, as it had been every time she had seen him since his conversation with Miss Devenish. She wondered if it would be permanent.

“Yes,” she said. “I was at Oxley’s.”

He trained his gaze on her for a moment, and she breathed her relief when he turned away without commenting. He hadn’t said anything about her feelings for Oxley since their argument a few days ago, and for that, she was grateful. It was not a subject she felt able to converse upon without giving into mortifying emotion. Especially not tonight.

He sat on the edge of her bed. “I was thinking we might go find a doll for Joanna tomorrow, and perhaps a few trinkets for the others.”

Ruth swallowed and managed a smile. “What a happy idea.”

Topher glanced at her. “What is it?”

She raised her brows, trying to look like she didn’t know what he meant. “What do you mean?”

“I know you, Ruth. Something is wrong.”

She shook her head. “Just tired. I am having a hard time keeping up the pace being a gentleman requires.”

Topher laughed weakly and rose from the bed, nudging her with an elbow. “Isn’t as easy as I make it look, is it?” He sighed, his somberness returning. “Well, I am off to bed. We can go to some shops after breakfast.”

Ruth followed him to the door with a chuckle. “So, one o’clock, then?”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s how you survive life as a gentleman, Ruthie. Lying abed late. It’s the only way.”

Ruth had been correct when she had suspected she would find it hard to sleep, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. It wasn’t until two that she gave up and slid out from under the bedcovers. She needed to write Topher a note in the event that she…

She exhaled and sat down, putting quill to paper in an attempt to express everything to her twin. She tried to keep most of it practical—advice for how to continue the column and ensure the family was cared for.

It wasn’t a forgone conclusion that she would die, of course, but it was easy to forget that. She had to act under the assumption that these might be her last hours. Even if she didn’t die immediately, she had heard of plenty of dueling injuries that proved fatal after the fact. She would rather it be immediate.

When she had finished the letter and sealed it, she sat for another moment, staring at the few blank sheets of foolscap in the drawer beside her. She could write a few more columns for The Marsbrooke Weekly —ensure a bit of money for the family—and she should certainly write to her mother. She winced in pain at the thought of leaving her mother behind.

Topher would care for her. He would rise to the occasion.

She dressed as quietly as she could, knowing that Topher slept far too soundly to stir at anything less than a gunshot. Lucy had always assisted her into her clothing, but Ruth managed to do a decent job of it on her own. She wouldn’t look her best for the duel, but that hardly mattered.

The first of the servants were just beginning to stir when Ruth stepped quietly through the front door, cringing at the way the door clicked into place. Her stomach growled and rumbled strangely, confused by the disruption in the natural rhythm of her habits.

Oxley’s carriage slowed to a stop just as the Watch cried the hour somewhere down the street, and Ruth climbed in to see a smile, barely visible with the light that seeped in through the window from the chaise lantern. It warmed her.

“Did you sleep?” Oxley asked.

Ruth shook her head.

“Nor I,” he said. “Perhaps after all of this, we shall enjoy a large breakfast and then take a nap.”

“That sounds heavenly,” Ruth said, adding it to the list of plans that would never come to fruition.

Oxley kept up a stream of talk during the ride, and Ruth was grateful for his efforts to distract her. Little did he realize the havoc he had wreaked on Ruth’s life since sending her that initial letter.

Try as she might to throttle it, Ruth couldn’t help feeling a sliver of hope when there was no sign of Munroe’s equipage at Kinham Common. But it was merely two minutes later when the sound of carriage wheels met her ears. Munroe wouldn’t miss his opportunity to teach her a lesson. She had never truly believed he would.

Oxley had said that none but the most hardened of men could engage in an affair of honor without being accosted by nerves, but Munroe must have belonged to that small set of men, for he descended from his carriage and gazed around the scene as he might have upon arrival at a ball.

The sky was just beginning to lighten on the horizon, but directly above them, it stretched like a great, inky blanket, punctuated by fading bits of starlight and the sliver of a moon.

“Over here,” Oxley said, leading them away from the road and toward a stretch of grass large enough to permit the affair of honor.

Another equipage arrived shortly, and a man descended from it, carrying a small leather bag slung across his shoulder. He was much younger than Ruth had expected—perhaps in his mid-thirties—with blond hair and a kindly set to his face.

“Doctor Shepherd,” said Oxley as the man approached them. The two embraced, and Ruth stared at the man who might be tasked with saving her life. Doctor Shepherd’s gaze moved to her, and she attempted a smile, though she was sure it fell short of conveying anything but how bleak she felt at the prospect before her.

What if she didn’t die, though? What if she was merely injured in the duel? Her identity was at stake either way. She sent a prayer to God above that, if she was injured, it would be one that allowed her to remain sentient and in a state where she could at least ensure she wasn’t discovered for what and who she truly was. Death might be preferable to that.

“Come, then. No reason to delay now, is there?” said Munroe, who had removed his coat and was shaking out his shirt sleeves.

With each passing minute, the sky grew lighter, yellows and oranges beginning to streak the horizon and move upward, displacing the dark night.

With Oxley’s help, Ruth removed her coat, which he set neatly on the ground next to the pistol box. He and Archer inspected the pistols together and, finding them satisfactory, loaded them with gunpowder and balls.

Ruth looked away, training her eyes on the little copse of trees nearby. She wished she could disappear into them rather than face what lay before her now.

Someone nudged her. “Look there,” Oxley said, indicating the pond thirty yards away from them. A white swan nestled on the bank of the pond, elegant and serene. “A good omen, surely.”

Ruth quickly blinked away the stinging in her eyes. Was this a good omen? Or was it God’s way of telling her she would be joining her father?

Oxley placed the pistol in her hands, his gaze fixed on her, forcing her own up to meet it. “It is already cocked. A few minutes, and we shall be on our way to breakfast—and then sleep.”

She nodded, and he grasped her shoulder with a bracing smile before moving away. Had she made the wrong decision not to tell him everything last night?

It was too late now. The letter would have to do.

“Oxley,” she said. Whether she lived or died, she needed to do what she could to stave off scandal.

He looked a question at her.

“I would prefer that the doctor see to me at home if it becomes necessary.”

Oxley held his gaze, a slight frown on his brow then nodded. “I will tell him your wishes.”

Before Ruth well knew what was happening, she and Munroe were back to back, his shoulders dwarfing hers before they separated to walk ten paces in opposite directions.

One…two…three…

With each step she took, Ruth tried to run through the instruction she had received from Oxley the day before.

Four…five…six…seven…

Elbow bent, wrist locked, left eye shut.

Eight…nine…ten.

She stopped and took in a deep breath.

“Attend,” said the stony voice of Oxley.

Ruth turned her body sideways, pistol resting against her leg. Her heart beat wildly, and she glanced at the swan a final time.

“Present.”

Ruth raised the heavy pistol, keeping her body turned at an angle and closing her left eye. She met Munroe’s gaze, the smiling sneer on his lips, the glint of malice in his eye.

“Fire!”

She pulled the trigger. A deafening report sounded, and a fire burned below Ruth’s rib. Her hand shot to cover it, and her eyes clenched as she stumbled back and to the ground.

The pain seared her, spreading from her side and enveloping her stomach and chest. Was she dying?

Hands covered hers, and she forced her eyes open, finding Oxley’s face swimming above her. His eyes were as alert as hers were blurry, as if she had switched her glasses back to Topher’s.

Whatever happened now, Ruth couldn’t allow her wounds to be inspected here at the common. She tried to push herself up. “It is nothing. I am well.” Her voice emerged weak and unconvincing.

“Don’t be a fool,” Oxley pushed her back down. “Let me see.”

She shook her head. “No need. There is no need for the doctor, either. I merely need to go home and rest.” If only Oxley would take her home, she could have Topher call for a different doctor—one who could keep her secret.

The doctor’s face swam behind Oxley’s, and Ruth blinked, forcing herself not to submit to whatever force was demanding she shut her eyes and lie back.

She rolled to the side, cringing, and pushed herself up. “See,” she said, not without great effort. “I am perfectly well.” She blinked to right her vision as a speaking glance passed between Oxley and Doctor Shepherd.

“I am duty-bound to see to your injury, Mr. Ruth,” said the doctor.

“Go see to Mr. Munroe first,” she said, jaw clenched tightly.

“Mr. Munroe does not require my assistance.”

“I would prefer to be seen to at home.” Perhaps she could convince Doctor Shepherd to keep her secret. Any inspection of her injury would reveal the tight cravat cloth she had wrapped around her chest. She needed to at least give the impression that her wound was not serious.

Oxley spoke. “If Ruth is not in grave danger, it might be wise for us to leave before anyone alerts the authorities.”

She could have kissed him.

The doctor let out a frustrated breath. “Very well, but if I see much more blood, I will take matters into my own hands.”

Ruth willed her body not to bleed as Oxley and Doctor Shepherd assisted her to the carriage—assistance she tried to refuse without success. She glanced around the common, hoping to see what had come of Munroe, but the action wrenched at her side and she gave up the attempt.

“I shall ride with you,” the doctor said, and he shouted a command at his own chaise driver before climbing in with them.

If Ruth had had anything in her stomach, she would have lost it on the carriage ride to Upper Brook Street. They hadn’t even made it out of Kinham Common when the carriage hit a particularly deep rut, and everything went black.