A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

P hilip waited in the corridor outside Ruth’s room, walking back and forth across the creaking floor planks. He tugged gently and distractedly on his lip.

It was still early, and they had only encountered a curious footman upon entering. Philip knew his uncle’s staff well enough to set the servant at his ease and make excuses for Ruth’s condition. He didn’t want word of the duel traveling around town, and he gave strict orders that the other servants be instructed not to intrude unless called upon.

Ruth had regained consciousness momentarily upon their arrival in Upper Brook Street, indicating in mumbled words that he wished to be seen to in private. Philip had been surprised at the hurt he had felt at his friend’s words, but he respected them, all the same.

Doctor Shepherd had watched Ruth carefully but had not seen fit to intervene before they arrived at Philip’s uncle’s house. But seeing the blood seep through Ruth’s dove gray waistcoat had elicited a wave of panic inside Philip, which quickly overtook his initial relief that Munroe had not managed to shoot him in the head or heart. He had known men to succumb to what had appeared to be the most superficial of injuries.

Doctor Shepherd had to save Ruth.

The door finally opened, and Doctor Shepherd slipped out. Philip rushed over to him anxiously, trying to glance inside.

“How is he?”

Shepherd cleared his throat and searched Philip’s eyes for a moment. “Well enough.” He glanced behind him into the room and then shut the door. His brow was furrowed and his lips pursed.

“What? What is it?” Philip didn’t know what to think of the doctor’s behavior, but dismay settled deep in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t be good news.

Shepherd put a hand around Philip’s arm and pulled him down the corridor. “Oxley, how well are you acquainted with Ruth?”

Philip shrugged. “Our friendship is not of long standing, but, despite that, I know him better than I know most men.”

Shepherd grimaced, his gaze flitting to Ruth’s door again.

“What, Shepherd? What is it?” Philip was beginning to feel annoyed. If the doctor had bad news, it made it no less unwelcome to draw it out.

Shepherd’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in closer to Philip. “You are aware, then, that Mr. Ruth is”—he cleared his throat again—“a woman?”

Philip’s brows snapped together, and he pulled back to look at his friend. “This is no time for jokes, Shepherd. Tell me, if you please, whether you expect Ruth to make a full recovery.”

Shepherd said nothing, merely looking at Philip with a grave expression.

Philip blinked. He knew Shepherd well enough to know that the man wasn’t one for silly pranks.

“I don’t understand,” Philip said.

The edges of Doctor Shepherd’s mouth turned down as he kept his gaze trained on him. “Mr. Ruth is a woman.”

Philip swallowed, his eyes racing to the door of Ruth’s room. “No. That cannot be.”

“I am afraid there is no doubt, Oxley. My examination made it quite clear.” He cleared his throat.

Philip’s eyes darted around, seeking and failing to find something reliable, something to make sense of what was happening.

“I have tended to the wound—the bullet grazed her torso but did not lodge itself there—and I have administered laudanum, which should provide her with some beneficial rest. I don’t anticipate any further problems, but you—or whatever servant tends to her—would do well to watch for any signs of fever.”

Her? Philip couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He nodded absently, and after pausing for a moment, Shepherd said, “I would stay but that I am promised to check in on Mr. Smith’s son. He passed the devil of a night last night. Measles. Send for me if she shows any sign of infection.”

Philip stood in the corridor as the doctor’s footsteps faded. He wasn’t certain whether it was seconds or minutes before more footsteps approached and a maid arrived—one unfamiliar to Philip—whose eyes were wide and alert as she approached the door to Ruth’s chamber. She seemed not to notice Philip’s presence.

He knew a sense of annoyance that his orders were being disobeyed, and he hurried over to bar the maid from opening the door.

“I gave an order that no one disturb us,” he said, perhaps with more anger than was warranted.

“I am sorry, my lord,” said the maid, her eyes still on the door. “But when I discovered that”—she hesitated—“Mr. Ruth had been brought in unconscious, I…”

That hesitation told Philip all he needed to know. The maid was already aware. Who didn’t know?

“I think we should wake Mr…Franks,” she said, with the same slight hesitation.

Anger billowed inside Philip. So they were both deceiving people, were they?

“You can abandon the charade,” he said tersely. “I know that Mr. Ruth is a woman. And you might as well wake Mr. Franks…or whatever his name is.”

The maid’s eyes ballooned, but she nodded. “He does not like to be woken before ten, but I think under the circumstances…”

Philip nodded stiffly.

The maid disappeared into a room down the corridor.

Philip stared after her, heart thumping in his chest, hands clenching into fists. He felt…he felt…betrayed. Foolish. Angry.

The maid emerged, and behind her, a disheveled Mr. Franks. Blinking, he glanced around. “Where is she?” he asked hurriedly. “What happened?”

“In her room, sir,” the maid said. “Asleep.”

Franks, still in his nightshirt, pushed the door to Ruth’s room open, ignoring Philip completely.

Philip’s nostrils flared, and he stood his ground for a moment before following.

“What happened?” Franks asked again, kneeling by the bed where Ruth lay, sleeping peacefully. Ruth wore no glasses, and his head— her head—lay slumped to the side.

“A duel,” Philip said, pulling his eyes away. He was too angry to look at Ruth without wanting to rouse her and simultaneously yell at her and pester her with questions.

Franks’ head whipped around. “A duel? What the devil do you mean?”

“What the devil do I mean?” Philip thundered. “What the devil do you mean? The doctor informed me that Mr. Ruth is no mister at all! And I take it your name is not Franks, either.”

Ruth stirred lightly, and Franks’ lips pursed censuringly then opened as if to speak, only to close again. He glanced at Ruth, who had resumed her peaceful slumber, then stood and walked over to Philip.

“Who the devil are you?” Philip said in a voice soft but furious. Franks looked every bit a man, the stubble that had grown overnight lining his jaw and the space between his nose and upper lip. Were they a couple, then? Married, perhaps? But then what on earth was the purpose of Ruth dressing as a man? None of it made any sense at all.

Franks’ lips drew into a thin line. “My name is Christopher Hawthorn. And that”—he nodded toward Ruth—“is my twin sister Ruth.”

Sister. Twin sister? Philip’s gaze flicked toward her, but he shut his eyes, still unable to comprehend, to explore the implications of it all. He wasn’t yet willing to see Ruth in the way demanded of him.

“I will explain it all,” Mr. Hawthorn said. He looked at his sister, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Or perhaps Ruth would rather do it. How is she? Who did this to her? What did the doctor say?”

Something in Philip—the childish part, he assumed—didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want to give this man what he wanted. But there was no doubt that the worry in Hawthorn’s eyes was genuine. “She is expected to recover. The bullet only grazed her side. What she needs is rest—and to be watched for signs of fever.”

His eyes moved back to Ruth—to Miss Hawthorn. The girl had fought a duel . She could have died. He felt a bit of his anger slip away, and he turned his gaze from her. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. It was no one’s fault but her own that she had done something so utterly incomprehensible and foolhardy.

Mr. Hawthorn let out a relieved breath. “Will you look after her while I dress?”

Philip’s hands balled into fists again. Was the man serious? “I cannot think that appropriate, given what I now know.”

Mr. Hawthorn grimaced and put a hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I think we are well past such concerns at this point. Did you not spend the entire evening with her last night? Alone?” He half-smiled, and Philip’s anger bubbled up again. It was all amusing to Mr. Hawthorn, was it?

“Yes, but I certainly would never have done so had I known the truth! I am sorry, Mr. Hawthorn, but you will understand, I am sure, when I tell you that I have little desire to stay here any longer.”

Mr. Hawthorn’s frown turned into a glower. “Fine. Go, then. I thought perhaps you would be good enough to ensure her well-being for a mere five minutes, even if you are angry. But I was obviously mistaken.” He went and opened the door, standing by it in an invitation for Philip to leave.

Philip hesitated a moment, knowing an annoying inclination to stay—a desire to have everything explained to him. But to what end? What explanation could there possibly be to justify such deception? He had been duped, taken in by these siblings, made to look a fool. He had spent the entire night tossing and turning, fretting over the possibility of Ruth’s death, over losing a friend who had become dear to him.

Over a fraud.

He walked through the door, jaw set tightly—too tightly to speak.

Standing on the pavement in front of his uncle’s house, he stared at the pedestrians and carriages that passed where the street intersected with Grosvenor Square. There was no relief outside. Fresh air was not to be had in Upper Brook Street, with dust clouds trailing behind a passing gentleman on horseback and the din of Town all around.

Outside the presence of Mr. Hawthorn, Philip found it harder to hold so tightly to his anger. It seethed and simmered, but it didn’t fully conceal other emotions that were beginning to rear their unwelcome heads: hurt and humiliation.

He had come to value his friendship with Ruth. To discover now that it was all a farce….

He should have known. He had been paying the Swan for his time. That was certainly not friendship—and never could be.

Scenes from the past two weeks flitted through his mind: meeting the Swan, Ruth helping him dress for church, dining together in Brook Street, accusing Ruth of trying to steal Miss Devenish’s affections, helping him prepare for the duel.

And all the while, Ruth had been a woman . A woman who might have died that morning, and who now lay abed, wounded. Why would she do such a thing? Why would she do any of it?

Philip let out a breath of frustration. Doctor Shepherd would have done everything proper in caring for the wound, but Philip couldn’t help the misgiving he felt. His father had died from just such a seemingly innocuous injury, acquired on an ill-fated hunting trip. All had been well—until suddenly it was not.

Philip didn’t want to feel concern for Miss Hawthorn—he didn’t even know her, for heaven’s sake. What insanity had urged her to take on such a disguise? And to continue it when faced with the challenge of Mr. Munroe?

Philip’s hand shot to his coat, patting at a small bulge near his chest. Her glasses sat inside. Philip had picked them up from the floor of the chaise after a large bump had knocked them off.

He pulled them out and looked at them. Hideous things they were. It had been bad enough when Philip had his first glance at the Swan, to see the man wearing silver-rimmed glasses, of all things—as if he were seventy years old rather than twenty. And then when Philip had returned days later, they had been replaced by the most conspicuous, thick-rimmed pair imaginable.

His jaw tightened at the mixed emotions the memory brought back, and he let his head fall back. His conscience urged him to go back inside, but his pride balked. How would he feel if something were to happen to Miss Hawthorn? If her wound turned putrid? She had deceived him—and grossly—but did that absolve him of the responsibility he had felt for her situation?

He didn’t know what to feel anymore. He wanted answers yet wanted nothing to do with this sudden stranger.

Had it all been an act? Just how much of Ruth was there in Miss Hawthorn? Endless questions peppered his thoughts, and he clenched the glasses in his hand.

He let out a growl and turned back toward the house, walking up the stairs and pulling the bell.

The maid he had seen upstairs opened the door and welcomed him inside with brows pulled slightly upward. “Let me just inform Mr. Franks of your arrival.”

“Yes, please inform Mr. Hawthorn,” he said pointedly.

She dipped her head and curtsied, avoiding his eye, then disappeared through the entry hall and up the stairs.

Philip looked around his uncle’s entry hall, feeling a wave of humiliation and annoyance. He had offered up his uncle’s home for Mr. and Miss Hawthorn—welcomed them into the home of his flesh and blood—and they had taken advantage of his kindness.

Well, he would hear their story and give them the direction of the doctor, but he would not allow them to trespass upon his kindness anymore.

The maid returned and led him up the stairs and into Miss Hawthorn’s room. “Still asleep,” she said in a hushed voice. She looked toward the bed with a soft expression then left the room.

Mr. Hawthorn looked up from his place in the chair at his sister’s side. He still wore his nightshirt, and his expression darkened upon seeing Philip. “What do you want?”

“I came to bring these.” Philip pulled the spectacles from his coat and walked with careful footsteps to place them on the bedside table on the side opposite Hawthorn.

He set the glasses down gently and took in a breath before allowing his eyes to move to the bed.

There she was. The Swan. The woman. And she did look like a woman, despite her cropped hair. Her head was turned away from him on the pillow, her bare neck stretched in elegant lines, the skin soft, white, and unmarred by stubble or the harsh knob that characterized the neck of a man. Her right hand rested beside her head, dried blood on it from where she had clasped at her side after her injury.

Something stirred within Philip. Guilt, perhaps. And an annoying desire to protect her.

It was ridiculous.

“I will sit with her while you change,” he said stonily.

Hawthorn’s eyes narrowed. “If you mean to browbeat her, you can leave.”

“I shan’t do that,” Philip said, walking around the bed toward the chair. How he was to browbeat someone who lay asleep, he didn’t know. “Go on.”

Hawthorn looked at his sister for a moment then up at Philip, suspicion in his eyes. “Very well.” He rose and strode to the door, pausing to send a final frowning glance at Philip before he left the room.

Philip took his seat in the chair and let out a large breath. He looked around the room, through the window behind, anywhere but at Miss Hawthorn. But his curiosity was building, and he finally allowed his eyes to travel to her again.

He could finally see her face, and his breathing stilled. How had he ever thought her a man?

Well, no. That wasn’t quite fair. One didn’t go about questioning whether a man was actually a man.

But it was true that there was little of the masculine about Miss Hawthorn. No longer masked by thick, horn frames, her dark lashes rested at the tips of her eyelids, nearly brushing the top of her cheekbones for how long they were. Her lips were slightly parted in her relaxed, slumbering state, and, while one arm curled up beside her head, the other lay across her abdomen, pulling down at the sheet that covered her chest.

He averted his gaze. She was certainly a woman.

But his eyes roved back to her, needing to make sense of things. The hand that rested beside her face curled delicately, and his eyes followed the soft curve of her wrist, up to her elbow to where her shirtsleeves had been rolled. He had never seen her arms before, and they were certainly not the wiry or muscular forearms of a man. Her cheeks weren’t flushed—a good sign—and they were clearly the cheeks of a woman. Ruth’s jokes about the time saved not having to shave had been true enough.

Philip’s hand stole to his own jaw. It prickled under his fingers, unshaven since yesterday morning. Though he had lain awake all night, he hadn’t managed to shave before the duel. He knew an impulse to feel Miss Hawthorn’s skin, to see whether it was as soft as it looked.

He sat back in the chair. She had agreed to a duel , this delicate woman before him. It was unfathomable. How many women would do such a thing? Would endanger their lives in such a way? Alice would have fainted clean away at the mere sight of a cocked pistol. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single woman he knew who would have done what Miss Hawthorn had done that morning, and the thought elicited a begrudging admiration for her—whoever she was.

It was nearly an hour before Mr. Hawthorn returned to the room, clean-shaven and dressed in impeccably neat clothing, and his arrival took Philip by surprise. He hadn’t moved from the chair the entire hour, his mind and emotions hard at work, trying to make sense of the muddle of things he thought and felt—to land somewhere.

Philip rose from the chair to cede his place to Hawthorn.

But Hawthorn stopped shy of the bed, staring at his sister with a frown. “Who in the world would duel my sister?”

Philip thought on the scene at the ball—the way Ruth—he clenched his eyes shut—Miss Hawthorn had faced Munroe fearlessly.

“It was Munroe who challenged her.”

Hawthorn’s head reared back. “Challenged someone almost young enough to be his child? Why in the devil would Ruth agree to it?”

Philip had the same question. “I thought you might be able to answer that. You certainly know her better than I.”

Hawthorn looked at Ruth, a reluctant and fond smile touching his lips. “She probably didn’t wish to disappoint you. Silly chit.”

Philip’s eyebrows pulled together, and Hawthorn looked at him. “She cares for your good opinion.”

Philip scoffed lightly, though the words affected him more than he cared to admit. She cared for his good opinion? Not enough to be honest with him, evidently.

Hawthorn shook his head. “And she didn’t say a word to me. I’ll throttle her when she wakes.”

“You will have to fight me for that honor,” Philip said.