Page 256 of The Ladies Least Likely
And then her life would be over. Or any hope she’d had of a happy life, that is.
“Men fall inta the Thames every day,” Beater rumbled. “Shame, that.”
“I don’t want him dead,” Harriette protested. “I just want him to go away.”
“What if Renwick wins the duel,Liebelein?” Princess said softly as the carriage rolled into Berkeley Square and passersby paused to stare at them. “What then?”
Harriette’s breath caught. If Franz Karl’s impetuous demand brought him to the end that he fully deserved, she wouldn’t have to marry him.
She’d be free to marry Ren.
“Renwick would have to flee to the Continent or be called to account for murder in an illegal duel,” she said with a sigh. “I’m afraid that won’t do. He’s needed here.”
Dunstan, the butler at Renwick House, opened the door before Harriette could knock and nearly touched his nose to his feet. “Duchess. May I extend my condolences on behalf of the household for your recent loss.”
Harriette paused. “Thank you, Dunstan.” His changed attitude made her errand more possible, but also more improper. “I do not suppose you have seen any, er, missives for his lordship that came from a man named Franz Karl? Who might be styling himself the Duke of Löwenburg, without cause, I might add?”
Dunstan gave her a surprised look. “I did indeed, in his lordship’s mail, see a German personage addressing him.”
Prussian, Harriette would have replied had a sharp sensation not taken over her chest. The challenge had been delivered. She was too late.
“And you will be the cause of my son’s death.” The Countess of Renwick swept out of the formal saloon, her back stiff and her face taut with anger. “It is not enough that you have slandered his reputation and ruined him for a decent marriage. No, you had to go all the way to putting a bullet in his heart.”
Harriette’s heart cracked under the woman’s accusing stare. “I—no, I never meant?—”
“There will be no duel, Mother.” Amalie emerged from the drawing room behind her mother. She wore a lovely robe of pale violet satin and the usual length of lace at her cuffs. She made no move to hide her empty sleeve but rather stepped forward to embrace Harriette, kissing her on the cheek.
Harriette returned the welcome, pausing to study the girl’s face. “You look well. Is the new paint working?”
“Very well.” Amalie beamed. “I know it’s only been a week, but I vow I feel differently. My appetite is returning, and my gums have stopped bleeding. See?” She bared her teeth, and Harriette noticed that the grey line between her teeth and gums had grown lighter. It would take a long time for all the lead to pass out of her body, but every day was a step toward health.
“I am so glad. So glad.” Harriette held her close. “Oh dear, I’m not smudging you, am I?” she asked as Amalie laid a trusting head on her shoulder.
“Not at all. You wouldn’t believe how well this works!” Amalie touched her cheek. “We went to the theater two nights ago and the candles were so bright they were melting the face paint of everyone who visited our box.” Amalie giggled. “But not mine.”
“You went out to the theater? But that’s wonderful!”
“Your Princess had a suitor who provided his box,” Amalie confided. “Melike and Natalya came along. I was hardly a curiosity next to them! Everyone wanted to see a real live Muhammadan and a famed Russian courtesan. I could have put my muff aside and I doubt anyone would have even looked at my arm.”
Harriette pulled the girl close for another squeeze. How she wished she could stay and see Amalie flower into the young woman she was meant to be, once freed of her mother’s clutches.
“He’s upstairs,” Amalie whispered as she drew away.
Harriette nodded, her heart in her throat. Amalie moved past her to join Jock, who stood on his crutches in the foyer behind her.
“You’ll walk in the garden with me?” Amalie asked him with a shy smile. “There is that herb I told you about. The one for the Countess of Calenberg.”
Her tone was a shade too bright, her casualness studied, and Harriette paused to watch them move down the hall toward the doors to the garden. Amalie matched her steps to Jock’s swinging gait, eagerness etched in her manner, and it was clear from Jock’s expression that he would follow wherever the lady took him, if she led him to the gates of Hell.
Harriette shook her head to clear it. Jock and Amalie? No good could come of an attachment there, a mangled former jockey and an earl’s daughter. It was as likely as the ragamuffin daughter of a fugitive foreign noblewoman winning the heart of an English earl.
She bounded up the steps of Renwick House, heedless of propriety. Ren was in his dressing room, pacing, just as when she’d first seen him—was it mere weeks ago? Her world had changed in that moment, shifted, and he had become the center. He paused and met her eyes, and she stared at him for a long, wordless moment. Then she launched herself across the room into his arms.
He caught her with one arm and reached out to brace the other hand on a nearby chair. “Rhette,” he murmured huskily, turning his face into her hair and breathing her in.
She buried her face in the silk of his morning coat. He’d bathed and changed and he smelled divine. She clutched his arms as if she could keep him on this earth by the sheer power of her will.
“You can’t meet him, Ren. You could die, and what would I do?”
