Alec paused in his work, leaning against his broom handle and studying the man. “They must have missed you.”
Desmond paused as well, his mouth turned down in a sad smile. “Yes, and I missed them.”
Alec took a breath and said tentatively, “Do you want to tell me about the duel? You told me you felt responsible, but something tells me there is more to the story.”
Desmond looked down, then met his gaze. “I was wondering when you would ask. In fact, I am surprised you didn’t ask before.”
Alec waited. Not sure the man would confide in him. Not sure he wanted him to.
Desmond inhaled, then began. “Lady Amelia’s brother, Graham, challenged me. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He came to kill me, and I suppose I should have let him. But in the end my will to live was too strong.”
He paused to gather his thoughts, then continued, “His valet handed me a note during the May Day dance. It demanded I meet him in the upper room of the market hall. I went only to talk—not to accept his challenge. I went unarmed and took no second.”
He grimaced. “But Graham came armed with a pair of dueling swords. He tossed me one and raised the other. I only meant to defend myself, to parry his attack. But he feinted at the last second, and . . .” Desmond shook his head, eyes distant and pained.
“I can still hear the sickening sound of punctured flesh. Like air and spoilt wine bursting from a ruptured wineskin. Still see the shock in his face when he realized . . .”
Desmond swallowed. “You can’t imagine how many times I have rehearsed the scene in my mind, asking myself what I could have done differently. There must have been some way to change the outcome.” He lowered his head. “But, God forgive me, I don’t know what else I could have done.”
“Did you leave directly afterward?” Alec asked, thinking of his own father.
Desmond replied, “Soon after. The constable began asking questions, which made my parents nervous. I had Graham’s note and the valet’s testimony, so he hesitated to charge me with murder outright. Still, duels are illegal. And even if juries are reluctant to convict gentlemen in such situations, I was not exactly a gentleman, was I? Graham was the earl’s son. I could easily have been convicted and hanged. My parents begged me to leave before charges were pressed. They said it would break their hearts to see their only son imprisoned or hanged.”
Desmond sighed heavily and picked a dust wad from his broom.
Alec asked, “Is that why you come here only at night? Are you afraid you might be arrested?”
Desmond shook his head. “No. My mother spoke to the constable before she wrote to me, to make certain there was no warrant out for my arrest. But that doesn’t mean people here will welcome me back, or ever again take lessons from me.”
Then he looked at Alec and braved a grin. “Now, don’t feel sorry for me, Valcourt. I am happy to help my father. And I like working with my hands, though I admit the hilts and scabbards are more enjoyable than horseshoes.”
“Perhaps you ought to advertise,” Alec suggested. “I’m sure many gentlemen would like a fine sword—a dress sword, if nothing else.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t advertised since my dancing master days. I doubt it would be wise to put my name in print again.”
A thought came to Alec unbidden and unwanted—his uncle’s assertion that Lady Amelia may have been with child before her marriage. He hesitated, then asked, “Why . . . did Graham challenge you in the first place?”
Desmond’s mouth twisted. “Graham accused me of seducing his younger sister, Lady Anne.”
Alec’s mind whirled in a dizzying sense of having lived through this before. Wait . . . Lady Anne? Alec stared at the man, dumbfounded. Uncle Ramsay said nothing about Lady Anne.
Desmond glanced at Alec, then looked away. “He said I’d ruined his sister, and left her with child.”
Alec’s stomach soured. “Why did he blame you?” Once again, the image of Miss Underhill flashed in Alec’s mind. He guessed why. “Simply because you were the dancing master?”
Desmond shook his head. “No,” he said, expression bleak. “Because Lady Anne herself named me as the father.”
Alec stared. “But I thought—”
A knock sounded on the door, startling Alec and Desmond both. Alec could see no faces appearing in the upper windows, but he glimpsed the top of a feather bobbing in the breeze.
“Hang on. I think it’s my mother.”
He opened the door an experimental crack. His heart lifted. Both his mother and sister stood there, pails and scrub brushes in hand.
Aurora said, “We thought you could use some help.”
He gestured them inside, especially relieved to see his mother, who had been concerned about his plans, and her brother’s reaction.
Now she looked with polite interest toward Desmond, while Desmond stood awkwardly awaiting introductions.
“Forgive me. Mother, Aurora, may I introduce my new friend, Mr. John Desmond. Desmond, my mother, Mrs. Joanna Valcourt. And my sister, Miss Aurora Valcourt.”
He bowed. “Mrs. Valcourt. Miss Valcourt. A pleasure.”
“Mr. Desmond, how nice of you to help Alec.”
“No great act of charity, I’m afraid, ma’am,” Desmond said humbly.
Alec explained, “Mr. Desmond owns this property.”
“Ah. I see.”
“And as I’m in great part to blame for its neglected condition,” Desmond added, “it’s the least I could do.”
“Nonsense.” Alec smiled at his mother and sister. “Mr. Desmond has only recently returned to Beaworthy after living in Plymouth and before that traveling the world. His father runs the forge outside of town. He has been ill, and Desmond has returned to help him.”
“That is very good of you, Mr. Desmond,” Aurora said, eyes warm with approval.
“Yes, you are a good son,” their mother added.
“You are very kind to say so,” Desmond said pleasantly. “But I cannot allow you to call me good, for I am not. Please, call me Desmond. Or John, if you prefer.”
“And,” Alec announced, “I have a great secret, but you both must promise never to tell anyone. . . .”
Desmond stiffened as though expecting a blow. Did he think Alec was about to share his confession?
“What is it?” Aurora grinned, reading Alec’s teasing tone and anticipating a joke or happy surprise.
Alec clapped Desmond on the shoulder. “Desmond here is a former dancing master and has promised to teach us all the dances he learned in his travels.”
Desmond’s dark brows rose, and his mouth quirked in a lopsided grin. “Have I indeed?”
Julia and Patience spent the afternoon in Julia’s bedchamber, sitting on the half tester bed, legs tucked beneath their skirts like the childhood playmates they once were. Instead of dolls between them, the latest fashion magazines lay in haphazard disarray across the white counterpane. Julia had confided to Patience all she had learned about her parentage, and now the magazines lay forgotten.
Julia ended with a plaintive, “I told you he didn’t love me.” She believed the words more than she ever had before, and saying them aloud caused her chest to ache. “He wasn’t my father and was glad of it.” She tossed the brass mermaid back into her drawer and shook her head, detesting the tears filling her eyes. “Why? Was it really only because I was his wife’s niece and not his own flesh and blood? Am I so unlovable?”
“No, of course not.” Patience squeezed her hand. “Your mother loves you, and she’s known all along.”
“Not my mother. My aunt.” Julia shook her head, stunned all over again. “Had you any idea?”
“No. But I think it wonderful—Lady Amelia, raising her sister’s child as her own. How generous. How kind.”
Julia looked up from beneath her lashes. “Must you always be such an optimist?”
Patience shrugged. “Why not?”
“I wonder what James would think if he knew,”
Julia mused. “I suppose he would no longer be interested in me—my birth being ‘too early’ and all.”
“It’s possible.” Patience tucked a stray wisp of white-blond hair behind her ear, then added thoughtfully, “James is the most fastidious of us all.”
Julia flashed her a hurt look.
“Oh, don’t take it to heart, Julia. You and James are friends, yes. But you’ve never wanted to marry him. You’ve always said marrying James would simply be exchanging one cage for another: Buckleigh Manor for Medlands.”
“Did I say that? How rude.”
“I thought so,” Patience agreed. “But honest too.”
Julia thought. “You know—it is strange. James will have Medlands one day and I shall have Buckleigh Manor. Lady Amelia doesn’t want me to leave here, so I am almost surprised she hasn’t urged me to marry Walter instead.”
Patience ducked her head shyly. “I have a theory about that.”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps it’s because she knows Walter is adopted. Not a natural son of our parents. Not that it has ever mattered to us, though it might to your mother.”
“It should matter to her least of all, but— My goodness,” Julia exclaimed. “Is he?”
“I should not have mentioned it. But considering all you’ve learned, I thought it might ease the sting a bit, to know you are not alone.”
“Does Walter know?”
“Oh yes. He’s always known. But it’s not something we talk about. We’re a family and we love each other and that’s that.”
Julia shook her head in wonder. Then she said, “You’re right that I’ve never wanted to marry either of your brothers, because they are like brothers to me as well. But I admit James was my ‘if all else fails’ plan.”
Patience elbowed her playfully. “Then marry for love and you shan’t need any such desperate plan.”
Julia sighed. “I don’t know if I can love anyone but myself. And you, of course.”
“Of course you can.” Patience squeezed her hand once more. “Raise your eyes from yourself for a few days and you might surprise yourself.”
Julia felt her mouth fall ajar. Meek Patience Allen had just chastised her. No doubt the chastisement was well deserved, but she was taken aback nonetheless.
“Patience Allen. I am surprised at you.” She grinned to soften her words. “In fact, I am rather proud of you for standing up to me.” Julia winked. “But I do hope you don’t plan to make a habit of it.”
Alec held his first unofficial lesson in the High Street academy. The day had turned grey and rainy, and Walter Allen had walked into town for their fencing bout instead of waiting to meet him in the Buckleigh churchyard as usual. The warmth radiating through his wall from Mrs. Tickle’s ovens and the smell of baking bread were welcome on such a chilly day.
They fenced for a time, Alec demonstrating the flèche and balestra after reviewing the fundamentals. Walter was improving, but Alec admitted to himself that the man would likely never be a graceful competitor. Though dancing might help—both in fencing and in winning Miss Thorne’s admiration. . . .
The door burst open behind them and both men started. The stout constable stood there, pistol drawn.
“Mr. Lamont,” Walter said, lifting both hands until his sword nearly brushed the ceiling.
Alec asked, “Is there a problem?”
The constable looked from one to the other. “Heard swords. No one’s supposed to be in here.”
Alec said, “I should have thought to let you know—I’ve let the place from the Desmonds.”
“For what purpose?”
“Fencing lessons, as you see. And . . . dancing, perhaps.”
“Dancing? In Beaworthy?”
“My uncle assures me it is not against the law.”
“Doesn’t mean it won’t get you into trouble.” Lamont glared at him, then opened the door. “Watch yourself, Valcourt. For I’ll be watching you.”
When the door had closed behind him, Alec walked over and made sure it was secure, sighing in relief.
After they’d sheathed their swords, Alec said, “Speaking of dancing. How about a dance lesson to cap off our fencing?”
Walter’s face wrinkled as though he’d smelled something foul. “And ruin a perfectly good day? I could understand following fencing with shooting or hunting. But not prancing about. No.”
“You don’t think dancing is manly—is that it?”
“That’s right. Not the mincing, courtly steps you’ve taught us, at any rate.”
“Perhaps I did not choose wisely in our previous lessons. Allow me to show you a real man’s dance, danced by tough-as-iron seamen—men who sailed with Captain Cook around the world, suffering hardships and savages and storms.”
Walter scowled. “Men like that don’t dance.”
“But they did. They do. Sailors invented a dance called the hornpipe for exercise aboard ship, since it requires only a small space and no partner. Captain Cook himself ordered his crew to dance the hornpipe to keep the men in good health.”
Walter narrowed his eyes. “Is that a cock-and-bull story?”
“No. The dance steps come directly from sailor’s tasks. . . .”
Alec demonstrated with his right hand to his forehead, then the left. “Looking out to sea.”
Then he bent his knees and lifted one leg high in a side kick and then the other. “Lurching in foul weather . . .” He gestured with his arms. “Pulling in the ropes . . . And giving a tug to his breeches both fore and aft.”
“That’s a real dance?” Walter scoffed. “You’re hoaxing me.”
“Not at all.” Alec began dancing the steps in half-time. One-two-three hop, step-hop, step-hop . . .
“There are some sixteen steps in all, and as many variations as there are men to dance them.” Alec brought the dance up to tempo and asked, “Does this look like a minuet?”
Walter shook his head, eyes widening as Alec danced—legs flying, springing from one foot to the other, shoes rat-a-tat-tatting the floorboards in rhythmic percussion.
Walter watched Alec’s whirling feet in amazement. “Hang me, that’s fast.”
Alec paused to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his hairline with the heel of his hand. He grinned slowly at his friend. “Your turn.”
But Walter was spared when the door burst open behind them.
There stood Mrs. Tickle, face flushed from her hot ovens, or was it . . . alarm?
“Goodness heavens!” the baker exclaimed. “Are you all right?” She looked around the room. “I thought the world was coming to an end, or an earthquake struck, like I read about near Inverness last year.”
“No,” Alec assured his neighbor. “We were only dancing. Sorry, Mrs. Tickle. Did we disturb you?”
“It isn’t me I am thinking of, but I do worry for my jellies and cakes.” She pressed an emphatic hand to her generous bosom. “Thank heavens the day’s bread has already risen! Do be a lamb and promise not to, um, stomp about like that before seven in the morning?”
“Yes, of course. I promise.”
“Well, good. That’s all right, then. As long as the world hasn’t ended . . . and my cakes don’t fall.”
After Walter took his leave, the day continued grey and drizzly. Even so, Alec found himself drawn out-of-doors, longing for fresh air after the hours spent in the still-stale academy. Longing to see Miss Midwinter again.
He walked out of the village and down the Buckleigh Road, hoping to catch a glimpse of her at her favorite place—the churchyard.
When he reached the Buckleigh church, he automatically looked up at the tower. He was both relieved and disappointed to see it vacant. He was about to turn back when he noticed a solitary figure with her back to him, standing before a cluster of headstones. The hooded cape disguised its wearer, but somehow, he knew it was her.
He slowly walked over, his feet quiet on the spongy turf until he kicked a stone and set it skittering over the path.
She gl
anced over at him, then quickly averted her face. But not before he saw the tears on her cheeks. His heart twisted at the sight.
“Mr. Valcourt,” she acknowledged in a voice thick and tremulous.
He glanced at the grave. It was not fresh. In fact the lichen-cankered headstone appeared to have stood there for decades. He read the birth and death dates—the woman had died nearly twenty years ago.
Lady Anne Tremelling. The name struck Alec like a fist, and he recalled what Desmond had told him about the duel, and what he had begun to tell him about Lady Anne before they’d been interrupted. What about this grave had upset Julia Midwinter now? It seemed a strange coincidence that she should stand before this particular grave, so soon after Desmond’s confession—if confession it had been.
Alec asked gently, “Are you all right?”
She didn’t respond immediately. But then she began shaking her head, over and over again. “No,” she whispered.
He looked again at the headstone. “Lady Anne was your mother’s sister. Is that right?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it, apparently thinking the better of what she’d been about to say. Then she said, “Lady Amelia’s sister, yes.”
He nodded, musing aloud, “Your aunt, then.”
Julia gave a bleak little laugh. “So I thought.”
Confusion filled him.
She turned her head, glancing at him from beneath her hood. “Are you good at keeping secrets, Mr. Valcourt?”
He thought of Miss Underhill, his father, and now Desmond. “Very.”
“Yes, I suppose you’ve proven that already.”
She said nothing further for some time, and he began to think she would not confide in him after all. But then she looked about the churchyard as if to assure herself they were alone and began quietly, “Lady Anne was not my aunt. She was my mother—the woman who birthed me.”
Alec stared, mind whirling. Lady Anne. Desmond. Julia? His uncle had it wrong, then, about the reason for Lady Amelia’s rushed wedding. He hoped his expression showed none of the shock he felt, only interest and concern.