Days of Rakes and Roses by Anna Campbell Page A

flickering candlelight gleamed on his brushes and shaving kit on the mahogany tallboy. If he’d fled for France, he’d abandoned all his personal belongings. Unlikely.
    Which meant she could think of only one other reason for his early departure.
    Last night she’d relinquished fear. But now fear surged anew, powerful as a king tide.
    *  *  *
     
    On this derelict farm near Hampstead, the forces of the law wouldn’t disrupt murderous intentions. Simon stood quietly at Cam’s side and watched the rising sun cast the dewy meadow in pure gold. Or perhaps after his night with Lydia, splendor tinged the whole world.
    It had been an agonizing wrench to sneak away like a thief just before dawn. But if he’d told Lydia he still meant to proceed with the duel, they’d have argued. Call him a coward, but he couldn’t bear rancor to stain his last memory of his beloved.
    Now, facing death, he’d never loved life so much. Had he left Lydia pregnant? He prayed that he hadn’t, although he’d sell his very soul to see her growing round and drowsy with contentment as she carried his child. He’d sell his soul twice over to make love to her again.
    Berwick’s second—for the life of him, Simon couldn’t recollect the fellow’s name—had been speaking in a low voice to the doctor Berwick had brought. Now the man left Dr. West and approached Simon and Cam. “Are you ready, Mr. Metcalf?”
    “Yes.” Simon turned to Cam, feeling awkward. So much to say. No time to say it. Painful to summon a farewell to his oldest friend. Even more painful to formulate a request for the care of his oldest friend’s possibly pregnant sister. “If this doesn’t go well, you’ll—”
    “Look after Lydia. Of course, old man.” Cam smiled and gripped his arm briefly in unspoken affection. Neither had imagined it would come to this when they’d set out to undermine Lydia’s engagement. The price of interference proved devilish high.
    The two duelists strode to the center of the field and faced one another. Berwick’s eyes sparked with outrage when they rested upon Simon, but otherwise his square face remained impassive. Simon had spent most of the last weeks denouncing this man’s existence. But as he regarded Berwick now, fatalistic ice set over his soul. All passion drained away, replaced with a dull determination to have this over and done with, however it ended.
    “Ten paces, gentlemen, then turn and fire at will.” Berwick’s second dropped a white handkerchief to indicate the duel’s beginning.
    Feeling as though his body no longer belonged to him but operated at someone else’s behest, Simon turned and took one pace, then another. Time seemed oddly stretched out. He was preternaturally aware of the light turning the trees into a tracery of color fit to match the stained glass in his family chapel. The birds sang to greet the spring day. Boots crunched across frosty grass with a relentless rhythm.
    Berwick’s second counted each pace, his voice reedy as he shouted across the open space. The gun in Simon’s hand was small and beautiful, chased steel and mother of pearl, one of a pair that Cam had owned since his twenty-first birthday.
    “Ten!”
    His legs firm, his breathing even, Simon pivoted toward his opponent. Berwick turned more slowly, with deliberate menace, and raised his gun in Simon’s direction.
    So this was it. A lifetime of loving Lydia. A handful of good friends. Some amusing hijinks. More experience of the wider world in his thirty-one years than was granted to most men. Now everything reached its end.
    As Simon drew what could prove his last breath, the image that flashed before his eyes was Lydia’s face as she lost herself in pleasure. A good memory to die on. With no intention of firing, he raised his pistol. A fellow must go through the motions, he supposed. The bright morning shrank to a narrow tunnel of light linking him with Berwick.
    “Simon, Grenville, stop!”
    What the devil?
    Shock held