Part 5 (1/2)

He'd only seen the like of those roses once before...

It was the same place he'd seen a certain pair of boots and a man whose hair had not yet turned white.

The Duke of Stromburg arrived at Farrington's country estate at four o'clock that afternoon. He'd ridden, but a carriage was not far behind, carrying more than a few friends and their favorite weapons. He wanted to face The Duke of Farrington alone. The man had been a dear friend of his father's after all. Leland would spare the man an audience if he could.

Every memory along the road warred with his new disillusion. How could such a man turn so deviant? How could he look upon his favorite memories of his father and extricate Farrington from those scenes?

He could not.

Surely men of Leland's age could let go of childhood memories without pain. But perhaps he'd held on to his for too long, a splinter left unattended and allowed to swell, now too painful to remove.

He'd take Aphrodite away and wed her, spend the rest of his days trying to make up to her the fact he'd left her by that fountain. But how painful would be those memories of their first meeting, tied as it they were to this splinter in his heart?

Leaving her that morning had been just like the episode in France, only without the fire. Their barracks were in flames, the timbers collapsing, and he'd not allowed his men to go in after their comrades. It had been too late. The men inside were past screaming. One man disobeyed and died for it, running inside just as the roof collapsed. Leland had resorted to holding a pistol on the rest, to keep them from joining the body count. They'd wanted to be heroes, even if it meant dying for it.

He'd been awarded a medal for saving lives. He'd accepted it. He'd had no choice. But the lives everyone thought he should have saved had been those who'd been off duty. He'd made the schedule. He'd decided everyone's fate that night. Well, all but the one.

He'd heard the men afterward, mumbling as he pa.s.sed.

”You saved the wrong lives.”

And when he'd left Aphrodite, he'd saved the wrong life too. He'd saved himself, yet again.

Now he wondered if she'd even agree to marry Lord Fool.

The long driveway was covered in a lush green canopy of ancient trees. Noting his favorite trunk to climb shot pain to his stomach, so he stopped noticing anything at all.

He rode directly to the stables and handed his reins to a boy there. A few minutes later he'd made his way past the fountains and into the gardens that lead to the d.u.c.h.ess's courtyard. Surely she'd died, though Leland hadn't been told. Surely Farrington wouldn't entertain such depravity with his beloved wife still sharing his home.

There in the garden, Leland found the first three items he sought; the boots, the vest, and the old man. The latter knelt beside the path, his back to Leland. His vest matched that of the head thief. The boots were unmistakable. s.h.i.+ny patches peeked around fresh smears of rich soil.

”Gordon.”

The man froze, but did not turn.

”I wondered how long it would take your memory to catch up with you, Young Wescott.”

Ever the rebel, Gordon addressed no man formally.

”On your feet.”

The man dropped his head for a breath, then made his way up off his creaky knees. He turned and grinned at Leland as if he couldn't be more pleased to see the young duke back in his gardens.

”You didn't recognize me at Whites. What gave me away, then?”

”The boots.”

”I thought as much. You were eyeing them mighty closely. Good thing you were drunk off your a.r.s.e yesterday or I'd have been in trouble.”

”Yes. Lucky thing.”

”Where is he?”

”Where's who?”

”Farrington.”

”Oh, now, you don't want to go upsetting His Grace, Wes, do you? He's not so well these days.”

”Well enough, I imagine.”

”Oh, dear me. Well.” The man scrubbed at the back of his neck like the answers to all his problems lie in scratching a deep itch.

”Well, what?”

Leland had a sinking feeling he didn't want to know...

Mister Gordon hurried into the drawing room and didn't seem to notice the dirt on his boots or the whiteness of the rug, marching up to the d.u.c.h.ess of Farrington without so much as a bow.

”Your Grace, come quickly. Young Wescott arrived and called out His Grace. They're dueling on the lawn.”

Tempest jumped to her feet and followed the d.u.c.h.ess from the room. If she allowed the old woman to take the lead, someone might die before they got out of doors! If she tried to get around the woman's broad skirts, she might knock the d.u.c.h.ess over and there'd be nothing left but a pile of bones.

Finally, the hall widened and she pardoned herself as she barreled past the d.u.c.h.ess of Farrignton and headed out the door.

There, at the bottom of the expansive lawn, its growth currently kept in check by a small flock of sheep, stood the Duke of Stromburg with a sword in his hand. Ten yards away stood the bow legged form of Dear Henny, the Duke of Farrington. There was no telling in which decade the d.u.c.h.ess had added Dear to her husband's name, but it stuck as if added to his certificate of birth.

Dear Henny slashed his saber in a wobbly line through the air. His opponent appeared to be stretching his legs and testing the flexibility of his blade.

”Are you ready, Your Grace?” The old man's voice sounded much stronger than he looked.

”Whenever you are, Your Grace.” Stromburg was all manners.

”Don't you dare!” Tempest's momentum, having gathered all the way down the slope, threatened to take her through the center of the duel and beyond. Her feet were happy to stop, but her head kept going. She ended by somersaulting. Twice.

By the time her senses settled on which way was up, the men had begun their duel as if they'd never noticed her entrance, nor heard her warning. She dared not wait until she was on her feet to speak.

”Your Grace, put down your weapon. You have no issue with His Grace. It was Her Grace, the d.u.c.h.ess who sent Gordon to win the bidding. She was in town and heard what was happening. That night, at my home, I was one of the thieves. So was the d.u.c.h.ess. We wore breeches.”

Wescott dropped his sword a bit. She wondered if the idea of her wearing breeches was the part of her story that caught his attention. ”To which grace are you speaking, my dear?”

”To you!”

”To me, what?”

”I don't understand.”

”To you, Your Grace,” he instructed.