Page 132 of The Duke Undone

“I think your business in this house is finished,” she said. “Please, be so kind as to show yourself out.”

As he left, he heard her opening and closing the door.

• • •

He looked out the window as the coach rolled along to Leicester Square. The day was still young.

Lucy would be on her way to the Royal Academy, perhaps cutting through the very alley where she’d stumbled upon him. He wondered if she regretted it, if she’d spent the night weeping bitterly for lost opportunities.

Aunt Helen was already gone to inspect a ship that had docked in the night, but he found Effie and Sofia lounging over their breakfast, planning a day at the shops.

Effie was in need of a new wardrobe, feminine armor that would help her withstand the notoriety bound to attend her return to Society. She understood better than he did what lay in store; she’d been in London when the Pall Mall Gazette published its series on aristocratic seducers following George’s death. Her elopement, her tenure at Putney, perhaps even her brief career at Rafferty’s—it was only a matter of time before the whole story went to press. She spoke of the inevitable, tapping her spoon agitatedly against her cup. But when he muttered something about his failure to spirit her away in secrecy, she harrumphed.

“Rubbish,” she said. “I’d rather everyone know. It’s better than cringing around worrying about who will find out. And my circus friends won’t cut me.”

At the mention of circus friends, Sofia’s eyes began to shine.

Effie still intended to sing. That, too, would make for a future conversation.

Anthony left them to their talk and their arrangements. Someday soon, when he’d expunged the last traces of Yardley’s influence from the house, he’d bring Effie home to Weston Hall. He’d already placed Lucy’s miniature on her writing desk. In fact, he’d taken it into Effie’s bedchamber more than a week ago, the evening of that terrible day, when he’d turned thirty, gaining and losing so much in so few hours. Hope had ebbed from him, and he’d needed something else. Magic. An enchanted object with the power to manifest his sister’s safe return. Sofia would have understood his manner, how he’d touched the miniature with closed eyes, channeling something, the power of the moon.

He felt tired when he returned to Park Lane, tired and strangely empty, out of rhythm with the world. He stood looking at the front door.

It wasn’t Yardley he was mourning, or George, or his mother, or his father, but someone who had never existed, the person each of them might have been if life had unfolded differently.

Nothing could solace this kind of hurt. Certainly not a drink. But a bottle, a bottle could wash it all away. His throat itched, but then he swallowed hard and headed for the stables. Inside, the light was richer, slanting in golden beams, and the scent of hay and horse flooded him. He felt calmer walking between the stalls. Not a straw out of place. He eased into Snap’s stall. He looked more like Anthony remembered him, lean but not gaunt, chest broad, head set proudly on his long neck.

He waved away a groom, saddled Snap himself, and rode for Hyde Park. It never quite satisfied, riding in London. Too many people, even in the parks. He couldn’t give his horse its head and gallop flat out, like he did in Hampshire, like he’d done in Afghanistan, crossing the long plateau on Mizoa, the closest he’d ever come to flying.

It was a special agony, remembering Mizoa stretched out in his blood on the road. On a morning like this one, the English spring unfurling its green banner, the air so cool and fresh, all that had transpired in Afghanistan seemed a bad dream.

He needed to remember that it wasn’t, that the peace that attended him here, in this gorgeous green corner of London, coexisted with every horror, even, to some extent, depended on horrors. He needed to remember if he was ever to succeed in effecting change.

He couldn’t live inside his wounds, not without destroying himself. But he would bear his scars proudly, and learn from them, and not forget, not ever.

When they reached the park, Snap’s stiff gait began to smooth and lengthen. Not the speed he craved, but there was a steadiness, a confidence, that came up through Snap’s legs into his. He cantered a wide loop, riding until his mind felt patterned by hoof beats. The regularity put his thoughts in order. There was darkness in the world, but there wasn’t only darkness. Love, trust, affection. They pounded up from below, governing his connection with the horse, the earth. The life he wanted to live, the better world he wanted to build, it started with this connection. He wanted to tell Lucy how it felt, tell her that she was part of it, this new reality he could finally imagine. But he needed to do more first. One thing at a time, she’d said.

At some point he became aware of the moon, pale and luminous above the trees, visible in broad daylight. He leaned back so it could shine full on his face, and he felt somehow that he could distinguish its silvered, mysterious rays from the blaring broad beams of the sun.

He didn’t hesitate before his front door on the return. He walked inside and fired Collins on the spot, with wages for the month in lieu of notice. He jogged to his study, Snap’s canter organizing his movements as well as his thoughts. For a moment, he assessed the books and papers; then he summoned Humphreys.

“Tear apart the house,” he commanded. “Shake out every book and check inside every cushion. Don’t worry about ripping the upholstery.”

Humphreys grinned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a knife.

“Not worried,” he said. “What are we aiming to find?”

“It turns out my father’s preferred heir is a long-dead English setter.” Anthony took a book from the shelf and flipped the pages roughly. “We’re aiming to find his last will and testament.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

A paper doll couldn’t have squeezed into the Schools through the throng. Students clustered in the roadway, talking excitedly. Lucy’s hand tightened on the strap of her bag, and she almost pivoted, ready to run for Piccadilly. Then she chided herself as a twit and a spoilsport.

This was Kate’s day. Nothing would sully it. If the wave of excitement crashing through her churned up darker feelings—envy, self-pity—she would simply wait until that sediment settled.

She stood, searching the crowd. Red-faced larvae wiggled into knots of older boys, eager for inside information. The pinafores made their own groupings, throwing hopeful glances over their shoulders. Redcliffe Davis and Thomas Ponsonby held languorous court by the entrance, puffing cigars, Davis’s sapphire earring twinkling through the smoke.

It was always like this, confusing and exhilarating, when the first rumors concerning the Hanging Committee’s decisions broke. She’d known it was coming, if not today, tomorrow. The Hanging Committee took only five days to go through the oils, another five for the watercolors.