Page 33 of Souvenir of Love

“Bird-watching?” The gatekeeper scratched his greasy gray head, pausing to examine something beneath his nails. “Never heard that one before. What kind of birds would that be?”

“Peacocks.”

The gatekeeper shook his head with disgust. “Noisy screechy creatures, disturbing the peace…”

“I quite agree.” Rafe drew a bag of coins from his waistcoat pocket, dangled it out the window. “The birds startle quite easily. I’d be most appreciative if you kept this entrance closed for the next hour or two so we can observe them undisturbed.”

The gatekeeper stuck out a filthy hand. “Yes, sir, no problem there, my lords. You can count on me.”

Rafe slid back against the cushions as the coach rolled on, his fingers drumming silently on his knee.

Cole, seated across from him, next to a pinch-faced surgeon, speculated that his friend was playing out the opening moves of the duel ahead. He turned his gaze to the window. The trees lining the road were wrapped in a mist that rose from the damp grass. The sky was light, but the moon still ruled the sky. Odd to think that most everyone he knew still lay abed, while he rode to a damp clearing in the park to watch two men try to kill each other.

“Can’t you stop him?” Phoebe had asked as they’d lain together the night before. But there was no stopping Rafe when he’d set his mind on something. They’d all warned him he was holding the reins too tightly on Elizabeth, that she’d bolt if he didn’t loosen up. And she had—straight into Dinsmore’s waiting arms. Cole had a suspicion that Rafe was angrier at himself for mishandling Elizabeth than he was with Dinsmore. Dinsmore was just a convenient scapegoat. Rafe held the belief that if a man planned his life carefully, he could control it. A grim smile curved the corners of Cole’s mouth; he doubted there was much a man could do to control the course of his life, and he knew for certain there was little a man could do to control the women in it.

Elizabeth had the wildness of her late father and her brother George, but she also had the quiet determination of her motherLouisa. Had she truly been “experimenting” with Dinsmore or was there something deeper involved? Lord help them if she’d decided James was like some neglected rosebush in need of a good pruning and a bit of attention. If that were the case, then Moreham had best kill Dinsmore, or Elizabeth would surely find a way back to him.

Dinsmore really wasn’t such a bad sort, Cole reflected, though he would never voice his opinion to Rafe. Actually, James reminded him of himself fifteen years ago—spoiled, bored, and restless—before he’d met Phoebe, of course. The lines around his eyes softened as he continued to stare out the window. He saw a coach with the Dinsmore family crest drawn up by the side of a clearing, a lovely bit of garden, really, bordered by flowerbeds. James Dinsmore stood, still as a nearby statue of a nymph, hands resting on his sheathed sword.

“He’s here,” Cole said as the coach slowed to a stop.

“Are you ready, my lord?” The surgeon spoke for the first time since he’d been introduced earlier that morning.

Rafe eyed his battered, leather medical bag. “If you’re asking am I prepared for your handiwork, then, my good sir, you’re asking the wrong man.”

The surgeon’s mouth flapped as if he were trying to recapture his words. “My lord, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean…I mean, I only meant…” He was still scrambling to make amends when the carriage door swung open.

The footman holding the door handle was a wiry little man in shockingly ill-fitting livery.

“Jervis,” Rafe said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I was unaware your duties included my stables.”

Jervis Jones, his manservant of fifteen years, flashed a wealth of missing teeth. “You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you, Captain? No, indeed, I wouldn’t.” He patted his coat pocket. “I brought along some of my remedies, just in case you might beneeding them. Not that I’m expecting you’ll be needing them or him.” He nodded dismissively toward the surgeon. “But I figure you’ll fight better knowing you’ve got sure hands standing behind you.”

The corners of Rafe’s mouth twitched at Jervis’s enthusiastically mixed metaphor. “After your last potion—tree fungus, wasn’t it?—I’ve no doubt the knowledge that one of your home remedies awaits me, should I falter, will bolster my fighting arm.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Jervis protested.

Rafe turned his attention to the company in the coach. “Gentlemen, shall we proceed?”

Cole slid a leather case out from under his seat and followed Rafe into the damp dawn air. The surgeon scuttled behind.

James nodded as they approached. His second, Lord Grenville, greeted them. “Good morning, my lords.”

“And good morning to you, my lord.” Rafe turned to James. “Dinsmore, so good of you to show.”

“Far too early to visit my tailor,” James replied pleasantly.

“No need to hurry.” Rafe handed his hat and coat to his coachman. “Indeed, after this morning, most likely he’ll be measuring you for a different sort of suit.”

“Are you so certain?” James asked, removing his own jacket and hat and handing them to his coachman. He shook out the ruffles of his sleeves.

“Gentlemen.” Lord Grenville cleared his throat. “Shall we begin? No doubt, it is well understood by both parties why we are met this morning. Lord Moreham believes he has been offended by Lord Dinsmore’s attentions to his sister.”

Rafe stiffened at the use of the wordattentions, but said nothing.

“Lord Moreham, I must ask you, is there nothing Lord Dinsmore might offer that would satisfy your honor and the honor of your sister?”

“An abject apology to my sister for laying hands upon her person, an admission to the ton that he is a loathsome scoundrel, exile to some far-flung corner of the Continent with a promise never to see Elizabeth again.”