"I believe this conversation has served its purpose," Lucian said with dismissive finality. "Gentlemen, I shall see you at dawn."
As he turned to leave, his dark eyes met hers across the crowded ballroom for the first time in days. The look that passed between them lasted only a moment, yet it carried more communication than all their careful politeness had achieved since their estrangement began. In his gaze she saw determination, resignation, and something that might have been regret—though whether for their quarrel or for the morning's necessity remained unclear.
The carriage ride back to Grosvenor House passed in silence that felt different from the cold distance that had marked their recent interactions. This quiet carried weight and anticipation, as though both recognized that tomorrow's events would alter everything between them regardless of their outcome.
"You need not have done this," Evangeline said finally as their carriage drew up before the familiar facade of their London residence. "Not for my sake."
"I did it for honour," Lucian replied with careful neutrality that revealed nothing of his deeper motivations. "Some insults cannot be allowed to stand, regardless of personal considerations."
The phrase 'personal considerations' encompassed their entire troubled relationship, acknowledging the distance between them while suggesting that duty transcended private feelings. Yet Evangeline detected something beneath his formal words. Exhaustion, perhaps, or the recognition that tomorrow might render their quarrels meaningless.
"Lucian," she began, then stopped, uncertain how to bridge the chasm that his cruelty had carved between them.
"Yes?"
"I hope you know that whatever our differences, I would notwish you to face harm on my account."
His smile in response was sad and brief, transforming his scarred features for just a moment into something approaching the man she had fallen in love with during their library conversations.
"I know," he said quietly. "Sleep well, Evangeline. Tomorrow shall bring what it brings."
As they entered Grosvenor House and retired to their separate chambers, both carried with them the weight of unspoken words and unresolved feelings that the morning's confrontation might render forever beyond expression. Yet perhaps, Evangeline thought as she prepared for what might be their final night under the same roof, crisis had a way of clarifying what truly mattered and what was truly worth fighting for.
***
The dawn mist hung heavy over Hampstead Heath when the two carriages arrived within sight of each other, their occupants emerging into the grey morning light with the sort of grim purpose that marked such encounters throughout the long history of gentlemen's honor. Lucian stepped down from his vehicle accompanied by Lord Worthington and Mr. Brookes, while Pembroke emerged from his conveyance with Lord Ashford and his own medical attendant.
"Gentlemen," Mr. Blackwood announced with formal precision, "the conditions have been agreed upon by both parties. Twenty paces, pistols provided by Lord Worthington, both parties to fire upon my signal. Are there any final words either principal wish to speak before we proceed?"
"Only that Lord Pembroke may still withdraw his accusations with appropriate apologies," Worthington offered with diplomatic courtesy, though his tone suggested he heldlittle hope for such a resolution.
"I withdraw nothing and apologise for nothing," Pembroke declared with continued obstinacy, though his voice carried a tremor that suggested his earlier bravado was beginning to waver. "Let us proceed with this farce and be done with it."
"Very well," Blackwood said with resigned authority. "Gentlemen, please take your positions."
The two men moved to their marks with movements that revealed much about their respective characters. Lucian walked with controlled precision, his scarred features calm and his manner suggesting that the upcoming confrontation held no particular terrors for someone who had survived the war. Pembroke moved with nervous energy that spoke of fear imperfectly concealed beneath aristocratic indifference.
"Twenty paces," Blackwood called out as the principals positioned themselves back-to-back. "Begin your count on my mark."
The pacing was conducted in silence broken only by the soft sound of boots upon damp grass and the distant call of morning birds. Each step carried both men farther from negotiation and closer to the moment when honor would be satisfied through violence that could not be recalled.
"Gentlemen, turn and fire upon my signal," Blackwood announced as they reached their positions. "One, two, three!"
The command echoed across the heath with startling clarity, followed immediately by the sharp crack of pistol fire that sent watching birds into flight. Yet only one shot had been fired—Pembroke's weapon had discharged a full second before Blackwood's count reached three, sending his ball wide while Lucian remained standing with his pistol still raised but unfired.
"Early fire!" Worthington called out with indignation at such a spectacular breach of dueling protocol. "Lord Pembroke discharged his weapon before the signal!"
"An accident," Ashford said quickly, though his expression suggested he found his principal's behavior as dishonorable as the other witnesses. "Lord Pembroke's finger must have slipped."
"The man fired deliberately," Mr. Brookes muttered with professional observation born of treating too many dueling wounds. "Hoping to gain advantage through treachery."
"Is this true, Pembroke?" Blackwood demanded with formal gravity. "Did you fire before the signal was given?"
Pembroke's face had gone pale as he realized the magnitude of his error. To fire early in a duel was considered the height of cowardice, marking a man as unfit for gentlemen's society.
"I… well…. the morning light was uncertain..."
"You fired early," Lucian said with deadly calm, lowering his pistol toward the ground rather than taking advantage of his opponent's dishonorable conduct. "The question now becomes whether you possess sufficient courage to acknowledge your cowardice publicly, or whether you prefer to compound dishonour with continued falsehood."
