“Utter nonsense!” Palmerson reached for Alex. “She’s mine.”
Alex lurched back. “I belong to no one!”
Lucy slipped her hand into her pocket and through the hole she’d ripped in the bottom of it. She rested her fingers against the dagger strapped around her thigh and pushed Alex back, muscles ready to do what she must.
“That one,” Palmerson said, stabbing a finger toward Alex, “is a not worth the trouble. And that one”—he turned his finger to Lucy—“is a bit too brazen, isn’t she? Clearly she’s been a bad influence. I’m done with you all. We leave now, Timothy.” He made for the door.
But his son did not follow. “You give up that easy, old man? Ha. Well then, the better man will clearly be the victor.” He shoved Lucy out of the way, grabbing Alex’s arm. “The lady’s mine now.”
“Like hell she is.” Keats lunged.
Hutchens threw Alex’s arm away and danced out of Keats’s reach, laughing. “Don’t waste your breath avenging your sister. She’s not worth it. I know. Quite intimately.”
Keats surged forward, and Griff grabbed his arm, holding him back.
“What are you implying?” Keats demanded.
Hutchens strolled toward the door on a rolling wave of his own laughter.
Keats looked lost, his gaze swinging wildly from Alex—standing defiant behind him—to Palmerson, then back to Hutchens. “No man insults my sister, casts doubt on her character. I demand satisfaction.”
Hutchens stopped mid-step.
“Name your weapons!” Keats cried.
Hutchens shrugged. “Why not? I like winning. Pistols.”
A wide, victorious grin flashed across Keats’s face before it snapped out of existence. “There’s a field south of Dorking. We meet there in a quarter hour.”
“No!” Palmerson exploded across the room, blocking his son’s exit. “You will not duel that man.”
“I’m not a coward, Father. Now, will you be my second, or areyoua coward?” He pushed his father aside and left the pub, Palmerson rushing after him.
Keats walked to the fireplace across the room, took a box off the mantel, and returned to them. “Your brother stashed this here while you were dressing.” He glanced at Lucy. “Thought it might be useful. In case things went poorly. As they seem to have done.” He spoke without any inflection, and the hands that opened the box, revealing two gleaming dueling pistols, were steady, capable. He snapped the box closed and left the inn.
They tumbled out of the pub and onto the street, trailing after Keats.
Griff’s long legs caught up with him more quickly. “Don’t do this.”
“You’ll be my second, yes?” Keats’s strides ate up the road out of the village.
Alex ran to his side. “You’re trying to do better, Keats. That means no more duels. You promised me you were trying to change.”
Keats stopped, placed his hands on Alex’s shoulders, then kissed her forehead before continuing his march to the southern edge of the village. “I have failed you, Alex, but I will make it right.”
“Dying does not make it right.”
“I don’t intend to die. I’ve survived duels before.” He shrugged. “Does anyone know how good Hutchens’s aim is?”
Alex groaned.
Lucy ran, skidding to a stop in front of Keats, holding her palms out.
He looked out across the horizon behind her, eyes blank.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Keats, look at me.”
He looked at the sky.
