I do not know how I am to describe what happened. The Duke of Netherby and Cousin Alexander were the last to arrive apart from a few stragglers. My heart was thumping against the branch, and it had nothing to do with how high I was. I was waiting for the pistols or the swords to be produced. And Viscount Uxbury looked so very large and menacing. But there were no weapons. They had decided, it seemed, to fight it out with their fists, though that is not right either, since the duke did not use his fists at all. And, Joel, he stripped right down to his breeches—I blush to write the words. He even removed his boots and stockings, and then he looked so small, so inadequate to what was facing him, that there was not the faintest hope in my poor bosom. And yet he looked lithe and perfect too and incredibly beautiful. Oh dear. I wish I had not written that last sentence, but even if I erase it with half an ocean of ink you will be able to read what I wrote. Let it stand, then. He is terribly beautiful, Joel.

When the fight was announced and he walked out onto the grass to meet the viscount, I fully believed in what Alexander had predicted. And when the viscount threw the first two punches, I almost died. But I would not hide my face against the branch for I felt largely responsible, you see. I was nasty to Lord Uxbury at the ball and then Avery escorted him out—yet he was the one to be challenged. I suppose it is not the thing to challenge a woman to a duel.

Joel, his arms moved so fast I did not even really see them. But he pushed those deadly fists aside as if they were no more than gnats, and he kept doing it even when Lord Uxbury moved in for the kill with a whole series of punches, any one of which would surely have killed Avery if it had found its mark. But he moved his feet and his body and his arms with such agility that he deflected or avoided them all, and then he spun about and lifted one leg to an impossible angle and slapped his foot against the side of the viscount’s head—although it was well above the level of his own—and the viscount went down with a crash. I still do not know quite how Avery did that, even though he did it again a little later with the other foot against the other side of the viscount’s head.

Lord Uxbury, as well as everyone else, had clearly expected an early and easy victory. By then, though, he was clearly rattled. He had taunted Avery from the start, calling him ridiculous and silly names, but then, after he had been hit on the side of the head for the second time, he lost his temper and said some really nasty and shameful things, which I will not repeat, about Camille and Abigail and me too. I wish I were more adept with words to describe what happened then even before my name was fully out of Lord Uxbury’s mouth. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I have never even heard of any such thing. He left the ground, Joel—Avery, I mean—and half turned in the air before planting his feet one at a time beneath the viscount’s chin and kicking out and then landing on his feet. Viscount Uxbury was not on his feet by that time, however. He crashed backward and just lay there. He was still prone on the ground when Elizabeth and I left, but he was not dead, for which fact I was very grateful, much as I dislike and despise him.

Alexander came to the house later as he had promised Elizabeth he would to whisper privately to her—he did not realize that I knew about the duel and he certainly did not suspect that we were there—that Avery had won the fight and Lord Uxbury had been carried home, dazed and unable to stand on his own feet.

The Duke of Netherby is a terribly dangerous man, Joel. I have always suspected it but have been a bit puzzled about it. For he is on the small side, and he is indolent, and he dresses more flamboyantly than anyone else and has affectations, most notably his snuffboxes and his quizzing glasses, which change with every outfit. But he is dangerous. And I am betrothed to him. I believe the banns are to be read this coming Sunday and the wedding is to be one month hence. I think I am a little frightened, which is absurd of me, I know. He would not hurt me. Indeed, he would not hurt anyone, I sense, unless severely provoked, as he was this morning. But when he is provoked . . .

Oh, I must finish. My letters are getting longer and longer. I often look back to that day when you and I were talking in the schoolroom and Bertha brought me the letter from Mr. Brumford. If I had known then what I know now, would I have set fire to the letter and watched it burn? But he would have sent another, I daresay.

Thank you for all the other news in your letter. I do read everything you write over and over, you know. Every word is precious to me. If you cannot find a way to meet my sisters to find out how they are for me, do not worry about it. It is not your responsibility. But I do appreciate the fact that you are trying. I shall seal this and hand it to the butler without further delay, for he is supposed to come this morning—my betrothed, that is—and I do not know when that will be or how I shall look at him and not be afraid of the strangeness of him.

Is he from another world? And yet I am not really afraid. He is interesting—and what an inadequate word that is. I believe my life would seem dull if I were never to see him again.

Just as life seems a little dull without you. Know that I think about you daily and remain, as I always will,

Your dearest friend,

Anna Snow

Otherwise known as Lady Anastasia Westcott

Soon to be (oh goodness!) the Duchess of Netherby

The letter was almost too fat to fold. But Anna did it somehow and sealed it, noted that Elizabeth’s head was still bent over the letter she was writing at the table by the drawing room window, and pulled on the bell rope. John came in answer to the summons and Anna handed him the letter, asking that it be given to the butler to send out today.