My dear Charles,
I thank you most kindly for your hospitality these past months. It is good to know my old friends have not deserted me. You were right, of course. It was most foolish of me to seek a reconciliation with Lucian in public, or indeed at all. But there is no fool like an old fool and my heart was so overjoyed to see him again, I forgot our enmity and allowed my feelings to get the better of me.
I am sorry I could not wait to speak with you in person before my abrupt leave taking, but I did not wish to intrude on your family celebrations after the happy marriage of your lovely niece. I‘m afraid I have this morning received dire news indeed, however. News that leads me to believe that my nephew is, as I have always feared, not entirely sane. I must away to Kent, to discover the truth of what has transpired, though I confess I am afraid to go. I only hope he does not discover my presence close to Dern, for I believe I must fear for my life.
It appears Mr Burton has been mortally wounded by my nephew, who attacked him without provocation. I spoke to the man—who has been most grievously ill-used by my nephew—before he left for Dern. He wished to plead with Montagu to leave him be, for it seems Mr Burton has been defamed most unjustly, and all for my nephew’s wicked desires for the woman Burton aspired to marry. I warned him of the dangers, but the poor deluded creature believed he could appeal to my nephew’s better nature. Sadly, as I know to my cost, he does not possess one. In normal circumstances I would ask you to keep the news to yourself, to save the family name, but the gossip will begin soon enough, I’m afraid, so there is little point in secrecy. Whatever am I to do? Do you think Bedwin would step in and help me? I am at my wits’ end.
―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Theodore Barrington to Charles Adolphus, Baron Fitzwalter.
26th April 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.
Lucian woke to a world of nausea and pain. Disorientated, he tried to open his eyes and groaned as light seared through his tender brain. God, he was cold. Why was he so bloody cold? Yet the sheets seemed to stick to his skin, his body damp with sweat. He shifted on the bed and pain lanced through him, stealing his breath and making his stomach roil. Oh, God. Though the agony of it almost made his mind grow black, he turned on his side and retched, vomiting helplessly.
Dimly, he registered a voice calling for the curtains to be closed, and that someone had mercifully provided a bowl to catch the vile mixture he’d heaved up. A glass was lifted to his mouth, and he drank gratefully, wanting more, and protesting as the sweet water was taken away.
“Slowly,” said a soft voice. “Only sips.”
He tried once again to open his eyes, but found nothing but blurry shapes as a warm cloth wiped over his face. He shivered.
“Cold,” he murmured.
“I know,” said the voice. Such a lovely voice. He wanted to hear it again.
“Cold.”
“Poor Lucian, I’m so sorry, my love.”
My love. My love. His mind snagged on the words and held on tight. My love. Matilda.
“Matilda?”
“Yes, darling, I’m here.”
Relief flooded him. Matilda was here. She was here. Matilda loved him. Yet, if Matilda was here, then…. Shame rose, the heat of humiliation battling the chill in his bones as he realised she was tending him. She had held the bowl…. Oh God, no. He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “No. Not like this….”
“Don’t be cross,” she soothed him. “I will not leave, so you’ll just have to put up with it.”
He made a harsh sound of mingled rage and frustration. He didn’t want her to go, couldn’t bear her to leave, but to see him… like this…. It was intolerable.
“Lucian, calm down. I promise you I’m not the least bit revolted. Indeed, you look ridiculously handsome in the circumstances, so do stop fretting.”
He groaned, a little outraged yet relieved too. She wouldn’t leave him. Despite the fact he was bedbound, sweating, vomiting, and out of his head with pain, she would stay by him. He had no right to it, this loving devotion, his mind lucid enough to comprehend that truth down to his bones. Yet he wanted it, needed it so badly, and he loved her. Oh, God help him, he loved her so much he feared the emotion would swallow him whole, like the whale had swallowed Jonah. Yet, he could not have her. Even if he dared to consider defying generations of Barringtons, hundreds and hundreds of years of breeding, of grasping at power….
He could feel his father’s fury and scorn burning him from wherever he was in the hereafter at the mere idea. Even then, though, even if he could defy everything he’d been raised to believe in and cast aside his chance to increase the power and wealth of the family as was his duty… it was too dangerous while his uncle lived. Everyone he’d ever cared for had been taken from him, whether by accident or design. Only Lucian had been so dreadfully hard to kill, as though some benign spell had been cast on him, making him untouchable.
Almost….
He felt a gentle finger trace over the scar on his wrist and his breathing hitched. His uncle had nearly succeeded. Once. And he’d not had to lift a finger himself. Lucian had been too weak and too lonely to fight him any longer. Shame rose again and he tugged his hand free of the anchor that held him, sliding it under the covers. Matilda must leave. If Theodore discovered her here, if he realised it was more than desire that Lucian felt for her….
Oh, God.
“You… must go.” He forced the words out, though his heart protested vehemently. “Dangerous, too dangerous.”
“I’m not going anywhere, my love, and if you want to throw me out, you must get well so you can do it yourself.”
Frustrated, Lucian tried to open his eyes, to focus. Damnation, Pippin must have dosed him again, for it was like swimming through treacle. A sudden memory snatched at his mind, dragging him off course, down into the darkness. His lungs were burning, his mind closing down, the pressure of the water smothering him as he drowned. Drugged. He’d been drugged. It had felt like this, heavy… disorientating. Had the lemonade tasted odd?
“Let’s go for a picnic at the lake, boys. We can go swimming and cool off.”
His uncle’s jovial face was full of pleasure at the idea, him and Thomas laughing with excitement.
Lucian’s breath caught in his throat.
“Thomas!” he said, trying to shout but the water rushed in, taking his cry and sinking it, down into the green depths.
He saw his little brother splashing merrily at the edge of the lake as Lucian flailed, in too deep. His limbs felt like lead. He was so tired, and it would be so easy to sink to the bottom. Uncle Theo was standing by the lake and Lucian tried once more to shout, to make him see, but then came clarity. That dreadful moment when he could no longer fail to acknowledge the truth. Theo could see. He was watching him drown. It all became obvious in an instant. He was supposed to die here, like this, a tragic accident that was no accident at all.
Rage had burned through the drug, giving him a last burst of energy, enough to struggle his way back to where he could touch the bottom. He staggered and collapsed in the mud at the edge of the water, Thomas running to his side, shouting, and suddenly he was being carried back to the house.
Lucian thrashed helplessly, the vile touch of the monster’s hands on him, his sweet, jovial voice scolding him gently before the staff and Great-Aunt Marguerite.
“Naughty scamp must have been nipping at my flask of brandy,” Theo said, tutting a little, an indulgent uncle not wanting to scold his wayward nephew. “Half drowned himself, the foolish lad.”
“Oh, Lucian, whatever next?” Marguerite was as disgusted as always.
Mouldy Marguerite, chanted Phoebe’s voice.
“Yes, mouldy,” he agreed with Phoebe, who was sitting on his knee, eating biscuits.
Marguerite was a wretched old woman, and he hated her.
“Ah, don’t scold him, Marguerite. Boys will be boys and he’s learned his lesson. He just had a tot too much. He won’t do it again.”
“No!” Lucian forced the word out, tried to tell them. “No, it wasn’t me, it was him. It was him!”
But he could see their smiles, see that they believed his uncle and they would not believe him. Only Pippin scowled. Pippin, who came to his bedside though she was not his nurse. Pippin, who wouldn’t let him be alone….
“Lucian, hush now, love. Calm down. Your uncle is not here. Everyone is safe.”
“Phoebe!” he cried, terror clutching at him. Phoebe must not be dragged into dark places, not into the lake, not shut in the tunnels, not tortured with lies and benign smiles that hid razor sharp teeth. She would not live in the nightmares. “Don’t leave her… she must not… not alone.”
“She’s not alone. I promise. Miss Peabody is with her and there are footmen outside her door. Denton arranged it all. There are extra staff in the grounds, too. I will keep her safe for you, darling.”
Lucian subsided. His heart was thudding, too fast, too slow, too… something…. Everything hurt. He felt strange. Cold. Cold and dead, like Thomas had been. Dead and gone with that strange smile upon his face. No…. He shook his head, not wanting that memory to surface, fighting it, but Thomas was there, waiting.
“So sorry, Lucie. I didn’t understand what he was until it was too late, I didn’t see it. Made amends, though…couldn’t live with it… with what I did. Couldn’t taint my little girl with it. It was my fault. All my fault, not yours…. So sorry….”
“No, Thomas, don’t… don’t… it wasn’t you. Don’t go… don’t leave me…. We can fight him together this time.”
It was not Thomas who answered, though.
“I won’t leave you, darling.”
Lucian snatched at the lovely voice again, trying to haul himself free of the nightmare, away from the ghostly, ghastly face of his brother the night he’d found him, dead, all alone in the bedroom of a gentlemen’s club.
Lucian remembered the room, the club. One of the fashionable gaming halls, full of darkness and vice and all kinds of debauchery on offer. Thomas had died there, alone and eaten alive with guilt, eaten alive by the demons that drove him. A sob tore at his throat and he tried to turn his face away from the scene in that sordid room that stank of opium and despair and death. He turned his head and Matilda was there. She was there, too lovely and innocent to be there, in that dreadful place. She was incongruous, like a mirage, a dreadful temptation, the most dangerous desire of all….
“Hush, Lucian.”
Warm fingers curled about his, holding on tight, anchoring him.
“Matilda. You shouldn’t have been there… Shouldn’t have…Shouldn’t be… here.”
“Yes, I should. I am here. I’m not going anywhere. Rest now, my love.”
He slept.
***
30th April 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.
“Miss Hunt. Wakey, wakey.”
Matilda blinked. Her head hurt and her mouth was dry, her eyes all scratchy. She jolted up with a lurch as panic struck her heart.
“Lucian!”
“He’s all right, don’t get yourself in a lather. I just brought you a nice cup of tea.”
Matilda rubbed at her gritty eyes, a little disorientated but relieved to discover Pippin was right. Lucian had been fretful and restless ever since the fever set in, but he was relatively peaceful now. A flush seared his high cheekbones and he’d thrashed the sheet off again at some point, exposing a beautifully sculpted chest and muscular arms. Matilda blushed as she realised Pippin was watching her admire him. She twitched the sheet back up, covering him. She ought to be inured to the sight now, after tending him so personally these past days… but apparently not.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but you’ve barely eaten a morsel, nor drunk a drop all day, and I’ve not the time to nurse you too, so that won’t do.”
Matilda nodded and took the teacup from her hand, sipping at it gratefully. It was only now she realised how thirsty she was.
“There’s a nice big piece of fruitcake there, too, so make sure you eat it. It’ll perk you up.”
“Thank you,” Matilda said, her gaze drifting back to Lucian.
“He’ll be all right.” Pippin soothed her. “You’ve seen how fit and strong he is and, more than that, he’s determined to protect those he cares about. He’s not going anywhere.”
Matilda sighed, comforted by this woman’s assurances. She had been impressed and relieved to discover that Lucian’s trust in Pippin was well founded. How many days had it been since he’d been hurt? Three? Four, perhaps? She’d lost track of time. They’d taken shifts, nursing him between them, only allowing his valet to do the things Lucian would have died of mortification rather than have them do. Though Matilda had been more than a little anxious to discover Pippin meant to treat the bullet wound with nothing more powerful than honey and herbs, the results spoke for themselves. Fever had set in, but the infection was under control. It had not grown worse, at least.
“Lucian said your ancestors were wise women.”
Pippin looked up at her and smiled wryly, her expression placid. “Yes. Two hundred and forty years ago, one of my maternal grandmothers was hanged as a witch. Men have always feared women with knowledge. Makes us dangerous, you see, powerful in ways they don’t like nor understand. Happily, such nonsense is forgotten now, but I was taught the same as she was. I by my mother, as her mother was taught before her, and so on. Lucian—his lordship—came to appreciate my skills as a boy. He needed them, too, more often than I care to remember.”
“Because of his uncle?”
Pippin nodded. “He told you.”
“Only a little. That Mr Barrington had tried to kill him.”
Pippin made a disdainful noise. “Oh, no. He did worse than that. He tried to destroy him, and is still trying. That horrible man won with poor Thomas, twisted and tortured that poor boy into such knots….” She shook her head, clamping her lips together against what was obviously strong emotion. “Thomas was so young, fragile too. He didn’t stand a chance against a vile creature like Theodore Barrington. That man told such lies. He made Thomas hate Lucian, and it was years before Thomas realised how he’d been manipulated. When he did, when he understood he’d turned against his own brother and it had all been lies, it destroyed him. Theodore might have got my Lucian too, sent him down the same path, only I saw what he was. Not as quick as I ought to have done, but I saw, and I made sure Lucian knew I’d seen. That I believed him. I made sure he was protected after that. The best I could, anyway.”
“Was it very bad?” Matilda felt sick as she saw the look in Pippin’s eyes.
“Worse than you can imagine.”
Matilda hesitated, not wanting to pry, but….
“There’s a scar… on his wrist.”
Pippin’s gentle features darkened, something that promised retribution glinting in eyes that were usually warm and filled with kindness and compassion.
“He was just a child, all alone, and no one believed him. They thought the loss of his parents had unbalanced his mind, for everyone saw how his uncle doted on him. But once you knew the truth, you heard the threat in every assurance that his Uncle Theo spoke when he said he wouldn’t ever let Lucian be alone again. All those loving words that he used before everyone, those that made him sound so kind, they always had another meaning. That was the wickedness of it. To Lucian, he was being threatened in plain sight, but no one could see it but him.”
Matilda stared at her in silent horror, understanding Pippin’s need to gather herself as her voice quavered and she turned away. The woman moved to the bed and stroked the hair from Lucian’s forehead. When she spoke again, the words were quiet but still full of rage.
“That man infested this family like a cancer, and he killed it a bit at a time. He tried to destroy Lucian, and he nearly succeeded, but I wouldn’t let the devil have him. I knew he was on the edge and so I kept a close eye on him. I found him, before….” Her voice caught. “He was only fifteen. His brother had deserted him, wanted
nothing more to do with him. Thomas had said many terrible things to him because of his uncle’s lies. Lucian was so isolated, fighting on all sides, and everyone thought Theodore was such a lovely man. I hid what Lucian had done. Bandaged him up and pretended he’d got influenza and needed to rest, or they’d have had him sent to an asylum. His uncle would have relished it. He might not have gained the title, but he’d have had control of everything.”
“Oh, God.” Matilda covered her hand with her mouth, remembering the way Lucian sometimes tugged at his cuffs, an unconscious gesture she now understood.
She felt sick with grief, with rage, with the need to punish Theodore Barrington with the fires of hell, and never let him near Lucian or Phoebe ever again.
“There’s only Lucian left now,” Pippin said. “He’s all that stands between that wicked man and the blasted title he covets, but that monster won’t have him. I won’t let him. We won’t let him, will we, Miss Hunt?”
“Over my dead body, Pippin.”
Pippin returned a grim smile. “Oh, no. Not yours, miss. It won’t be yours.”
Chapter 10
Dear Aashini,
I am worried that Matilda is no better. What does the doctor say? Can we not visit? I beg you to keep the dreadful gossip about Montagu from her. It can only bring her grief. Uncle Charles says he is insane, but I find that hard to believe. The stories are all so wild, but… I hardly know what to think.
―Excerpt of a letter from Her Grace Prunella Adolphus, Duchess of Bedwin, to Aashini Anson, Countess of Cavendish.
2nd May 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.
“Why doesn’t he wake up?”
Phoebe clutched at Matilda’s hand and she squeezed it to reassure the child.
“Because it has taken a great deal of energy to fight the fever in his body, and so he must sleep to regain his strength.”
“But he will wake up?” she asked, glancing up at Matilda, her eyes wide with fear.
“Yes,” Matilda replied, with far more confidence than she might have had a few days ago.
To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Page 10