To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11)

by Emma V. Leech

  “You did this,” he said, staring at Pippin, wide-eyed with terror.

  “Me?” Pippin said, scoffing at the accusation. “I’m just an old woman.”

  “An old woman,” Aashini’s grandmother echoed from above, satisfaction in the words. “Just a silly old woman.”

  Lucian looked up, staring at the women, all hand in hand, looking down upon his uncle with fierce concentration. No. That was… ridiculous. His gaze swung back to his uncle as Theodore gasped and clutched at his chest, falling backwards, his face a rictus of agony. And then… he was still. No one moved to help him.

  “He’s gone,” Matilda said, holding Lucian’s hand tightly. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “He killed my family,” he said, too numb to take anything else in. “It was him. My parents and Philip. It was all him.”

  “I’m so sorry, Lucian, so terribly sorry, my love.”

  “Uncle! Uncle Monty!”

  Lucian turned as Phoebe ran at him full tilt and he swung her up into his arms, holding onto her as tight as he could, turning her away from the sight of the dead man.

  “It’s over, sweetheart. It’s all over.” His voice quavered and he breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of her, soap and innocence and all that had been good in his life.

  “Yes,” she sobbed, burying her face in his neck. “The monster is gone. Pippin killed him.”

  “He’s gone,” Lucian agreed, hardly believing it himself. “But it was nothing to do with Pippin, love. His heart gave out, that’s all.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No. It was Pippin, with all the ladies, especially that Indian lady in the pink silk. I want to meet her. Can I go and talk to her now?”

  “Not now, my lamb, perhaps in the morning. You come along now,” Pippin said, as Lucian set Phoebe down. “It’s late and there’s been far too much excitement. Time for a nice hot bath and bed, I think, whilst the grownups sort out all the unpleasantness. You come with me and I’ll have some warm milk and biscuits sent up for us. I think we’ve earned them.”

  Lucian watched, too shocked to say or do anything at all as Pippin led Phoebe away.

  “His heart gave out,” he repeated numbly as Matilda squeezed his hand. “I could see he was ill when he arrived. It was just his heart….”

  “Yes, love,” she said, giving him a placating smile. “Come away now.”

  Lucian went with her, suddenly exhausted. All he wanted was to go to bed and take Matilda with him, to curl his body tightly around hers and know that they were safe. For the first time since he was eleven years old, he and those he loved were safe. He wanted to sleep with Matilda in his arms, knowing that were true, and he knew he could not. He would never hold her that way again. Her brother and her friends were here. They had come for her, come like a rampaging army to save her from harm, from him. They loved her and wanted to protect her, and so did he, so he must let her go. No, not let her. She would not go willingly, she was too brave for that, too loving. He must make her go. His soul howled with misery at the idea, such pain in his heart he imagined he would follow his uncle to the same demise, for surely it could not endure such damage.

  “What is it?”

  He looked up to find Matilda studying him with concern, only then realising he had stopped moving.

  Lucian shook his head, staring at her, committing her beautiful face to memory.

  “I love you,” he said, wanting to say more, wishing he had words enough to explain everything he wanted, everything he felt.

  She moved closer and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth, tender and lingering, ignoring the furious growl from behind them. Her brother, no doubt.

  “As I love you,” she whispered.

  Lucian nodded, accepting that, even though it was too extraordinary to be true, and made himself move on.

  Chapter 21

  My Lord Marquess,

  I am writing to beg your forgiveness for the part I have unwittingly played in the actions of your uncle, Mr Theodore Barrington. He and I have been friends for decades, and never in my wildest dreams had I imagined him capable of such despicable acts. I am shocked and saddened and feel a burden of guilt and responsibility for all that has passed. Unhappily, I believed everything he told me of you and did not once doubt his sincerity. I cannot imagine what you have endured these past years, but if there is ever anything I can do to make amends, you may consider me your ally.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Charles Adolphus, Baron Fitzwalter to The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu.

  10th May 1815, The Old Bath Hotel, Matlock Bath, Derbyshire.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” Nate protested, setting down his teacup with a clatter. “I’m protecting you, for heaven’s sake.”

  Matilda glared at her brother from her position at the window, unimpressed.

  “Well, aren’t you lucky I didn’t protect Alice from you, Nathanial?” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “How fortunate that I believed her to be a grown woman, capable of making decisions of her own, or things might have worked out a little differently for you.”

  “It’s not the same,” Nate insisted, and she heard the anger in his voice. “I wanted to marry Alice, not to ruin her.”

  “You would have ruined her, though,” Matilda shot back, too furious to be reasonable. “If not for Lucian, but I suppose you’ll forget about that, just like you’ll forget how she would have been raped at Vauxhall Gardens if not for his intervention. Yet, you persist in seeing what you want to see, casting him as a villain.”

  “Oh, please don’t argue,” Alice said miserably, caught between the two siblings.

  Nate had the grace to look uncomfortable, at least. He sighed. “I admit he’s been maligned, and I can’t imagine what kind of life he must have lived, but still, Matilda. You know how he treated you. He let the ton ruin you… he helped them do it.”

  Matilda shook her head, knowing she could not tell him about Thomas, about the circumstances of his death and how Lucian had worked to protect his brother’s name. “You know nothing about it, Nate. You don’t understand, and I can’t explain without breaking his confidence. Why won’t you just believe me when I tell you he is a good man, that he loves me?”

  “If he loves you so bloody much, where is his proposal?” he demanded, slamming his fist down on the table so that the china jumped and rattled.

  The thin wail of a baby crying sounded from the room next door. Alice shot her husband a look of sheer exasperation before hurrying to her son.

  Matilda sighed, weary of this argument which had been raging from the moment she’d sat down to breakfast with her brother and Alice. Nate had ensured they had moved her bedroom close to their suite of rooms last night without her knowledge, and she was seething with fury. He had guarded her like a dog with a bone, and she wasn’t certain she would ever forgive him. Worse yet, Lucian seemed complicit in his actions. She could feel him pulling away from her, putting distance between them, forcing her to leave him. Though she’d known it was inevitable, she had not seen it this way. She had imagined their last days together to be bittersweet, spent with each other, snatching every second of every day in each other’s company, until the night of that damned ball, when he would step beyond her reach for good.

  “It’s a fair question,” Nate said, though his voice was gentle.

  Matilda stared out of the window, at the stunning countryside laid out before her. It promised to be a lovely day, the sunrise painting the sky in shades of gold, but for now an ethereal mist clung low to the ground, giving the landscape an unreal, fairy tale quality that was quite enchanting.

  “It isn’t a fair question, or at least it might be, for Mr Bennet or someone like him.”

  “Who is Mr Bennet?”

  Matilda smiled and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, only that Lucian isn’t Mr Bennet, he’s Montagu, and unless you were bred to be Montagu, you would not understand what that means. It is not merely the expectation of a nobleman
to marry well, it is laden with the burden of guilt and responsibility he feels for the dead, to honour their memories, to make them proud and fulfil the destiny they set out for their family generations ago. Especially now, after the damage his uncle has wrought to the family name.”

  “So, he cannot marry you,” Nate said, his voice grim.

  Matilda shook her head, tracing a pattern in the fogged up window pane, a witch’s heart with a crooked tail. “He won’t be able to keep it all quiet, and in truth I’m glad for that. People should know what he has endured, how badly they misjudged him, but now he must marry quickly, to some perfect young lady who will help him repair the damage that has been done.”

  “Then you must leave him, Matilda.”

  She did not answer, could not as the truth of his words burned in her throat. She heard him move, felt his hands on her shoulders as he turned her around to face him.

  “I’m sorry, Tilda. I would do anything to save you from pain. Anything at all, but there is no escaping this. Your name is being dragged through the mud, and there is little we can do to repair it, but we must try, love. Think of Alice and Leo, if you won’t consider your own future, consider how difficult it will be for them to be seen with you if you don’t mitigate the damage.”

  “I know,” she said, feeling the misery rise in a wave, swallowing her whole. “B-But…. Oh, God, N-Nate, it hurts. I love him s-so much and it h-hurts so badly.”

  She could not hold back any longer and the tears came then, ugly and too powerful to stop. She clung to her brother as sorrow threatened to pull her under.

  “I know,” he said, holding her tighter, and she heard his voice crack as he rocked her like she was a child. “I do know, and I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry, but there is nothing else we can do. We must go.”

  Matilda sobbed harder, barely noticing as the door opened.

  “Oh, love.”

  She looked up, blinking through her tears at Ruth, who hurried towards her and held her arms open. Matilda let her brother go and fell into them, feeling more arms going about her as other women pressed closer, enclosing her in a circle as they gathered near.

  “We’re here, darling,” Helena whispered, hugging her too. “And we’ll look after you, we all will. You’ll not be alone, I promise. Prue wanted to be here so much, but Bedwin wouldn’t let her travel since she’s so close to her date. She’s waiting for you.”

  “And I’m certain Kitty is on her way too,” Ruth added.

  “But the rest of us are here now,” Bonnie said, finding Matilda’s hand and squeezing it tightly. “And we’ll ruin anyone who says a word against you, won’t we ladies?”

  “We will,” Jemima said, looking as if her heart was breaking.

  “Absolutely,” Harriet agreed, her voice muffled as she blew her nose on a large pink handkerchief.

  “Indeed, we will,” Aashini said, her beautiful eyes filled with sorrow as they met Matilda’s.

  Matilda laughed, despite everything. The pain was too overwhelming to be eased, but her friends were here with her, lending her their strength, their comfort and support, and that meant the world, that meant the difference between enduring alone, and surviving.

  “I love all of you,” she said, somehow forcing the words out though her throat was aching, too tight to swallow.

  “As we love you, Tilda,” Minerva said, tears streaming down her face. “And we’ll protect you and keep you safe. We always will.”

  She nodded and accepted the handkerchief that Jemima pressed into her hands, wiping her eyes.

  “We’re coming with you,” Jemima said. “Back to London. The carriages are almost ready to leave.”

  Matilda straightened, panic lancing through her. “So soon, but… oh, but I must go to him, I have to say goodbye, I must….”

  “Oh, love,” Ruth said sadly, her voice trembling. “I’m so terribly sorry, but he’s gone.”

  Chapter 22

  My dearest love,

  I hope you can forgive me for leaving as I did. You must believe me a coward, and it is no more than the truth. I could not say goodbye to you, Matilda. I do not have it in me to say the words to your face and walk away. I would only need to see the tears in your eyes and my resolution would fail me, even as it fails me now.

  I know what loss feels like, my darling. What it is to have the world you relied upon swept away and to be left adrift, yet I have never known pain like this. How I shall endure it, I do not know. I will wear the pain of my loss like a hair shirt, so I might always remember the joy too, the extraordinary privilege of being loved by you. Perhaps my only saving grace is that I know I was never worthy of it, though I wished to be more than anything.

  If there is such a thing as another life, as Pippin insists there is, I shall find you again, and perhaps in that lifetime, we shall find a way.

  I cannot imagine how I will look Phoebe in the eyes and explain this to her, or if she will ever forgive me when I cannot forgive myself. I pray she does not hate me.

  There will never be another in my heart, my love, my soul grieves for all I must turn away from. I wish it were otherwise. I am yours, always.

  M.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu to Miss Matilda Hunt.

  ***

  Lucian,

  There is nothing I can say. Of course I forgive you, though I feel you have stolen from me the last days of happiness that I will ever have. Yet I understand how the dead weigh upon your soul, how they shape your life. Only remember that life is for the living, my love, and try to find some measure of joy. It does not soothe my heart to know you will be as wretched as I am. I love you too much to want you to feel such pain.

  Live, Lucian. Live for Phoebe and for those children who you make this sacrifice for or else what was the point of it?

  I sometimes wonder if you have ever contemplated your heir as anything more than an abstract idea. Have you ever considered that he will be a child, your son, and that you will love him as you love Phoebe, that you will want to protect him and will wish for his happiness more than for your own? Don’t bring him into the world with nothing but duty and honour as his purpose in life. Don’t condemn him and all those who follow him to live as you have done. There is more. We know there is so much more.

  Goodbye, Lucian.

  I will love you always.

  Yours ever,

  Matilda.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu.

  16th May 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

  Lucian took the letter out for the tenth time that morning alone, sliding it carefully from the breast pocket of his coat. The writing had been blurred in places when it arrived and now it was near illegible. Not that it mattered. He knew it by heart. After he smoothed the rumpled paper, he traced the shape of her name with his finger.

  He had known it would hurt to leave her, had known it would feel like dying, and yet he had not expected it to be as bad as it was. Each day the pain only grew worse as the realisation that another day would follow, and another, and still more, and not one of them would bring him her smile, the sound of her laughter, the scent of orange blossom and the soft press of her lips.

  Lucian closed his eyes against the exquisite pain that cut through his heart, jolting as the door to the library swung open and Great-Aunt Marguerite came through without so much as knocking. He got to his feet, turning his back on her, wiping his eyes and tucking the letter away before she could make some barbed comment about sentimentality. He might just kill her if she did.

  “The ball is in three days, Lucian,” she said, with no preamble. “As you are incapable of deciding, it is past time I helped you to come to the point. I have chosen three girls, and I will have an answer as to which one you will take as your marchioness.”

  “Go away, Marguerite,” he said, struggling to reach for the ice with which he was so used to freezing out that which he
did not wish to feel.

  The trouble was, Matilda had melted it all away, and the knack seemed to escape him now. His emotions were in turmoil, forever too close to the surface, ready to spill over, and he did not know how to make it stop.

  “I will not go away. This vile gossip about Theodore, not to mention that… that woman….”

  “Don’t.” Lucian swung around, fists clenched, and his aunt took a step back at whatever it was she saw in his eyes. “Don’t you dare speak of her.”

  Marguerite hesitated, but put her chin up and one by one set down three small framed pictures on his desk.

  “This,” she said, pointing at the first painting. “Is undoubtedly the best choice available. Lady Constance Rivenhall, daughter of the Duke of Sefton. She is an heiress, bringing fifty thousand pounds, plus the association with Sefton, and a wealth of property that is hers via her mother’s line. It would be the match of the century, Lucian. Not to mention that she is young and pretty, and that she has four brothers. Good, fertile stock.”

  “Get out.”

  Marguerite froze in response to the icy command, her finger suspended over the second painting.

  “Lucian,” she said, though her voice was a little less certain than before.

  “Get out!”

  He roared the words with such fury she leapt in shock. Marguerite paled, picking up her skirts and rushing from the room with a swish of black bombazine. Lucian stopped by the desk and stared down at the paintings, at the pretty painted faces of his future bride, whichever one he wished to choose.

  With an incoherent howl of rage and pain he swept his arm across the desk sending everything smashing to the floor. He stared at the destruction for a long moment, breathing hard, before turning towards the brandy decanter. The heavy crystal stopper hit the fireplace with a satisfying smash as he snatched up the decanter and strode from the room.