To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11) Page 7

  I warned you my nephew was not to be underestimated, though if the conditions in your mills were as vile as reported, you’re a fool. It was bound to come to light. There are always do-gooders wanting to meddle in private affairs.

  The attached plan will give you what you need. It is my nephew’s habit to retire to the library after dinner. He does not know I am aware of this tunnel, a secret his father guarded closely. Providing you can evade the staff and get to it unseen, you’ll take him completely unawares. The rest is up to you.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Theodore Barrington to Mr David Burton.

  25th April 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

  Lucian spun around to face the threat as it resolved itself into the figure of a man in a black cloak. Matilda felt her heart racing, a cold, sick sensation rolling over her as she saw the glint of a knife in the lamplight.

  “You,” Lucian said, his expression one of disgust.

  There was a dark laugh, and the man threw back the hood of the cloak.

  Matilda grabbed hold of the nearest piece of furniture as her knees threatened to give out. David Burton stood before them, all trace of the amiable, polite man she’d once considered marrying wiped from his features. This creature was something else entirely. He sneered as he turned his head and looked at her.

  “What a surprise to find you here. I always knew it was him you wanted. You’d rather be a slut for a titled fool than married to a decent man.”

  “You dare come onto my property and slander my guests?” Lucian said before Matilda could speak.

  He seemed utterly indifferent to the fact there was a deadly looking blade pointed at his heart.

  “Mr Burton has a strange notion of what makes a man decent,” Matilda said, trying to deflect Burton’s attention from Lucian, as it was all too clear why he had come here.

  She wondered if there was a chance the staff had heard her scream, but Lucian had dismissed them all and the walls of Dern were thick and ancient. No one would come.

  “A guest, is she?” Burton said with a laugh. “That’s rich, and yes, I dare. You destroyed my life, so a little trespass seems the least I can do, though I’m afraid I shall have to cut your throat before I leave.”

  He said it lightly, his conversational tone making the threat even more chilling.

  “Lucian did not ruin you,” Matilda said with fury, desperate to figure out a way to give Lucian a chance. He had the wall at his back and nowhere to move, no weapon in sight. “You did it to yourself, the moment you treated those poor people with less respect than any decent person would give an animal.”

  Mr Burton frowned a little. “Oh, you think that’s why I’m here? For revenge? Well, yes, there is satisfaction in killing him for that. I’ll admit it pleases me to repay him for everything I’ve lost. However, all will be restored to me once I am done, and this was always a part of the plan.”

  “The plan?” Matilda echoed, wondering what on earth he was speaking about. She saw him flash a cocky grin at Lucian.

  “Will you explain, or shall I? I don’t doubt you’ve worked it out by now.”

  Lucian returned a look of sheer contempt and Burton chuckled. “Rather amusing really, when you think of it. If not for your interest in this pretty bit of goods, your uncle would never have contacted me. The scandal rags were full of it, though, and you know how your uncle loves gossip. He had them sent to India, where he read how the lowborn mushroom from up north and the marquess were vying for the same female. He took an interest in the story and lent me a helping hand. When he learned more about the man I was, he was pleased to find one ruthless enough to take what he wants.”

  “Yes, and one about as trustworthy as he is, by my reckoning,” Lucian remarked, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. He looked perfectly at ease, only the dangerous glint in his eyes betraying any emotion. “Let me see if I have this straight. My uncle told you how to get into Dern unseen, about the hidden tunnel to the library. I admit, I did not believe he knew about that one. My father kept such things between himself and his sons, but somehow he discovered it, and drew you a pretty map so you can put a period to my life. Happy Theodore then inherits the title. In return for this service, he has promised to restore your fortunes and your reputation, to help elevate you among the nobility. He’ll introduce you to the right people and get you into all the right places, even help you find a worthy bride, now Miss Hunt has seen sense and refused to have you. Do stop me if I’m wrong.”

  “No, no, carry on,” Burton said with a smile that made Matilda’s heart stutter with fear. She could not believe the two of them were standing about discussing Lucian’s death in such a bloodless manner.

  Lucian made a low sound of amusement. “There is a minor flaw in that plan, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?” Burton said, raising one dark eyebrow.

  “Yes,” Lucian said, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips. “My uncle is a liar.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that, my lord, I’ll see he keeps his word.”

  Matilda shivered at the laughter in his voice, but Lucian just stared at him, that not-quite-smile still at his lips.

  “You don’t have the slightest idea what you’ve gotten mixed up in, you poor fool. You’re just a pawn. Expendable. If you succeed, he’ll have you hanged for my murder, and his sincere outpouring of grief will be worthy of a Greek tragedy. You’ll not get out of this alive, I promise you. Unless you leave now. Do that, and I’ll even give you a five minute head start before I raise the alarm. My word as a gentleman.”

  “Sorry, old man,” Burton said, mocking Lucian’s accent. “I’m afraid I can’t do it.”

  “No,” Lucian said, his voice growing colder, dripping condescension. “You long to be one of us, don’t you? Yet you don’t have the first idea of what it means to be a gentleman because you’re an ignorant pleb. You’ll cut my throat because you are too paltry a human being to act like a man. A gentleman would duel with honour, the better man left standing. You….” he said, a world of disgust and generations of breeding loading that one word with unutterable scorn. “You don’t have the guts for it, you white-livered scum.”

  Matilda watched with her heart in her throat, wondering what on earth Lucian was playing at, goading him so savagely. She expected at any moment that Burton would lash out and kill him where he stood, except that she saw now that Lucian’s words had been calculated with vicious precision, to give himself the only chance he had. He was taunting Burton on purpose with the thing most likely to rile him, his lack of breeding.

  “Pistols at dawn?” Burton said, shaking his head, though the desire for retribution shone in his eyes. “Oh, no. Any fool can get lucky with a bullet.”

  Lucian waved a negligent hand, as if this was a mere detail. “Swords then, as in the days of my forebears.”

  “You think you can beat me, with your prancing about at Angelo’s?” Burton waved the knife at Lucian as Matilda felt a cold bead of sweat slither down her spine. “You don’t know what a fight is, milk-sop. Where I grew up, we had to fight for our bloody lives, not mince around with sharp little sticks, poking holes in each other in some fancy club. And don’t go assuming I don’t know how to hold a sword, for you’ll not have time to be sorry for it. You wouldn’t last five minutes in a proper fight.”

  “Then you’ll walk away with honour and not a scratch upon your person,” Lucian said easily. “Prove to me how worthy you are. Teach me to respect you at the tip of a sword. Make the Marquess of Montagu kneel to the better man. I dare you.”

  Matilda closed her eyes. She had heard the phrase so often over the past years, and no matter how shocking and risky the dares had been, no one had ever been in serious danger. Hearing those words now, in this context, she felt sick to her stomach. This was not a dare to kiss a stranger, to dance under the moonlight in a garden. This was life or death, yet it was the only chance Lucian had to escape this madman’s plans.

  She wondered with terror wh
at Lucian’s chances were. Mr Burton seemed transformed into something rough and brutal, a man who would kill without a moment’s remorse. Lucian was a touch taller but not so heavily built, and so Burton seemed to be the obvious choice to come out the victor. Lucian was sophisticated and elegant, too well bred for this manner of confrontation. Wildly she looked about the room, searching for something she might use as a weapon.

  A bronze figurine about ten inches high caught her attention. It had a heavy marble base. Breathing hard, she inched backwards, but she’d barely made it a foot before Mr Burton noticed. He swung around and grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her to him and pressing the knife to the delicate skin of her neck. A scream died in her throat, her fear so overwhelming she was too terrified to even breathe.

  “No!” Lucian shouted, holding his hands out. “It’s me you want, me you came for. Miss Hunt is innocent in this. She never betrayed you. She is not here for me but for my niece, Phoebe. Miss Hunt loves the child and wanted to assure herself of her wellbeing. She won’t have me, Burton. She won’t be my mistress, though I’ve tried my damndest to entice her, I assure you. She’s too good for either of us.”

  “That true?” Mr Burton demanded, his voice in her ear soft, almost gentle.

  Matilda stared at Lucian. She was trembling hard, her breathing erratic, and she knew what she ought to do. Lucian’s eyes begged her to say the right thing, but she did not believe Mr Burton meant to leave her alive or, if he did, he would realise soon enough he could not afford to take the risk. He could have no witnesses to his crime. She was a liability, and no matter if he still wanted her, he could not risk letting her speak of what she’d seen.

  If they would die anyway, she’d have Lucian know the truth.

  “No,” she said, the word barely more than a whisper. “I came for both of them. I love Phoebe, but I love Lucian too, with all my heart.”

  For perhaps the first time she saw genuine emotion shimmering in Lucian’s eyes: triumph, joy, and such pain that she felt it echoed in her own heart. Mr Burton was not about to give them any more time to reflect on her words, though.

  “Dirty whore,” he growled. “I would have married you. I would have treated you with respect, like a queen, given you anything you desired, but you’d rather debase yourself, disgrace yourself with him.”

  “Yes,” Matilda said simply, feeling a tear slide down her cheek.

  Lucian closed his eyes, and she saw him gather himself. It was almost imperceptible, invisible to anyone who did not know him well, who did not understand the monumental control he exercised over himself and his emotions.

  “So, Mr Burton,” he said, his voice cold, a dangerous glitter in his eyes. “Come and slit my throat, as that is what you’ve come to do. I won’t be the first nobleman to die at the hand of a lowborn upstart with pretensions of gentility. There is no honour to be found among such men as you. You are a breed of cowardly curs who would rather strike down their betters than be better themselves, despite all your posturing and aping the part of a gentleman.”

  “You’re no better than me,” Burton sneered, and Matilda felt indignation stiffen his body, felt the heavy muscle in his arm tense.

  The hand that held her wrist tightened with fury, grinding bone, and her breath caught at the pain, but she did nothing, only breathed shallowly, trying to hold onto some semblance of calm.

  “So you say,” Lucian drawled, looking as though he was bored to death by the entire exchange. “Yet you are too craven to prove it. So, you’d best get on and murder me. That is what you came for, I believe? As edifying as this little chat has been.”

  “Fine.” The word was gritted out through clenched teeth and Mr Burton’s anger was palpable now, filling the room, a rank, sour stench that she could almost taste over her own fear. “If you’re so keen to be humiliated as well as cut down, I can indulge you, I suppose. Then Miss Hunt can see who the better man really was.”

  “As you say,” Lucian replied, dry as dust. “I sometimes practise in the ballroom, as it offers plenty of space. I have a fine set of duelling rapiers, if you dare. They belonged to my grandfather. Or do you prefer the foil? You do understand the difference?”

  Mocking now, Lucian arched an imperious eyebrow.

  “Rapier, then,” Burton replied tersely.

  Having seen her brother practise as a young man, Matilda knew a blunt foil was generally used for practising. A true foil was only sharp at the tip. A rapier, however, had a razor-sharp blade on both sides.

  “Excellent,” Lucian replied. “Shall we?”

  He gestured to the door and Burton jerked his head.

  “Miss Hunt and I will follow. We shouldn’t want anyone to raise the alarm, after all.”

  Lucian’s jaw tightened as he saw that Burton had moved the blade from her throat to low at her side, hidden from immediate view. The implication was clear enough. If either of them tried to raise help, Matilda would suffer for it.

  Lucian opened the study door, and Matilda’s heart seemed jammed in her throat as she saw Phoebe, her hand raised as if to knock. She was in her nightgown, her little feet bare, and she looked absurdly young and fragile.

  “Phoebe.”

  She could hear the terror in Lucian’s voice, the effort it took for him to steady it. The child could not see Mr Burton, who had dug the knife at Matilda’s side in a touch deeper. She felt the sting as it pressed into tender flesh.

  “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “I came to say sorry,” Phoebe said, her voice dull. “I… I don’t want you both to be angry with me. It’s only—”

  “I know,” Lucian said quickly, reaching out to touch her cheek. “And neither of us is angry. I promise, sweetheart. You were quite right, Phoebe, everything you said, and I am sorry for it, but now you must listen. Do you remember the other day when we spoke about… about bad dreams? What you should do if the nightmare came back?”

  Matilda saw the girl’s stare at her uncle for a moment and then her eyes grew wide, her face draining of colour, but she nodded, a barely perceptible bob of her head.

  “Good girl,” Lucian said. “Go. Now.”

  Phoebe stared at him and Lucian nodded. Phoebe turned and ran. Matilda let out a ragged breath, closing her eyes and thanking God.

  “What was that about?” Burton asked, suspicious.

  “Miss Barrington was scolded earlier for not going to bed nicely. She pretends bad dreams in order to stay up late,” Lucian said lightly. “It was just a reminder she would be in trouble if she did not return to her room at once.”

  Burton gave Matilda a little push. “Go on, then.”

  Matilda thought it typical that a place the size of Dern Palace, which was run by a vast army of staff, could not conjure up one solitary footman in the time it took them to cross the not inconsiderable distance from Lucian’s study to the massive ballroom. That was the way of it, though, and so no one was any the wiser. There was no one to sound the alarm, unless the cryptic message that had made Phoebe’s eyes grow round had included instruction to get help. Mr Burton had helpfully yanked a yard of silken rope off a curtain as he passed, and now tied Matilda’s arms tight behind her back.

  “Don’t even think about trying to run,” he warned her, waving the knife he held in her face by way of illustration.

  “You’re a vile excuse for a human being,” she said, wondering how she dared speak and hardly having breath enough to get the words out. “Even if you kill us both, you’ll not get away with it. Lucian is right, his uncle is far cleverer than you, and far more dangerous. You’re doing his dirty work and you’ll be caught, and hanged for it too.”

  “Shut up.”

  He slapped her, a negligent swipe of his hand that knocked the remaining air from her lungs with the shock of it. It hadn’t even been a particularly hard blow, though it stung like blazes, but no one had ever touched her in anger before and the casual violence of it was stunning.

  “Touch her again and I’ll dismember you, o
ne piece at a time.”

  The frosty voice drew her attention back to Lucian, and she forced a smile.

  “I’m all right. Please be careful, Lucian.”

  He was holding a large, narrow leather box, his eyes on Burton as icy as she had ever seen them. Lucian set the box down, flicked back the clasps and opened it. Two elegant swords lay on a bed of blue silk. Lucian reached for one and lifted a long, wickedly glinting blade with an ornate, engraved hand guard. With the toe of his gleaming boot and a contemptuous gesture, he kicked the box so it slid across the floor to Mr Burton.

  Matilda watched, disbelieving, as Burton took up his own sword, the knife he held transferred to his left hand. Surely this was a bad dream. Things like this did not happen any longer. The world was a different place from the time of their grandfathers, when men duelled to the death or maimed each other with these deadly blades. Yes, gentlemen still duelled for honour occasionally, but rarely, and with pistols, where there was a far greater chance of walking away unscathed. This… This was madness.

  Yet the two men were preparing, stripping off coats and waistcoats and untying their cravats so nothing would impede their movements. They took up the swords again, Mr Burton taking up the knife in his left hand too, and moved to the centre of the ballroom, circling one another.

  Matilda gasped in horror as the two men came together in a flurry of movement, the shriek of steel against steel a sound she had never heard in such a violent context. Mr Burton laughed and surged forward, wielding the blade with brute strength. In that instant, Matilda was certain Lucian would die. They were both powerful men, but Mr Burton was filled with rage and violence and it seemed impossible that Lucian, bred to be a marquess, could survive such an onslaught. Did anyone even dare challenge him at Angelo’s, or was he allowed to win because no one had the nerve to beat him?

  Yet, Lucian withstood the assault and, as the two men disengaged, he was very much alive and didn’t have a scratch on him. Mr Burton renewed his attack with equal violence, such force behind each strike that, if even one had made contact, Lucian would surely have been cleaved to the bone. Up and down the ballroom they went, with Lucian always in retreat, Mr Burton grunting with effort, the full force of his body behind every swing of the lethal blade. Again and again Burton attacked, furious and ferocious, until he was breathing hard, his hair damp against his head, sweat trickling down his forehead. As they disengaged once more, Lucian watched him with unnerving calm, his breathing undisturbed, silver eyes cool. It was a calculating look, utterly bloodless, and Matilda realised in that moment that she had underestimated Lucian as much as Mr Burton had. He was weighing Burton up, judging the quality of his opponent. He had not been retreating, had not been forced into a submissive stance, but had allowed his opponent to expend all the energy he wanted to without exerting himself the smallest amount.