Page 7 of A Tale of Two Dukes

Not much in this life gives me pause; however, as I stare at the sightless holes, something in my brain clicks about, like claws sliding over my skull. It’s almost auditory in its intensity. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as every cell in me screams to stand and fight.

As the man turns, however, the world just stops. Everything locks up, not in fear, but in absolute shock. In front of me, as if conjured by the devil himself, is the man I condemned to the noose. Thomas, or rather this approximation, curls his lips into a sneer as he looks me up and down.

He looks just like the day when I first dragged him before the Prince, Thomas’s hands covered with gunpowder. Everything freezes again until my mind turns to mush. Once more, I look upon the face of a killer. Only this time, there is no sign of rot or decay.

His face is pristine save for a smattering of freckles and an oddly placed mole. The only difference between him and the man buried so many feet below the ground is minimal, but deviations all the same. I latch onto these small dissimilarities, convincing my brain that I’m not set for Bedlam.

This must be a different face altogether, and yet, the fact that it’s so similar to one so hated by the Crown… I shake off the gathering sense of foreboding, feigning disinterest in the man. I can’t play my hand just yet.

If this is indeed some reincarnation of that treacherous monster, then I’ll allow him to make the first misstep. Crossing my arms, I step back and look him over, affecting a bored expression. Now, with me so unguarded, I can see even more discrepancies.

There’s also a difference in eye color, apparent now that I’m finally clear-headed enough to see it. In the dim candlelight, it’s evident this man has blue eyes, so pale even an inevitable death will not be able to turn them opaque. They stare at me, cold and calculating, ever watchful.

In opposition, Thomas possessed jet-black ones. They were so dark one could not even discern a pupil. The eyes of a devil. Was it merely a trick of the light? Or is my mind finally snapping?

“Who are you to tell me you own this woman?” he chides, stepping even closer to her.

Everything in me screams to haul him away from her, to thrash him where he stands for ever deeming himself worthy to touch so rare a goddess. But I hold back, gripping my fingers by my side.

“The one who possesses coin enough to own her. You will step aside…” I pause, waiting for him to fill in the gap with his name.

“Hugh Beaumont,” he spits out, dipping into a bow. “Former heir to Birchleigh. The seat which you now hold, I believe.”

A shiver runs down my spine. “The heir has been executed.”

“That’s where you are wrong. My brother was executed. His twin is very much still alive.”

Twin. That is, of course, the most reasonable, rational explanation. It still doesn’t make looking at the man any more comfortable. He’s far too alike to sit well with me, not quite identical, but close enough. And the fact that he just happened to show back up in London so soon after the execution…

Across from me, the girl shudders, pulling my attention away. Her eyes are wild as she looks between Hugh and me. There’s something in her expression that’s unreadable.

Curious. She seems more invested in this conversation than a normal working girl. Is she perhaps looking for some juicy tidbit to line her coffers? Could she be capable of blackmail?

Dragging myself away from this morsel, I force it back to where it belongs. I will have plenty of time to see to her later. “It wasn’t made apparent he had a brother, much less a twin.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” he sneers, “would it?” With a growl, he steps away from the girl, and I watch as she slumps down in relief. “Seems as if Father hid that fact very well. Too well, in fact.”

There’s a bitterness there that cannot be feigned. It drips from his very pores. Could it be that he had no knowledge of anything that passed here? It’s too ludicrous to even fathom, and yet…

“It matters not to me whom you call your kin. What matters is this woman is mine. I will ask you again to step aside.” I grit my teeth as I reach out for the trembling waif who looks about for her salvation.

I will have to mull this over later once this service girl is in my grasp. She’s the one in immediate danger. After tonight, I will confer with the Prince and see if this man’s story holds true.

Stepping forward, Hugh stares me down, a soft snarl vibrating from his chest. “My coin is just as good as yours.” He pauses and grabs her arm, hauling her to his side. “The girl is with me.”

“Oh!” Madame Douler cries out, shuffling over to our side. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come, Kitty. You have been bought for tonight.”

The moment the madame comes into eyesight, Hugh turns to the side, placing his mask back over his face. Gone is the man who should be dead, and in his place stands a demon.

Now, with it firmly in place and in the light, I can see the details more clearly. Red stones line the eyes, going inward to create the illusion of fire beaming from the sockets. Two horns curl about at the head, not sticking straight up, but like a ram. A devil indeed.

From off to the side, I watch as the girl slumps down even further, her body fairly radiating discomfort. Strange that she would act as if going to her funeral instead of off to service a man. I must know what pains her so. It beats at me, demanding answers.

I watch as Hugh eyes the girl, his desire as apparent as my own. If I can keep him here, put on a show that even he can’t resist, then I’ll have time to warn the Prince. Besides, if he’s anything like his brother, he won’t want to miss what I’ll do to this little piece of flesh. He’s too invested now, and his jealousy would demand nothing else but feeding the fires of his desires.

“No. She is mine for tonight.”

“But, Your Grace-” Madame Douler cuts in.