Page 22 of To Hunt the Hunter

“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.