Page 31 of To Hunt the Hunter

“I do, and none of this ‘Mrs Appleton’ business. It’s Pippin to the family, and it seems you’re a part of it now.”

Matilda blinked hard and swallowed, uncertain of what to say.

“There, there,” Pippin said softly, moving to Matilda and giving her a hug. “He’ll be fine, my word upon it. We can only hope such a close shave to the almighty makes him realise the living are who we must live our lives with; the dead have had their turn.” She gave Matilda an approving look. “He could do with a woman like you at his side, but hopefully he’ll come to that in his own time. He never could be told anything, that’s for certain. Stubborn devil.”

She laughed at the astonishment in Matilda’s eyes and took her arm, guiding her to the door. “Yes, I know. I’m a deal too free with my opinions. Believe me, you’re not the first to have remarked it, nor will you be the last. Now, run along and get some rest. I shall expect you to take over in the morning.”

Dismissed, Matilda found herself standing on the other side of Lucian’s door. Too numb to do otherwise, she moved along the corridor, noting for the first time how close her room was to his. She went inside to find Sarah waiting for her. The maid ran at her and flung her arms about her, and Matilda just stood there clutching her in return.

“Oh, miss. Is it true? His lordship’s been shot?”

Matilda let Sarah go and stepped back, and Sarah gave a little shriek as she saw Matilda’s hands. Lifting them to her face, she saw that they were still covered with Lucian’s blood, her blue gown stained with it. The sob caught in her throat and Sarah hugged her again, tighter and tighter as Matilda broke down.

Dimly, she was aware of Sarah undressing her, helping her wash the blood from her hands and face, and guiding her into bed. Despite her fatigue and the exhaustion that tugged at her mind, it took her a long while to find sleep and, when she did, dreams of glittering swords and villains plagued her through the darkness.

Chapter 9

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.