Page 47 of To Hunt the Hunter

Matilda sighed. “Perhaps, but that’s only because I know you and they don’t. My friends trust me. If I tell them the truth of what you’ve been through, they will believe me.”

To her frustration, Lucian shook his head. “They will believe I have convinced you. That is not at all the same thing.”

“Mr Knight and Helena believed you. They didn’t know I was here. They came for you alone.”

Lucian shrugged. “I suppose so, but I have had dealings with Mr Knight these past years. We’ve worked well together, and we have come to trust one another. That counts for something.”

“It counts for a great deal. Just think how many other people might take your side if they knew the truth?”

He laughed, a weary sound of defeat that made Matilda’s heart hurt. “I tried that. No one believes me. My uncle is too charming, too likable. How much easier to believe a man that smiles and flatters and makes you laugh, than one like me.”

“My friends would believe you. If you stood beside me and told them what had happened to you, they would believe you.”

She did not know what he might have said in response, for then the study door flew open and an elderly woman swept through it. She was dressed in heavy layers of black bombazine in the style of the last century, and the fabric rustled furiously as she moved. Whoever she was, she was not a tall woman, and was as thin as a whippet, with icy grey eyes and white hair drawn up into a severe style that highlighted high cheekbones and an austerely beautiful face. Lucian had dropped Matilda’s hand and stepped away the moment the door had been flung open, but now the woman’s frigid gaze moved from him to Matilda without a flicker of surprise, though there was a contemptuous curve to her narrow lips.

“Miss Hunt, I collect,” she said, her voice hard and the words clipped and precise. “I see you finally persuaded her to be your mistress, Montagu. That is one less thing to worry about, at least. Perhaps now you have satisfied your baser instincts, you can concentrate on matters of importance?”

Lucian stiffened, his face devoid of emotion.

“Miss Hunt is not my mistress, Aunt Marguerite,” he said coldly. “And you will apologise for speaking to her so. She is a guest in my home and deserves to be spoken to with courtesy.”

So, this was Lady Astley, his Aunt Marguerite.

The woman snorted. “Dress it up how you like, but she’s here with you alone, no chaperone in sight. I’m no fool, my lord, and I’ve seen it all before, so don’t think to pull the wool over my eyes.”

“Damn your impudence! I believe you forget to whom you speak,” Lucian said, and though he did not raise his voice, there was such intense fury in his words that his aunt’s eyes grew wide.

From her reaction, Matilda knew he’d never spoken to her so before.

Marguerite’s eyes narrowed as she looked from Lucian to Matilda and back again. “Forgive me, my lord, Miss Hunt,” she said, inclining her head a little, though there was no apology in her eyes.

“Why are you here?” Lucian demanded.

Matilda wanted to go to him, to take his hand. She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. This was the woman who had slapped his face as a child and called him a vile liar when he’d tried to explain that his Uncle Theodore, her favourite nephew, had tried to kill him. This was the woman who had supported Theodore when his doctors—paid nicely for the diagnoses, no doubt—suggested Lucian was unstable when he persisted in trying to make someone, anyone, believe him. She had always favoured Theodore over Lucian, had never believed what he’d tried to tell her, and yet surely this woman could not be so blind?

“I had no alternative. The ton is alight with scandal, all of it revolving around this creature.” She gestured to Matilda as if she was something unpleasant that ought not be spoken of. “And some jumped up mushroom called Mr Burton. I take it you are aware of the gossip. Apparently, you attacked him and left him a cripple.”

“And no doubt you believed every word,” Matilda retorted as the anger that had burned inside of her erupted. “As you have not offered a word of concern, asked for the truth of what happened or if Lucian is well, bearing in mind you can see he’s been injured. I suppose you’ll still deny the fact Theodore Barrington is at the heart of it all. Do you really not know the truth, that your nephew sent Mr Burton here to murder Lucian? Or perhaps you are in on the scheme? Would you prefer it if Theodore were Montagu? Would that suit you better?”

His aunt blanched, her complexion becoming that of fine old parchment before a rush of colour stained her high cheekbones.

“I don’t know what you are speaking of,” she said, though her previously icy tone sounded a touch breathless now. “Montagu, what does she mean by this wild accusation?”

Lucian stared at her for a long moment and then made a sound of disgust.

“Damn you,” he said, and turned his back.

“I will have an answer!” The old woman’s imperious tone rang out through the study. “I came here to save the family from disaster, to save our name from being dragged through the dirt. Your poor father and brother must be spinning in their graves. How disappointed they would be in you. The only answer is that you marry, and at once. If the ton has a wedding to focus upon, they will be less inclined to tear you to pieces. With that in mind, I have invited Lady Constance to Dern. She will arrive the day after tomorrow.”

“You’d just ignore it,” Matilda said in wonder, staring at her in disbelief. “His uncle is trying to kill him, has been trying since he was a small boy, and you’d still just brush it aside and pretend it isn’t happening. You’d still make out as though it were all his fault. You wicked old harridan.”

“Lucian! Get this creature out of here at once. How I am supposed to carry on a sensible conversation with—”

“With what, Aunt?” Lucian demanded, turning now to face her. “With the truth staring you in the face, do you mean? You’ll forgive me if I am inclined to stand beside Miss Hunt, as she has never betrayed my trust, even when I had no right whatsoever to expect it of her. She came here, risking everything, because she was afraid for me, because she could see there was something terribly wrong. You… You, who ought to have looked to the safety and happiness of your own flesh and blood, did not wish to look beyond the facade, and now Thomas is dead and I hope the knowledge that it is in no small part your fault follows you to the grave. Should you prefer me to join him and save you any further unpleasantness?”

“Montagu!” she said, one hand going to her slender throat. “This melodrama is quite unbecoming—”

“Answer the damn question!”