To Hunt the Hunter (Girls Who Dare Book 11)

by Emma V. Leech

  Before that thought had really sunk in, Lucian moved, lunging forward, blade outstretched. Burton parried, knocking the blade back with a hard strike that clashed with a ringing bell of sound in the space, but Lucian turned as he passed, the sword moving effortlessly as he swiped it behind his back, spinning past in a move almost too fast to track. When he stepped away, Mr Burton had a bloody slash across his shirt front, the fabric gaping to reveal a bright line of red.

  Burton looked down at it, as if he too was uncertain of how or when it had occurred. Snarling, he went back on the offensive, charging at Lucian with all the ferocity of a wounded animal. Now, however―now that she could see Lucian was not about to be cut down before her—Matilda watched in silent awe. Each one of those savage, unrelenting cut and thrust attacks was turned easily aside with an effortless flick of Lucian’s wrist. Repeatedly, Burton attacked, his sword crashing down with killing force, and each time Lucian’s blade turned it back with negligent ease.

  Indeed, Lucian had the gall to look as though he was bored to death, an expression nicely calculated to make Mr Burton lose his damned mind. It worked admirably.

  Burton lunged at him with a roar of frustration. Lucian parried, turning the attack to one side, and lunged, forcing his opponent back and back again. Burton met the threat and struck out. His sword missed its target, but the impetus carried the stroke on, too much power in it to be halted quickly enough. Lucian slashed his undefended right side, slicing through his upper arm. Burton shouted with rage and pain and clutched at the wound, almost dropping the knife in his left hand and taking a few wary steps back, reassessing the threat.

  The two men engaged once more and now Matilda watched, still with her heart in her mouth, yet with the growing realisation that it was not Lucian being taught a lesson here, but Mr Burton. Lucian Barrington, the Marquess of Montagu, was not some idle, preening aristocrat who wasted his days on indulgence and pleasure seeking. The amount of skill being displayed here took years and years of practise, a single-minded dedication that must have begun decades ago, and no amount of brute strength could turn aside such exquisite dexterity. The next time the men disengaged there was a raw, red line down Burton’s cheek, and that insolent not-quite-smile touched Lucian’s mouth. All traces of boredom had vanished from the silver eyes now, nothing but a dangerous calm to be seen in the glittering gaze levelled upon Mr Burton.

  Up and back down the ballroom they went, but this time it was Lucian pushing Mr Burton back, and back and back. Burton was swinging wildly now, stabbing with the knife whenever he could get close enough, his face a feral snarl of rage. By the time Lucian had turned him twice about the vast ballroom, it was clear Mr Burton was tiring. Lucian too was breathing harder now, a flush upon his cheeks and his pale blond hair darkening with sweat, but there was not a mark on him. Conversely, Burton’s shirt had been cut to ribbons, ominous red patches blooming like strange, bloody roses beneath the fine linen.

  “I thought you meant to teach me a lesson?” Lucian remarked, taunting him. “If it was a lesson in wasting my time, you’re doing admirably. However, I had the impression you meant to kill me. Do let me know when you mean to start. I should not like to miss it.”

  Matilda could have kicked the reckless fiend as his words pricked at Mr Burton’s temper and seemed to give him a second wind. He flew at Lucian, the strikes more calculated this time, his concentration absolute. It made not a whit of difference. Lucian met his every blow and turned each one aside, and Mr Burton backed off with a hiss of pain and a new red stripe across his side.

  “Devil!” Burton growled at him.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” Lucian replied with a grim smile, and now, at last, Matilda could see the anger in his eyes. It was cold and hard, the kind that would burn for years and decades and lifetimes. “You’ve been supping with the devil all this time, you poor fool, and you forgot to bring a long enough spoon. I’m only his nephew, a mere pretender, though he taught me well enough. He’ll eviscerate you. I really ought to kill you outright. It would be kinder. Would you like me to be merciful, Mr Burton? Shall I end it now?”

  “Try it,” Burton sneered, despite bleeding from a half dozen slashes.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Lucian replied, his smile a terrible expression. “Dear Uncle Theo would call me a murderer and tell the world how he always suspected I was not quite sane. I’m sure he’s armed with a litany of telling little anecdotes that would paint me in the colours of a madman, capable of cold-blooded murder. No, no, Mr Burton. You run along home and tell him all about it. Tell him how you failed to do his bidding, I should pay to be a fly on that particular wall.”

  “Oh, we’re not done yet,” Burton snarled. “Not by a long chalk.”

  “Very well, if you are so keen for me to slice you up, one piece at a time, I am happy to oblige.”

  The sound of metal on metal rang out once more, and this time Lucian snatched the sword from Burton’s hand with the tip of his own blade and sent the weapon skittering across the floor. Matilda could not fathom exactly how it had been done, and from the disbelieving look in his eyes, neither could Mr Burton.

  Lucian’s sword point rested upon his chest, over his heart.

  “You’re dead,” he said softly.

  Burton glared at him with utter hatred as Matilda breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

  “Pick it up.”

  She jolted at the sound of Lucian’s voice, dripping contempt. Surely he hadn’t…?

  With disbelief, she watched as Lucian allowed his opponent to retrieve his sword, and the clash of metal rang out once more. She wanted to scream with frustration until once again Lucian flicked the sword from Burton’s hand, sending it sailing away from him. His sword tip trailed across Burton’s throat, leaving a delicate red scratch.

  “Dead again, Mr Burton.”

  “Lucian!” she shouted across the floor, but the wretched man was beyond hearing her, the look in his eyes quite terrifying.

  “Pick it up,” he said, the words precise and bitten off.

  Burton stalked across to his sword, never taking his eyes from Lucian. His expression was no less daunting, the passionate fury that came from humiliation, from the desire for retribution. When they came together this time, there was a new recklessness to Burton’s attacks, born of desperation. The cool insouciance Lucian had begun with had vanished now, a murderous glint in his eyes that Burton would have done well to heed. But Mr Burton was in the grip of the same bloodlust, and when the savage attack he let fly was turned back like all the others, his fury filled the room. He let out a bellow of rage and kicked out at Lucian, who danced back out of the way with a laugh.

  Burton stood, seething, his chest heaving with effort, his face a savage mask as he reached back and flung the knife at Lucian. Matilda screamed as it arced through the air, falling to her knees with a sob as Lucian’s sword hit it with a crash, sending it clattering to the floor.

  Oh God. Oh God.

  Would this never end?

  Burton flew at Lucian, smashing his sword down hard, and barrelling into Lucian’s side with his shoulder, sending him to the floor. Lucian rolled, and the flickering glint of a blade caught the light, a glimmer dancing across the edge as it struck out and slashed across Mr Burton’s thigh. The man dropped his sword and fell with a cry of agony as blood poured from the wound.

  Lucian stood, staring down at Mr Burton before moving forward and kicking his sword out of reach.

  “I believe you’ve had enough, sir,” he said coldly. “I will have a physician dispatched to tend your wounds, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I have you sent elsewhere for the treatment.”

  He stepped back, breathing hard, and then turned to Matilda, his face clearing as he saw her, as though he’d been somewhere else entirely and was emerging from a thick fog into the light.

  “Matilda,” he said, letting out a breath.

  “My lord!”

  They both turned as Denton and a dozen footmen hurried int
o the ballroom.

  “Have someone fetch a doctor, Denton, and get this wretched fellow out of my home.”

  “At once, my lord.”

  Lucian turned back to Matilda and smiled, moving quickly towards her, but a flurry of movement behind him caught her eye. Mr Burton reaching for something in his boot, something that he clasped in his hand and raised.

  “Lucian!”

  The sound was so loud in the great expanse of the ballroom, it seemed to suspend time. It was a moment before she realised what it had been.

  A gunshot.

  Denton and the footmen shouted, all of them rushing towards Mr Burton as Lucian staggered.

  No. No.

  No, no, no.

  “Lucian!” she screamed, struggling to her feet, hindered by the ties binding her wrists together. “Lucian!”

  She ran towards him as a red rose bloomed at his left shoulder, staining the pristine white of his shirt. He put his hand to it, staring in surprise as his fingers came away dripping blood, and laughed softly.

  “Honour be damned,” he said, and fell to his knees.

  Chapter 8

  I don’t know if I shall ever send this. If I will ever tell you all that is in my heart. I don’t know if it would be a comfort to you or a curse and I would not bring you pain for all the world, though I do not expect you to believe that. When did it happen, this thing that has taken me over, invaded my heart and mind, my every waking moment and my dreams? This is something I still cannot answer. Yet the why of it is obvious enough.

  I have been too used to having my character assassinated to pay any heed to harsh words. They lost their sting too long ago to penetrate my callous hide, and it has been decades since a barbed comment could hurt me. Your words of condemnation were different. Why did I care so much what you thought of me? Perhaps because your goodness shines from you, because everyone who is taken under your wing is protected and cared for and loved, no matter what it costs you to do so. I envied your friends so much I was sick with it. I wanted to be one of the chosen ones, those whose lives were gilded by your care and attention. There are so many things I regret in my life, Matilda. There have been so many terrible decisions, so many missteps. Yet despite the pain it brings me, I shall never regret loving you. I do love you, you see, so much it terrifies me. You make me want to be better, to be a man you might have looked upon with pride. A man you could have loved, if things had been different.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from the Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu to Miss Matilda Hunt—Never sent.

  25th April 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

  Finally someone freed her wrists of their bindings, and Matilda sank down beside Lucian.

  “Fetch a doctor!” she screamed, to which the infuriating man shook his head.

  “No. Denton, fetch Pippin.”

  “Pippin!” Matilda exclaimed, beside herself with terror. Blood was welling from the wound, dripping between his fingers where he’d pressed his hand against it. “You’ve been shot, you impossible man. You need a physician, not a cook!”

  He smiled at her, though the expression was a little strained. “Pippin is from a lengthy line of wise women, my love. She’s a skilled healer, and I’d rather have her tend me than any blasted quack. Denton, I take it Mr Edwards remained to attend our meeting in the morning? Good. Fetch him. I need him here at once.”

  “Is Mr Edwards a physician?” Matilda asked hopefully, still a little dubious how a cook could double up as a competent physician.

  Lucian frowned.

  “No, my solicitor,” he said, before returning to issuing orders about what must be done with Mr Burton and who must be sent for.

  Deciding that the ridiculous man was too busy to care that his lifeblood was exiting his body at a terrifying rate, Matilda yanked up her skirts to expose her petticoats and tore at the seam.

  Lucian fell silent, his gaze falling to her ankles.

  “Oh, now I have your attention, do I?” she said tartly, wadding up the material before taking his hand from the wound and pressing the cloth hard against it.

  Lucian blanched, sucking in a breath.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Contrite, she burst into tears, and Lucian lifted a hand to her face, only to pause as he realised it was red with his own blood.

  Matilda snatched it up and held it to her face, not caring about anything but that he should know he was loved.

  “You must find Phoebe, sweetheart,” he said softly. “She’s hiding. She’ll be frightened.”

  “Oh, yes, I will,” She said, though the thought of leaving him for a moment tore at her heart. “But—”

  “I’ll be fine. Go and get her and put her to bed. Tell her not to worry.”

  “Oh, h-how can I?” she demanded, her eyes drawn to the wad of material that was growing dark with his blood.

  “My lord? Someone said you’d been hurt…. Oh, my stars!”

  They both looked up as Mrs Appleton hurried towards them.

  “Pippin,” Lucian said, his relief palpable. “I’m very glad to see you.”

  “Oh!” The woman said, pressing her hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, my boy. What has that wicked man done now?”

  “Now, now, Pippin. No histrionics, I beg you.”

  Pippin sniffed, blinking hard, and brought herself firmly under control, her shoulders stiffening. She nodded, her expression brisk.

  “Histrionics indeed,” she said indignantly. “I should think not. Now mind out of the way, if you please, Miss Hunt, and let me see what’s to be done.”

  “Phoebe,” he said, pleading in his eyes now as he looked to Matilda.

  “Of course.” She nodded, unable to refuse him, though she did not want to leave. “Where will she be?”

  “Can you find your way to the Long Gallery?”

  “I think so.”

  “Stand by my portrait, the one by Lawrence. Call out to her. She’ll come.”

  His voice was strained, breathless, and his face was a ghastly shade, too pale. Matilda stared at him, not wanting to leave.

  “Please.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Very well.”

  Matilda got to her knees again, swiftly now, leaning in and pressing her mouth to his, not caring a damn that Mrs Appleton and whoever else was in the room could see.

  Lucian sighed, a slight smile lingering at his lips.

  “I needed that,” he said, as she drew back, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” she promised, and squeezed his hand tightly before running to find Phoebe.

  ***

  To Matilda’s frustration, she took two wrong turns before she finally stumbled upon the Long Gallery. She stood before the disdainful regard of generations of Barringtons and held the lamp aloft. Lucian’s cool silver eyes glinted down at her from his portrait.

  “Phoebe!” she called into the darkness beyond the pool of lamplight. “Phoebe, love, it’s Matilda. It’s all right. You can come out now.”

  There was a long silence and Matilda waited for a while before calling again.

  “Phoebe!” A scratching sound made her pause, lamp aloft, holding her breath. “Phoebe?”

  Matilda watched in astonishment as the huge portrait and the panelled wall it was fixed to swung open on silent hinges, and a pale, frightened face peered out.

  “Matilda?”

  She set down the lamp and hurried to the girl.

  “Phoebe! Oh, thank goodness.”

  Phoebe ran into her arms with a sob. “Is he all right? Is Uncle Theodore here? Did he hurt him?”

  Matilda’s heart clenched, and she held Phoebe tightly. “No, he is not here, love. You’re quite safe.”

  Phoebe looked up at once.

  “B-But Uncle Monty….” Her expression changed, horror in her eyes as she touched a finger to Matilda’s cheek. “Th-That’s b-blood.”

  Matilda hesitated, wanting to pretend everything
was fine but knowing how much store Lucian set by the truth, and how much Phoebe appreciated him for it.

  “Yes. He’s hurt, love, but he will be all right,” she said, praying she was telling the truth about that. She could not bear to think about the alternative.

  “Hurt? Who hurt him? Oh, no… what happened? I must go to him—”

  “Phoebe, no, love. Not now… I don’t think….”

  But Phoebe had torn herself from Matilda’s arms and Matilda could do nothing but snatch up the lamp once more and hurry after her. To her immense relief, they saw Denton coming up the stairs just as Phoebe was about to run down them.

  “Where is he?” the child cried, tears running down her little face. “Where is my uncle?”

  “There, there, now, Miss Barrington. His lordship has been taken to his room and Pippin is with him. You trust Pippin to look after him, don’t you?”

  “Y-Yes,” Phoebe stammered, trembling hard. “B-But I w-want to see him.”

  “And so you shall,” the butler said kindly, taking her hand. “Come along, but you must wait until Pippin says you can go in. Do you promise?”

  Phoebe nodded and then paused, holding out her other hand to Matilda, who hurried forward to take it, feeling she needed the reassurance just as much as Phoebe did.

  It seemed an eternity that they lingered in the dim hallway, a clock somewhere ticking the minutes away as Matilda’s heartbeat measured them out with dull, aching thuds. Phoebe clung to her and Matilda held her tightly, knowing they were both were living in the same nightmarish place where neither of them dared breathe in case the world shattered around them.