Chapter 20 PreyPredator?
Prey or Predator?
The Drummonds’ family dining room glowed with candlelight as servants moved silently around the table, replacing empty plates with the next course. Despite Lady Drummond’s assurance of an “informal” dinner, the gathering had somehow grown to include twelve of Society’s most notorious gossips.
“And how are you finding married life, Lady Hereford?” Lady Jersey’s question cut through the general conversation like a knife. “Such a whirlwind courtship. One hardly had time to prepare for the announcement.”
Amelia felt every eye at the table turn to her. “Quite satisfactory, thank you.” She took a deliberate sip of wine. “Though I confess, I’ve been rather focused on the Metropolitan Review.”
“The Review?” Lady Jersey’s perfectly plucked brows rose. “Surely you don’t mean to continue with that endeavor now that you’re a marchioness?”
Before Amelia could respond, Hereford’s voice drawled from her left.
“And deprive London of its most incisive commentary? That would be tragic indeed.” His tone was impossible to read.
Mockery or genuine praise? “Though I must say, my dear, your latest editorial on the decline of working conditions in factories was rather pointed.”
Amelia stiffened. “Do you disagree?”
“Of course not.” He smiled at Lady Jersey. “My wife has quite the sharp wit, doesn’t she? Though I do wish she’d stop using me as her primary example of aristocratic idiocy.”
Nervous titters circled the table. Amelia fought to keep her expression neutral as she noticed something odd.
Hereford had positioned himself between her and the most critical gazes, effectively shielding her from the worst of the scrutiny.
It seemed unconscious on his part, but the effect was noticeable.
“Speaking of wit,” the Duchess of Rutland spoke up from Hereford’s other side, “I heard the most fascinating rumor about your fencing lessons, Charles.” Her smile turned predatory. “Such dedication to physical… instruction.”
Amelia’s fingers tightened on her fork as the duchess leaned closer to Hereford, her décolletage practically brushing his arm. But instead of his usual flirtatious response, he shifted slightly away.
“Ah, you must have heard about my lessons with my wife, Your Grace. Lady Hereford is a natural, and she’s highly committed, which I can’t say for most female students who request lessons from me.” His voice remained pleasant but held a new distance.
“Lord Hereford,” Lady Jersey’s voice cut in again, “surely you’ll be relocating to your country estate soon? The London Season is nearly over, and I imagine Lady Hereford would benefit from quieter surroundings.”
Amelia tensed, knowing what the woman was implying. That a marchioness with a limp should be hidden away in the country rather than embarrassing her husband in London Society.
“Actually,” Hereford said while cutting into his fish, “we’ll remain in London through autumn.
My wife’s business requires her presence, and I find myself rather enjoying city life at present.
” He glanced at Amelia, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Besides, the Review’s readership has doubled since last quarter and approximately half of them are the younger generation, our future.
It would be poor business sense to interrupt such success. ”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of subtle power plays and veiled implications. Through it all, Hereford maintained his carefully casual air, never quite defending her but somehow making it clear that criticizing his wife would not be tolerated.
Later, as their carriage rolled through London’s darkened streets, Amelia finally spoke. “You’ve been studying my company.”
“Yes,” he replied, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light of the carriage lantern.
“How long?” she asked, surprised by his candor.
“Since before our marriage,” he admitted. “Your circulation figures, your editorial positions. It’s quite impressive how you’ve built the Review from nothing.”
Amelia felt oddly unsettled by this revelation. “Why would you take such interest?”
“Perhaps I simply admire competence, whatever its source,” he suggested with a hint of his usual mockery, though his eyes remained serious.
Amelia turned to stare out the window, unwilling to examine her surprisingly diligent husband. But she couldn’t quite suppress a shiver when his voice dropped lower.
“You did well tonight, my lady. Though I must caution you about your investigation into factory conditions.” His tone turned serious. “These owners are not men to be trifled with. They employ local thugs to protect their interests, and they care little for proper channels of justice.”
Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the darkened streets outside. “I’m merely reporting facts, my lord. Surely you don’t suggest I ignore clear violations of safety regulations?”
“I suggest you value your safety above your principles.” His voice held an edge of frustration. “These men have ways of silencing those who probe too deeply into their affairs.”
Despite herself, Amelia felt her lips curve into a bitter smile. “Oh, I’m quite aware of their methods, my lord. More aware than you know.”
A heavy silence filled the carriage. When Hereford spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost gentle. “Then you understand why I ask you to be careful. Promise me you’ll exercise caution in your investigations.”
But Amelia had already retreated behind her usual wall of cool professionalism, leaving his request unanswered as London’s shadows flickered past.
*
A rhythmic thud dragged Hereford from sleep. Not loud enough to wake the household, but persistent enough to catch his attention. He lay still for a moment, trying to place the sound. It wasn’t the usual settling of the old house or servants moving about. This was something deliberate. Focused.
Thud. Scrape. Thud. Scrape.
He pulled on his banyan and moved silently through the darkened halls, following the sound to the small library they’d converted for fencing practice. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, catching on a familiar figure as she lunged again and again.
Amelia hadn’t changed from her evening clothes. Her dinner gown was hiked up awkwardly, one hand gripping the skirts while the other thrust forward with the practice foil. Her hair had come completely loose, falling in dark waves down her back as she drove forward relentlessly.
Thud—the wooden foot landing. Scrape—as she pulled back to position.
She wasn’t practicing the defensive moves he’d shown her.
This was pure attack—aggressive, almost desperate.
Her breathing came in harsh gasps as she repeated the same punishing sequence: lunge, withdraw, lunge again.
Even in the dim light, he could see the tremors in her arms, the way she favored her good leg.
“Your form is suffering,” he said quietly from the doorway.
She whirled, the foil coming up instinctively before she recognized him. For a moment, something wild and unfamiliar blazed in her eyes. Something that made him wonder what demons drove her to practice in the dark.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said finally, lowering the blade.
“Evidently.” He moved into the room, noting how she shifted to maintain distance between them. “Though most people read when insomnia strikes. They don’t practice killing blows at midnight.”
Her fingers tightened on the foil. “I need to master this sequence.”
“Why?” He circled slowly, taking in her disheveled state. A drop of sweat traced down her temple despite the cool night air. “What’s so urgent it can’t wait for our regular lessons?”
“I…” Her shoulders tensed as she turned away from him. In the moonlight, her profile was etched with something that went beyond mere determination. “Nothing. I simply want to improve.”
But the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
This wasn’t about improvement. This was about survival.
He recognized that raw edge of desperation, had seen it in soldiers preparing for battle, in men with everything to lose.
He thought of her fierce focus during their lessons, how her eyes flashed whenever he demonstrated a killing strike, how she pushed relentlessly for more aggressive techniques despite his emphasis on defensive basics.
“The lunge you’re practicing,” he said carefully, watching her knuckles whiten around the hilt, “it’s meant to disable, not defend.”
When she didn’t respond, he stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. “Who are you planning to fight, my lady?”
“No one.” The word came too quickly, too sharply. She exhaled, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I simply want to… feel less vulnerable. More in control of my body, my fate.” The last word hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
He moved toward her then, drawn by something in her voice that resonated with his own hidden scars.
Close enough now to see the sheen of perspiration on her skin, the slight tremor in her hands that spoke of hours of relentless practice.
The fierce, wounded dignity in her stance stirred his need to defend her at all costs.
He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and wrapped his hand gently over hers on the foil. “Your technique suffers when you’re tired.” His voice was soft. “Here…”
His hands found her waist, steadying her stance with a touch that was half instruction, half comfort. “You’re letting your left shoulder drop. It announces your intent.”
She remained rigid under his touch, a current of tension running through her that had nothing to do with their usual antagonism. But she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned almost imperceptibly into his guidance, allowing him this momentary intimacy.
He guided her through the proper form, his body moving in concert with hers, noting how she absorbed each correction with a desperate intensity that troubled him. This wasn’t ambition or even stubbornness. This was something darker, something born of necessity.
“Better,” he said finally, reluctantly stepping back, instantly missing the warmth of her. “Though perhaps we should continue this in the morning when you’re properly rested.”
“I’m fine.” The words were firm, but her voice betrayed her, a slight quaver undermining her resolve.
“Of course you are.” He moved to the door, then paused, turning back to her silhouette illuminated by moonlight. “Just remember, my lady. A blade cuts both ways. Wounds need time to heal.”
His eyes held hers across the shadowed room. “Whatever battle you’re preparing for… make sure the victory is worth the cost.”
He felt her gaze follow him as he left, burning into his back with unspoken emotions.
He’d barely reached the corridor when the sound of her practice resumed.
Thud, scrape, thud, scrape. Each strike resonated with a strange mixture of desperation and relief.
As if each lunge purged something painful from her soul.
Sleep was long in coming as he lay awake, her words echoing in his mind: More in control of my body, my fate. What demons haunted a woman like Amelia, who faced the world with such fierce intelligence and pride? What battle was she preparing to fight with such single-minded devotion?
The rhythmic sound of her practice continued deep into the night, floating through the quiet house like a ghost’s footsteps.
Each thrust of the blade carried the weight of secrets he couldn’t yet fathom.
Whatever burden she carried, he had a sinking feeling she’d find no peace until she confronted the beast that haunted her.
And God help anyone who stood in her way when that moment came.