Chapter 30
He found the countess in the morning room. The light through the long windows was winter-pale, softened by gauze curtains that breathed with the draught. A tray lay untouched on the table: tea grown cold, the crusts of toast undisturbed.
She turned at his step. “Richard.”
No surprise, only the sound of a name that carried too many partings.
He bowed slightly. “Mother.”
“Come in. You are never still long enough to warm a room.”
He obeyed. She looked up at him as he stopped before her chair. “I hoped the Grand Tour had satisfied you. Yet here you are again, ready to leave before the scent of your trunk has faded.”
He said nothing.
She smiled—gently, not to mock. “When you go, the house loses its centre. Your sisters chatter of you as if you had gone to the moon. Phoebe pretends to be proud of you; Ellie only prays for you.”
“They should not.”
“How should they not?” Her hand lifted, touched his sleeve. “You are their giant, Richard. You always were.”
He could not answer that. The memory of small hands on his face, the quick laughter that once claimed him, came unbidden.
Her voice softened. “Your father says you are to have a new horse. A black one, taller than the rest.”
He nodded. “A Friesian.”
She pursed her lips. “A warhorse.”
“Yes,”
“Then it begins.” She looked away to the window, where the bare branches tapped the glass. “I am proud of you. You must know that. I have always been. But pride is a thin blanket for a mother.”
When she turned back, the light caught the wetness in her eyes. “Promise me, Richard. Promise you will return.”
He met her gaze, steady as always. “I will.”
“Whole,” she said, half–smiling. “Not only in body.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish, Mother.”
She rose and, without asking, touched his face—her fingertips cool, her gesture as sure as ever. “Then go—before I forget how to let you.”
He took her hand, kissed it, and stepped back. She watched him to the door until it closed behind him.
* * *
Fitzwilliam sat in the twins’ sitting room.
His sisters had taken to him as they always did, one beneath each arm, their heads settled against his chest. Their hair caught the firelight—two fair crowns, nearly indistinguishable.
They hummed an Irish air in two parts, the lines crossing and returning, certain of where the other would be.
It was Siobhan’s tune. They had learned it from her before she returned to Ireland with the pension he had arranged.
Ellie stirred first. She lifted her hand and turned his chin until he met her eyes.
“You need not do this.”
“I do,” he said.
Phoebe waited a breath, then claimed her turn. Her fingers, lighter, more certain, guided his face back to her. The old game still held: each must be answered.
“We heard you with Cousin Darcy,” she said. “We are not vexed.”
“You listened,” he said. “I am.”
For a moment, the harmony continued. He could feel their breath shift against his coat—the rhythm faltering, recovering, faltering again—until the sound thinned and fell away altogether.
They moved together. Backs straightened, hands folded, the space beneath his arms cleared. They stood before him—composed, identical in bearing though not in heart. Phoebe’s jaw firm, Ellie’s eyes bright with something she tried not to show.
They turned, each catching the other’s gaze, and then faced him together.
“We are not so handsome,” Phoebe said,
“that you must champion us so,” Ellie finished.
The words cut, and the sensation startled him.
“You are to me.”
Phoebe tipped her chin. They curtseyed together.
He took a breath. Steadied himself.
He bowed in return.
* * *
Figg’s Amphitheatre
The air was the same—sawdust, sweat, iron, breath. The stench of men gathered to watch other men break. Fitzwilliam moved through it as he had through worse—through the pit at Graz. The sound meant nothing; the crowd meant less.
“Matlock’s son, here!”
“Three at once!”
“Mad, they say. Both of ‘em.”
Fitzwilliam gave his coat to Darcy and stepped forward. The boards flexed beneath his boots—wood, not earth, but the difference was only cosmetic. He had fought on ground that drank blood.
Across from him, the Waltons bounced in place like hounds before a hunt they didn’t understand.
Between them stood the Bristol Bruiser—Tom Cribb, a professional pugilist with an infamous reputation.
He stood fists up, wide-shouldered, cautious, his eyes doing the measuring of an old hand. Fitzwilliam gave him his back.
“Is Cribb of concern?” asked Darcy.
Fitzwilliam smiled. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Let us measure him, he signed. He stripped off his shirt; rotated his head around on his neck. Turned about and caught Cribb’s eye.
The fighter’s gaze tracked along his arms, his ribs, the stance that gave away no opening. It stopped, shifted, came back. Fitzwilliam saw the moment recognition set in—the minute stilling, the quiet dread.
He had lived it before. He could almost smell the horse oil and earth.
Cribb stepped back once, then again. No shame in it—only survival. He ducked through the ropes without a word and was gone.
“That makes this rather one-sided now, I daresay.” Darcy said.
The muscle in Fitzwilliam’s jaw eased. Instinct recognized survival when it saw it.
Noise rose behind him, uncertain, but he kept his eyes on the Waltons. Their polish was melting.
He rolled his shoulders, loosened his hands, and waited.
The elder came first. A telegraphed swing — too wide. Fitzwilliam caught the wrist, turned it, felt the clean break give under pressure. The sound drew silence. The younger rushed in. Fitzwilliam pivoted, kicked. Bone met wood. The boy dropped.
Darcy’s voice cut through. “Mr Fitzwilliam, is your family’s honour satisfied?”
It might have ended there. The crowd seized on it, grateful for permission to conclude what they could not understand.
But the pit had taught him otherwise. Graz never ended until no one moved.
“No!” Richard replied. The din ebbed.
He crouched and took a hand. The joints gave under pressure, small precise snaps beneath his thumb. The pit returned—London-shaped, the same work, different light.
Someone retched. Fitzwilliam looked up—spied Mr Walton. Glared at him. Men drew back. He returned to the task. Honour had never lived in a man’s bones.
London would remember why his sisters had wept on his shoulders.
He straightened, breathing steady, and only then did he feel the silence gather—not in awe, but in recoil.
He turned and dislocated the other Walton’s shoulder.
* * *
The noise outside dulled to a hum.
Barty locked the door.
Villiers lingered near the washstand, sleeves rolled, cloth in hand.
Darcy stood farther off, Fitzwilliam’s coat still in hand.
Fitzwilliam sat. The bench creaked beneath him; the boards did not.
Blood dotted his knuckles. He flexed his fists. The spots held fast.
He pressed fingertips to thumb. Again. Again. And again.
Darcy found his voice first. “You could have left them breathing.”
Fitzwilliam looked up. “I did.”
“They will be bedridden for months.”
“At least.”
Villiers crossed to the basin, poured the water. “You should wash, sir.”
He rolled his sleeves and lowered his hands into the bowl. The water clouded red, then brown, then clear again. He dried them slowly, folding the cloth with care, setting it back where it had been.
Villiers gathered the discarded shirt, shook it out, and offered it. Fitzwilliam took it, pulled it on, buttoned it neatly to the throat. Donned his jacket.
Darcy stepped forward, stopped him with a word that was almost a plea. “Richard—”
Fitzwilliam paused.
“This was not the only way.”
He turned to Darcy and signed. It is my way.
He left before Darcy could answer.
Outside, the air bit clean against his skin.
He pulled on his gloves. Villiers appeared at his side.
“Speak freely.”
“Barty says you cannot remain in the kingdom.”
“No,” Fitzwilliam said. “We cannot.”
Behind him, Figg’s throbbed with the restless murmur of men who would speak of what they had seen for years.
* * *
Matlock House, five days later
The ink bled faintly where the paper had been folded. He read the line twice before it sank in.
A noble display of bottom and fair play stirred the fancy to rare excitement on Tuesday last…
Bell’s had printed it first.
No surprise there. The sporting rags would sell it as spectacle: the noble savage, fists up, honour on display. They always did.
He could almost hear the betting rooms—men quoting odds, pretending to know him. He turned the page. The second column smirked at him in neat type:
“The odds were three to one, yet the gentleman bore himself in true English fashion…”
True English fashion.
They would call it that until the gentry began to feel the draught of association. Then the tone would change. He reached for the next sheet. The paper had already yellowed slightly, softer between his fingers. The Morning Chronicle.
That one would cut deeper.
We regret to learn of a recent outrage committed by a gentleman of distinguished family…
There it was—the polite dissection, the genteel disgust, the refusal to name what they all knew. The old chill gathered behind the ribs.
…so far forgotten the restraint due to his birth as to lay violent hands upon two persons of inferior station…
The words blurred. He steadied them.
Inferior station.
He almost smiled. The next line struck cleaner.
…such conduct, while unworthy of his class, reflects still more sadly upon those indulgences that teach youth of rank to mistake brutality for courage.
He folded the paper once, twice, until the column disappeared into itself.
Villiers stepped into the room.
“The earl awaits you in the study.”
* * *
Fitzwilliam stopped outside the open door. A man in a scarlet coat sat opposite the desk, one boot crossed neatly over the other, his gloves laid beside him as though already dismissed.
“I was present.”
Matlock did not answer at once. He set his hand flat upon the desk. “Then you have spared me.”
“Not entirely.”
Silence settled. Outside, a carriage passed on the drive. The sound faded.
“You did not come to recount a sporting event, Wellesley.” Matlock said.
“No.”
Matlock inclined his head a fraction.
“Then you will say what you came to say.”
A pause—measured.
“The kingdom needs your son.”
“The kingdom?”
“I am taking your son.”
Matlock’s gaze sharpened. “On whose authority?”
Wellesley rose.
“My own.”
Fitzwilliam knocked.
Matlock did not look away from the man. “Enter.”
Fitzwilliam crossed the threshold and stopped. He stood at ease, hands loose at his sides.
Wellesley looked at him. Not past him. Not around him. As one might look at a thing already chosen.
“You fought three men,” Wellesley said. “And remain untouched.”
“Two.”
“Yes.” Wellesley’s eyes did not leave him. “The man had the sense to leave.”
A beat.
“The boys did not.”
Fitzwilliam said nothing.
Wellesley stepped closer. Close enough to be exact. He looked directly into Fitzwilliam’s eyes.
“You have killed,” Wellesley said.
Matlock’s breath caught.
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
“The little tyrant is feeding the continent with untrained men,” Wellesley went on. “French blue. Barely drilled.”
A pause. Wellesley’s face hardened, emptied of expression.
“When you meet them,” he said, “you will not hesitate.”
Another beat.
“You will kill as many of them as you can.”
Fitzwilliam remained silent.
Wellesley inclined his head.
“Will you stop when they beg?”
Fitzwilliam glanced at his father. His face was pale. It mattered no longer.
He turned to Wellesley.
“No.”