Chapter Twenty-Seven #3
Old Almici himself had taken a special interest in Hugh’s bladework, a fact that had filled him with no shortage of pride.
Until, of course, it had become clear that his uncle’s reach had extended even into his fencing lessons. In Uncle Giles’s
eyes, the point wasn’t for Hugh to hone a skill or find some measure of calm in the flow of the fight. It was to listen to
his fellow students—lordlings and the like—and report everything he’d learned.
Still, Hugh had returned to the school throughout his life, to refine his skills, to disappear into a blood-pounding match,
to humiliate his old classmates, and sometimes, such as today, on deadly business.
Hugh opened his reserved storage cabinet and ripped off his jacket and boots. He’d only just pulled on his fencing kit when
he felt Reddy sidle up behind him, opening his own cabinet.
“Go away,” Hugh ground out.
“Before or after you kill Glenmoor?” Reddy asked. “That is why we’re here, isn’t it? Dueling is illegal . . . unless it is a ‘sparring accident.’”
Hugh said nothing. His hands shook with the force of his anger, making it difficult to button the stiff jacket.
“You said death was too good for him,” Reddy reminded him. “For years you’ve said this. He wants you furious—he knows he cannot beat you otherwise.”
Hugh slammed the cabinet shut, stepping into his light shoes. “There is no other way now. It has to be answered.”
Viola’s poisoning had taken him to the point of rage, and Eleanor’s injury past it. Parliament could send him to the gallows,
but God curse his soul to eternal hell, it had to be answered.
Glenmoor had to be stopped.
“Hugh,” Reddy said, gripping his arm, “please. Your uncle—”
“Is dead,” Hugh seethed. “Killed by the very man in question.”
Reddy released him with a grunt of frustration.
Hugh didn’t care. He was beyond caring; he had found that place Glenmoor occupied, where nothing existed beyond what he desired.
Hugh had forgotten—in all the years he had been told to smother his fury, to master his immense feelings and pain, he had
forgotten how very powerful anger could be. His body was alive with it, heat flooding his muscles.
He would surrender to it, and it would serve him well.
“You are my only friend in this soggy shoe of a kingdom,” Reddy said, following him out into the main room. “Not even Patricians can avoid a murder charge. Am I supposed to stand aside and allow you to potentially hang for killing the bastard?”
Hugh did not waste a look back at him. “Yes.”
Bold strokes of sunlight filtered through the school’s tall windows, pouring over the rows of practice mats, a fact his opponent
was using to his advantage, moving in and out of that glare to blind the instructor he was drilling with.
Hugh breathed in the familiar scent of sweat, polish, and brick dust, rage flaring hotter at the sight of Glenmoor enjoying
himself. The duke wore a mask, but Hugh had marked him at once; only Glenmoor would insist on peacocking here in his floral
silk-trimmed kit.
Hugh’s mouth twisted in disdain. A crowd of admirers had congregated around Glenmoor, applauding obediently as the duke demonstrated
his vast skill. He’d ten years on Hugh, and ten years more training, but it wouldn’t matter. Not when Hugh was finished with
him. All of it writhed inside him.
Viola’s sobbing.
Eleanor’s bruise.
His mother’s screams, and then the silence.
With unerring focus, he strode to the board used for challenges and instructed the boy, “Myself and Glenmoor.”
“Good God, Foxcourt,” Baron Wentworth complained from the mat behind him. “Have you not already caused enough of a stir?”
“Why settle for a mere stir when you’re capable of maelstroms?” Hugh answered smoothly.
Like most of society’s pointless rules, a man of lesser rank could not challenge one of greater standing—or rather, it was
not the done thing.
Reddy fell in step behind him as he approached the rack of foils and swords.
“I thought you didn’t approve,” Hugh murmured to him.
“I don’t,” Reddy said. “But if you fall, you’ll need someone to avenge you, or at least weep over your body until the time
comes to deliver it to your widow.”
His emphasis on that last word, widow, cooled some of the heat trapped in Hugh’s chest. No, he wouldn’t fail. Whether he died or not, his title would still offer
her protection.
Hugh reached for a small sword with a sharpened point. That caught the rest of the school’s attention, as he’d hoped. By the time Glenmoor deigned to finish his session, saluting the panting instructor, all the men had gathered to watch the drama play out.
Glenmoor did not glance at the board as he removed his protective mask, tossing it to the side. The crowd parted with a murmur,
allowing the duke through. He strode toward Hugh, exchanging his foil for one of the short swords, sharp as a fang.
“Lord Hugh, what a surprise,” Glenmoor said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Have you decided to skip the honeymoon,
then? Shame. You likely won’t have another chance, unless, of course, you find yourself titillated by the prospect of a Fairgate
cell.”
Hugh’s hand strangled the hilt of his small sword. Steady, steady.
He couldn’t unleash himself until they were on the mat. Glenmoor adored using his lesser title, refusing to acknowledge the
greater one Hugh had inherited. Another man might have cared, and he knew it vexed Glenmoor that he did not.
“Indeed,” Hugh said. “I’ve the perfect bridal tour in mind for her, beginning with a visit to your cell in the bowels of the
prison.”
One of the nearby lords gasped; another tutted in disapproval.
“Have some respect, Foxcourt,” Baron Fleeker snarled. “You speak to your better.”
“As I am a gentleman, I’ll allow my blade to answer,” Glenmoor said, with all his usual false amiability as he took his place on
the mat. “I fear Lord Hugh is on the verge of discovering that wounded pride isn’t enough to overcome a deficit of patience
and skill.”
“Patience?” Hugh echoed. “I admit, I am not nearly as fashionable as you, Your Grace. Is that what gentlemen call stalling now?”
That sent another murmur through the onlookers.
Glenmoor brandished his weapon. His lips curled in a smirk that had once sent a spike of terror through Hugh. But Hugh was
no longer a boy, and as he stared at his half brother, it was only white-hot fury he felt.
The inevitability had its own gravity, gripping his very soul, bringing him to this moment. He shouldn’t have resisted. After
what Glenmoor had done to his mother, to his uncle, he should have dispatched this monster before he ever claimed more power.
Hugh settled back, drawing his blade up with a steadying breath. Viola’s face, rigid with agony, slashed through his mind.
“Are you certain you don’t want to use blunted foils?” Lord Alcorn asked weakly from the sidelines. “Or perhaps masks?”
Hugh and the duke squared off, sliding into the en garde stance. There was nothing alike in their features; they each favored their respective mothers, one fair, the other raven-haired.
The sole indication they shared a father was the insurmountable pride they’d both inherited.
“Alcorn, you’ve nominated yourself as director of the match,” Hugh said.
The young lord sighed. “En garde.”
Glenmoor mirrored Hugh’s stance, his eyes tipping up with his tight smile, almost feline. Hugh drew in another deep breath,
shifting his weight in preparation for the first strike. His body trembled with suppressed impatience.
“Prêt?”
The school fell silent. Glenmoor’s grip on the hilt shifted ever so slightly, knowing Hugh would strike first—but now, he
wouldn’t.
“Allez!”
Glenmoor slid back preemptively, raising his blade to fend off a thrust. Scattered laughter erupted around them when Hugh
remained precisely where he was, brows raised.
The duke’s smile slipped only for a moment, then he launched himself forward, delivering a baiting prise de fer before thrusting
for Hugh’s face. He parried with ease, then made a thrust of his own. His blade caught the flamboyant silk paneling at Glenmoor’s
shoulder, slicing through it, his shirt, and the skin below.
Blood bloomed through the canvas, and like a dog who’d had his first taste, Hugh wanted more. Glenmoor’s smile sharpened.
“Gentlemen, please,” one of the nearby lords said, laughing nervously. “Let’s not stain Almici’s reputation.”
Hugh’s attack was sure-footed and swift, and he took a great deal of satisfaction in the duke’s gritted jaw as his injured
shoulder absorbed blow after blow. The duke’s brows drew together sharply as Hugh threw the other man back several steps with
a hard shove.
The crowd booed and jeered. It was a cold slap of recognition of just how deeply these weak men favored the ever-polite, ever-generous, ever-noble duke.
Glenmoor recovered quickly enough, looking utterly delighted. A chill rippled down Hugh’s spine. God, he would rip the man
apart with his bare hands. A sword was too clean a death. There wouldn’t be enough suffering, enough humiliation.
His next thrust was sloppy but bore the full strength of his arm and shoulder. The blow knocked the blade out of Glenmoor’s hand, and the man laughed. “As I said, patience and skill. I suppose I inherited the lot of it from our father.”
Laughter rippled through the school.
“Pick it up,” Hugh said coldly, pointing to the blade. “Unless you mean to forfeit?”
Glenmoor held out a hand, and one of the simpering lordlings obediently scrambled to retrieve the blade and return it to him.
His head tilted as he resumed his en garde stance. His strange eyes were now aglow with pleasure.
Reddy shifted at the edge of Hugh’s vision, stone-faced, as if to stir the memory of his own words: He wants you furious—he knows he cannot beat you otherwise.
Hugh assumed his own stance, trying to steady his breathing.
“Prêt?” Alcorn called reluctantly. “Allez!”
They clashed again, repelling each other with a clatter of metal and burning will. Hugh lunged for Glenmoor’s heart, but the