Page 23 of To Hunt the Hunter

“What was that about?” Burton asked, suspicious.

“Miss Barrington was scolded earlier for not going to bed nicely. She pretends bad dreams in order to stay up late,” Lucian said lightly. “It was just a reminder she would be in trouble if she did not return to her room at once.”

Burton gave Matilda a little push. “Go on, then.”

Matilda thought it typical that a place the size of Dern Palace, which was run by a vast army of staff, could not conjure up one solitary footman in the time it took them to cross the not inconsiderable distance from Lucian’s study to the massive ballroom. That was the way of it, though, and so no one was any the wiser. There was no one to sound the alarm, unless the cryptic message that had made Phoebe’s eyes grow round had included instruction to get help. Mr Burton had helpfully yanked a yard of silken rope off a curtain as he passed, and now tied Matilda’s arms tight behind her back.

“Don’t even think about trying to run,” he warned her, waving the knife he held in her face by way of illustration.

“You’re a vile excuse for a human being,” she said, wondering how she dared speak and hardly having breath enough to get the words out. “Even if you kill us both, you’ll not get away with it. Lucian is right, his uncle is far cleverer than you, and far more dangerous. You’re doing his dirty work and you’ll be caught, and hanged for it too.”

“Shut up.”

He slapped her, a negligent swipe of his hand that knocked the remaining air from her lungs with the shock of it. It hadn’t even been a particularly hard blow, though it stung like blazes, but no one had ever touched her in anger before and the casual violence of it was stunning.

“Touch her again and I’ll dismember you, one piece at a time.”

The frosty voice drew her attention back to Lucian, and she forced a smile.

“I’m all right. Please be careful, Lucian.”

He was holding a large, narrow leather box, his eyes on Burton as icy as she had ever seen them. Lucian set the box down, flicked back the clasps and opened it. Two elegant swords lay on a bed of blue silk. Lucian reached for one and lifted a long, wickedly glinting blade with an ornate, engraved hand guard. With the toe of his gleaming boot and a contemptuous gesture, he kicked the box so it slid across the floor to Mr Burton.

Matilda watched, disbelieving, as Burton took up his own sword, the knife he held transferred to his left hand. Surely this was a bad dream. Things like this did not happen any longer. The world was a different place from the time of their grandfathers, when men duelled to the death or maimed each other with these deadly blades. Yes, gentlemen still duelled for honour occasionally, but rarely, and with pistols, where there was a far greater chance of walking away unscathed. This… This was madness.

Yet the two men were preparing, stripping off coats and waistcoats and untying their cravats so nothing would impede their movements. They took up the swords again, Mr Burton taking up the knife in his left hand too, and moved to the centre of the ballroom, circling one another.

Matilda gasped in horror as the two men came together in a flurry of movement, the shriek of steel against steel a sound she had never heard in such a violent context. Mr Burton laughed and surged forward, wielding the blade with brute strength. In that instant, Matilda was certain Lucian would die. They were both powerful men, but Mr Burton was filled with rage and violence and it seemed impossible that Lucian, bred to be a marquess, could survive such an onslaught. Did anyone even dare challenge him at Angelo’s, or was he allowed to win because no one had the nerve to beat him?

Yet, Lucian withstood the assault and, as the two men disengaged, he was very much alive and didn’t have a scratch on him. Mr Burton renewed his attack with equal violence, such force behind each strike that, if even one had made contact, Lucian would surely have been cleaved to the bone. Up and down the ballroom they went, with Lucian always in retreat, Mr Burton grunting with effort, the full force of his body behind every swing of the lethal blade. Again and again Burton attacked, furious and ferocious, until he was breathing hard, his hair damp against his head, sweat trickling down his forehead. As they disengaged once more, Lucian watched him with unnerving calm, his breathing undisturbed, silver eyes cool. It was a calculating look, utterly bloodless, and Matilda realised in that moment that she had underestimated Lucian as much as Mr Burton had. He was weighing Burton up, judging the quality of his opponent. He had not been retreating, had not been forced into a submissive stance, but had allowed his opponent to expend all the energy he wanted to without exerting himself the smallest amount.

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.”