Page 3 of To Hunt the Hunter

Mr Knight,

It seems I must felicitate you on your recent marriage to Lady Helena. You made an exceptional choice. She is a spirited young lady and I recall how much you enjoy a challenge. I have the greatest admiration for you for getting Bedwin to accept your suit. I am all agog to hear how you achieved such a coup, but after all the man has a deal of good sense and must see it is an apt match, the views of the ton notwithstanding. I wish you both happy, of all men I believe you deserve it.

I thank you for your note regarding Burton. He is indeed becoming a thorn in my side. Sadly, not the only one. I hesitate to make this request in the circumstances, but I have need of your men’s particular skills. If you can tear yourself away from your lovely bride for a few moments, please instruct them to find out everything they can concerning my uncle, Theodore Barrington. I want to know where he goes, who he sees and, most particularly, who is funding his stay in London, for I believed I had cut off all but a very modest allowance. Yes, I am a wicked nephew, am I not? I will leave you to speculate as to my motives. Most everyone else has painted me a villain, so I am curious to know what you’ll make of this. Naturally, my own sources are investigating the matter too, but he is aware of my methods and, as yours tread a different path, it would be as well to combine forces. As ever, you will find me suitably grateful for your aid in this.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu, to Mr Gabriel Knight.

24th April 1815. Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

It was dusk when the carriage carried them through the first of Dern Palace’s impressive gatehouses. Matilda put a hand to stomach to settle the sudden eruption of butterflies. She drew in a deep breath as her heart sped, wondering if perhaps this had been such a good idea. What on earth was Lucian to think if she arrived on his doorstep at this hour? He’d no doubt think what any man would, that she’d changed her mind and decided to become his mistress. She could hardly blame him for it. Well, she’d have to take her chances. A warm hand covered hers, which was decidedly damp and clammy, and Matilda smiled at her maid.

“Courage, Miss Hunt. We’ve come this far.”

“Indeed we have,” Matilda said with a huff of laughter.

Well, she’d gone and done it now. She’d have to see what hand fate would play her from this moment on.

She was helped down from the carriage by an imposing footman, resplendent in Montagu’s usual black and silver colours. Mr Denton, the butler, came forward to meet her. Matilda had taken an immediate liking to the Welshman during her brief stay here at the beginning of March, and her opinion was not damaged by his manner.

“Good evening, Miss Hunt. I am afraid we were not expecting a visit,” he said, without betraying the least suspicion of judgement.

“I know,” she said with a rueful smile. “Indeed, I did not expect to be here, only….”

She hesitated, uncertain of what to say to him.

“Only?”

There was a glint of something in his eyes that might have been hopeful, and so Matilda decided she could do worse than confide in him. If she’d made a terrible mistake, perhaps he would tell her so, and she could turn around and go home with no one any the wiser.

“Oh, Denton. I don’t know what I’m doing, truth be told, only I had the… the strangest feeling that Lord Montagu… that he was in trouble, and that he needed someone. A… A friend. Oh, dear, how ludicrous it sounds when you say it out loud, yet it seemed perfectly reasonable back in town.”

Matilda had practically convinced herself to turn around and get back into the carriage when Denton did the most extraordinary thing for a butler. He reached out and took her hand. He squeezed her fingers, so briefly she could almost think she’d imagined it, but then he compounded the breach of etiquette by smiling at her.

Good heavens.

“Thank you,” he said, and then all at once he was again the grave and distinguished butler she’d met before. “If you would come this way, Miss Hunt. I believe you must be fatigued by your journey. I shall have tea brought to the salon.”

Matilda exchanged a glance with Sarah, who was looking quite as stunned as she felt, before they followed Denton indoors. They had barely taken two steps through the door when Matilda saw Phoebe, holding the hand of a plump, older lady with greying hair. With a cry of delight, Phoebe let go of the hand she’d been clutching and flew at Matilda, barrelling into her with such force that Matilda nearly lost her footing.

“Miss Hunt! Miss Hunt!” the girl cried, clinging to Matilda with surprising strength, considering her slender frame, and sobbing her heart out.

“Phoebe!” Matilda said, getting to her knees and hugging her tightly. Whatever misgivings she might have had flew away in an instant as Phoebe clung to her like a limpet. “Come now. There, there, don’t cry. It’s all right.”

“You came,” Phoebe sobbed, choked as she wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. “I kn-knew you’d come. Uncle said you couldn’t, but I kn-knew….”

“Matilda?”

Her name, spoken as if from a long way off, had her head snapping around, and Matilda felt her breath catch.

Lucian.

She’d never seen him look anything but pristine, and to see him now, wearing only dark trousers, a rumpled shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and no cravat…. How unfair it was that he looked more beautiful than ever in disarray, where she likely looked a fright after her hasty leave taking and some hours in a jolting carriage.

“Good evening, Lucian,” she said, not the least bit surprised her voice quavered, but rather astonished that the words came out at all.

The staff melted away at the briefest tilt of his head, Mr Denton discreetly taking Sarah with him, and the three of them were alone.

“Have you run mad?” he asked, staring at her as though he could not quite believe she was here.