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Perhaps they were discussing the fact that he might be born a gentleman, but he certainly didn’t have the manners or breeding of one. The gossip could be more insidious, of course. They were getting entertainment from the rumor that he had killed off his cousin somehow though how he might have done such a thing whilst in Ireland, he did not know. It could also be talk of his eyepatch and how he came to need it. An answer as simple as a slice from a sword during battle would not suffice, he imagined.
“I heard he has killed not one but two people.”
Cillian clenched his jaw. He hadn’t realized that rumor had also resurfaced. For most it was a distant memory. For him, however, it had never gone.
He twisted and took several steps toward the two women. They were nearer his age which explained why they knew of the first rumor. Twenty years had passed yet the lies never faded it seemed. They both took a step back and peered up at him, wide-eyed.
“Enjoying the ball, ladies?”
“I-I...” one stuttered.
“You have an eyepatch,” the other blurted.
He gave a dry chuckle. “Yes. Rather needed I’m afraid.” He flipped it up oh-so-briefly and saw the horror cross their faces. “Ghastly is it not?”
He watched them scurry away with only the briefest flash of satisfaction. Being hideously deformed had its benefits but it did not make this new role as viscount any easier, most especially when half the investors had fled the moment he took the title.
The next dance gave him no more hope of time with their host and the flickering light from the chandeliers made his head pound. Or perhaps it was the wine. Either way, he needed a break—somewhere quiet and dark.
He moved back through the crowds, unable to miss how the men put protective hands to their ladies’ backs lest he do something like, oh, maybe murder them for their titles or perhaps out of pure evilness. After all, the new Lord Hartwood didn’t even go to church. Surely he had the very devil in his soul?
Hands clasped behind his back, he made his way outside and took the steps down toward the gardens. Though a few lamps were lit around the pathway, it offered a dim glow that instantly assuaged the ache behind his good eye. Perhaps he’d grown used to living in darkness or maybe his time in battle, writing letters and orders in the dull lamplight, had caused his hatred of sparkling chandeliers. All it meant was that he loathed events like this even more.
Cillian inhaled, glanced about the paths carving their way through the ornamental gardens, and opted for the least well-lit one. If he ran into anyone, the shadows might save him from any more disgust. He’d grown used to such looks—hell, he’d endured them even before his disfigurement—but that didn’t mean he enjoyed such interactions.
The women at the ball might say otherwise. They might speculate the disfigured Irishman enjoyed teasing them.
Terrifyingthem, even.
They might say a lot of things about him.
He’d given up long ago trying to please any of them. Some people were just not meant to be liked, no matter what they did, he supposed.
A scream rent the air, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He stilled, unfurled his hands from behind him, and scanned the dark surroundings. There would no doubt be couples sneaking about tonight, using the darkened gardens as an opportunity to meet unchaperoned or far from their husbands and wives. However, that scream did not sound like one of pleasure. He waited, pulse beating like a war drum until he heard the second scream.
He moved forward. Then he ran. A glow spilled from the large building ahead and he saw a woman dash from the door, swiftly followed by a man. He didn’t need to see her face to know she was trying to escape him. Many things evaded him—the ability to make polite conversation or take pleasure in overly complicated food—but his instincts never failed. He caught up with the man as he snatched the woman’s arm and she whirled, her eyes widening upon seeing Cillian.
“What the devil—?” The man staggered several steps, his words slurred, as Cillian grabbed the back of his shirt.
One glance at the young woman behind the man made Cillian’s blood boil. The sleeve of her dress hung from her shoulder, the bodice was torn revealing more than the modest neckline should allow.
He returned his attention back to the struggling man, recognizing him as Humphrey Irving. The taste in Cillian’s mouth turned bitter. One barely needed to glance at the scandal sheets to know Irving’s reputation. His lack of business acumen was only bested by his lack of discernment when it came to his conquests. Married, young, innocent...it didn’t matter. He’d ruined countless women and looked intent on doing the same tonight, but by force.
If this were the battlefield, Cillian would have a hard time not beating the man senseless.
“Let me go you blasted...” Irving tugged against the iron grip Cillian had on him.
Cillian held back a smirk, aware of the fair-haired woman watching them wide-eyed. Pale even in the light of the lamps of the orangery, he fought to keep the fury from his expression when she wrapped her arms about herself. He turned his attention back to Irving.
“Touch the lady again and I’ll kill you.”
Irving stilled. It didn’t matter that the only lives Cillian had taken were on the battlefield. If it were up to Society, he’d partaken in the deaths of at least two from their ranks. For once, the talk of that proved useful. Irving turned nearly as pale as the woman.
“I didn’t...that is...”
“Unhand him!” The command came from behind Cillian. He lifted his gaze to the skies and turned to find a gathering of several men and women, including the elusive Lord Birchley.
“He threatened to kill me,” Irving spluttered.
