“Oh…” Cecilia said, not quite knowing how to reply.
“They raided a ship belonging to me which had moored to the east of the city, quite against my wishes. Again, my headstrong and impulsive partner seeking to make a quick profit,” Thorpe continued conversationally. “And as a result of his greed, ship, cargo, and enterprise are all lost. I believed that I was lost too. Utterly… well, except for one rather pyrrhic victory.”
He had been looking away from Cecilia as he spoke. Now, his eyes returned to hers. They were hooded and glittered where they caught the firelight. His smile was utterly predatory. The kind of smile that is the last sight a creature of prey sees before its untimely end. Cecilia stood.
“Then I see that my journey here has been for nothing. And it is hardly the best time to be visiting anyway. I thank you for…” she trailed off.
Thorpe came out of his seat with the smooth grace of a viper. He moved to stand between Cecilia and the door.
“I do not think your journey has been wasted. On the contrary. Do you not wish to know why my victory tonight was… pyrrhic?”
“I do not care about your victories or defeats…” Cecilia began.
“Oh, I think you will want to know about this one. In other circumstances, I would claim it the greatest victory of my life. The culmination of my lifelong quest.” With hands tuckedbehind his back, he raised his head to the ceiling, breathing in rather dramatically. “Alas, it is tainted with the loss of my wealth and the possible need to leave these shores. We shall see exactly how much Knightley is persuaded to tell the excisemen, I suppose. But, I am consoled that I have, at least, had the last laugh over my privileged brother.” He turned his gaze to her. “You see, I shot him dead.”
Cecilia did not know what happened next with any certainty. The words hit her like a physical blow. Perhaps that is what spurred her immediate reaction. She slapped Thorpe across the face with enough force to make his head whip to his shoulder. He actually staggered backward a step.
“You did not kill my husband!” Cecilia lashed out.
She was amazed at her own courage, but a feral fury was burning within her. Paradoxically, she was also deathly afraid. She prayed that this was an idle boast, a brag to break her spirit and gain a measure of revenge for his own defeat at Lionel’s hands. Within that yawning terror was an abyss, a void that would swallow her soul if Lionel was dead. She herself would join him, in spirit if not in body. Thorpe snarled as he raised his hand to deliver a backhand blow.
“My manservant is outside, and if I scream, he will come running. He is loyal to his master and mistress. Would you have him witness you beating me?” Cecilia uttered, unable to stop herself from stepping back despite her bravado.
Thorpe glanced towards the doors and Cecilia seized the opportunity to dash to the fireplace which stood to her left. Above it was a family crest over two crossed swords. Her hand closed around the basket-shaped hand protector of one of the swords. A French blade, she thought, as she pulled it from the wall, adjusting her grip for its weight. Arthur had taught her much of sport, had been a practitioner of just about every one conceived. Fencing was among that number.
In a twist of bitter irony, it was one of the few sports taught to him by Lionel, and the first mention her brother had ever made of her soon-to-be husband. In some ways, she supposed, she had learned it directly from him.
Thorpe had taken a few steps after her but now stopped short. He grinned as Cecilia struggled to lift the tip of the blade from the ground. Or let him believe as much. He slowly advanced on her.
“Excisemen came out of the night and stormed my ship. I was on deck with Sir Gerald, about to oversee the ridiculous sale he had arranged. I saw Lionel in the van, leading the charge. I jumped from the ship to a waiting boat and when I looked back, I saw him. I took my chance and fired. He fell back. I saw him no more and he did not pursue me. I labored through miles of stinking marsh to escape.”
He was slowly edging forward, inexorably closing the gap between them. Cecilia licked her lips, backing away but conscious that the fire was behind her, cutting off any retreat.From the corner of her eye, she saw a tall pedestal bearing a silver goblet.
“You did not see him die though,” she put in breathlessly.
“I did not, but I saw him fall after I fired my shot. He was hit.”
“At night. And through a cloud of gun smoke? You used a Baker?” Cecilia asked.
Another sport that Arthur had educated her on. She had learned a lot about rifles and marksmanship even if she had no interest in learning how to actually shoot.
“I did.”
“Then you could not have seen your target once the trigger was pulled. The smoke will have blinded you. You saw him there. Fired and when the smoke cleared, he was not there. Hardly proof.”
Again, Thorpe seemed to hesitate, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. Then he grinned wolfishly.
“Why do we dance around the issue at stake here? With a few choice words, I will soon be heir to the Thornhill estate. I have the power to give you the most comfortable life. As my wife.”
He put out his hand as though offering it to her.
Slowly, she took it, before flicking the blade upwards with ease and slashing its tip across the back of Thorpe’s hand. He recoiled with a scream, clutching at his wounded appendage. Cecilia darted the blade to the side, knocking the silver goblet from its perch so that it clattered loudly to the ground.
When Thorpe looked at her next, his face was a mask of fury. He cursed, face reddening. Again, his eyes were those of a rabid animal, the thin veneer of civilization discarded like a ragged cloak. He lunged for her and she side-stepped, whipping the blade out and scoring a line under one of his arms, across his ribs. He grabbed for the other blade, slipping on droplets of blood that had flicked to the ground from the tip of Cecilia’s sword. She stepped back, knees beginning to tremble. She’d eaten only a bowl of broth and some bread after purging everything she’d eaten the night before. The sword was well-balanced but still a heavy piece of metal.
She was also fighting the mental shock that Lionel might be wounded. Or dead.
The library door banged open then and Flock burst in. He was holding a cane presumably plucked from the stand beside the front door. At the sight of his mistress holding a bloody blade and a man confronting her with a sword of his own, Flock lunged forward, swinging the cane. Thorpe lashed out with the sword and Cecilia screamed her concern, but the rapier blade smashed into the cane and was snapped in two. Flock discarded the weapon and seized Thorpe by the lapels of his coat, dragging him towards the fire with teeth bared in savage, outraged anger.
