“I did nothing,” she spat. “You prevented it. You stopped justice from being served.”
“That wasn’t justice.” His nostrils flared. “That was revenge.”
“It’s the same thing.” She’d been so close. She could almost imagine she had done it. She could feel the cool weight of the pistol in her hand. Hear the man’s pitiful mewls as he begged. She started laughing again. This time it held a hysterical edge. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
He took two strides forwards and grabbed her shoulders. “Damn it, Cassie, this isn’t a joke. If you had pulled that trigger….” He gave her a little shake, his chest heaving.
She tilted her chin up. “I will pull that trigger. I don’t care how long it takes me, but I will get to Wiltshire again. He will pay for what he did.”
“To what end?” His fingers bit into her skin. “Taking matters into your own hands isn’t conduct fit for a civilized society. There are rules for a reason.”
She pressed her hands into his chest, bunched the fabric of his costume beneath her fingers. “And what is that reason? For the life of me I can’t think why what I’m doing is wrong.” Why wouldn’t he see? The same need he felt for structure and order, the one that had given her such comfort when she’d felt like she was spinning out of control, now was driving her mad.
“If everyone sought their own personal punishment against their aggressors, it would lead to chaos.” He slid one hand down her spine, the other to the back of her neck. “Surely you must see that.”
“I’m not averse to chaos.” She pulled in then released a deep breath. “I don’t believe in order and rules and boxes for people like you do.”
“Then what of your own soul?” He tugged her close and rested his forehead against hers. His breath gusted across her cheek. “Cassie, if you had pulled that trigger, your soul would have been corrupted. There’s a cost for that type of action. A stain, that would spread and spread. If you let yourself cross that line, what line exists that you wouldn’t breach?”
Another person talking about costs. What of the cost of inaction? Of letting a fiend live on facing no consequences? Of letting him kill again? “An eye for an eye. A death for a death. That is a line I am content to cross.”
“It isn’t your line to cross.” He sighed. “The courts will—”
She tore herself from his grip. “What difference if his executioner is a man behind a hood or if it’s me?” She pounded her fist to her chest. “Lydia was my sister. Mine. I will not hand off the responsibility for bringing her killer to justice to some bloodless, bureaucratized court system. Perhaps it makes you feel cleaner to let a third party commit the deed for you, but I don’t fear becoming soiled.”
They stared at each other, the only sound her heavy breaths. He was so calm while she was a churning storm inside. A part of her wanted to strike him, tear his clothes, make him feel as wild as she. Make him primitive. Bring him to her level.
Another part wanted to curl up in his arms, give him her burdens, trust him to make the right decision.
“I have one final argument.” He brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “What if, in your quest for revenge, you kill the wrong man?”
“What?” She shook her head. “But I wouldn’t. Wiltshire—”
“Wiltshire is a cad and a seducer. He was the father of your sister’s unborn child. But he didn’t kill Lydia.”
Black spots danced before her eyes. “Are you certain?” she gasped out.
He nodded. “He had a ring, with his family crest, a falcon, and its wing caused the bruise on—”
“So he did kill her!”
Charles went unnaturally still. “He gave the ring to his secretary.”
Blood pounded through her head. She had to watch his lips to make sure she understood everything he said.
“We believe Mr. Clive Lincoln killed your sister. From jealousy or to protect his employer, we don’t yet know.” Charles’s shoulders slumped. “But, Cassie, it wasn’t Wiltshire.”
Her legs gave out, and she dropped to the floor, pain lancing her knees. She couldn’t fill her chest with air, couldn’t make her lungs slow to take a full breath.
Charles cursed, and dropped to the floor next to her. He scooped her onto his lap and tore at the hooks on the back of her gown. When the dress sagged, loose about her shoulders, he went to work on the strings of her stays. “Breathe with me.” He pressed her against his own chest, letting her feel the steady rise and fall. He cradled her into his body. “Inhale. Exhale. That’s it.”
She closed her eyes and let herself drift. His scent, like a meadow after a rain, wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She didn’t think about the fact her sister’s killer still roamed free. Didn’t think about the fact she’d almost taken the life of the wrong man. In that moment, it was only her and Charles. She wanted to package this feeling up and keep it with her always.
When her breathing slowed, he stood, keeping her in his arms, and took her to the bed. He laid down with her, keeping her nestled against his body, his chest to hers, her face buried in the crook of his throat.
“Are you certain it was Mr. Lincoln?” Her voice was quiet. She didn’t want to break the calm hush of the room.
“I think it is, but no, I’m not certain.” He brushed hair off her cheek. “We need to gather more evidence, build a case against him. He needs to be able to present a defense before the courts. That is the only way we’ll know for certain if he’s guilty or not.”
