Stephen clenched his jaw. Was Amelia still behind him? He couldn’t hear the patter of her feet anymore. Had she run away? That might be the sensible thing to do, unless Harry managed to dart past him and get away.
Stephen’s gaze dropped to the knife again. Harry held it unsteadily, almost uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to holding a weapon; that much was clear.
At least I have the advantage there. How many weapons have I used over the years? Guns, pistols, knives, swords, cannons. My own bare hands served me well enough.
“Put the knife down, Harry,” Stephen murmured. “I have no intention of hurting you.”
“No intention of hurting me? Ha!” Harry cried. “You want me dead. This knife is as much protection for me as it is a threat.”
“I don’t want to kill you. I simply want you to understand what you did to me, Harry. I want you to face the secrets you’ve buried for so long. Your half-sisters, my abduction. I want you to face the same despair that I did.”
“You think I don’t know despair? Oh, you’re wrong about that, Stephen.” Harry took a step toward him, teeth gritted. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch you and your father adore each other? To watch you spend money like water when I could barely pay my own rent? I lived in my father’s manor for a time, but… Let’s just say, gambles go wrong sometimes.”
“If you’d asked for help?—”
“I had some pride,” he snapped bitterly. “And then the Grand Tour. You wouldn’t shut up about it, would you? Where you were going to go, the adventures you were going to have.”
“I never meant to hurt you, Harry. Believe me.”
Harry’s eyes had gone blank. He shrugged, glancing away. “You wanted to go on a Grand Tour, so I sent you on one.”
He gripped the knife a little tighter now. His back stiffened, his body coiled like a spring.
Stephen had seen that stance in too many men over the years. In a moment, Harry would rush at him. Whether he would try to stab him or dive past remained to be seen.
Casually, Stephen widened his own stance, letting his arms hang loose and easy by his sides. It was time to prepare.
“I’ve done a rather neat job of this, I think,” Harry continued, his words heavy and bitter. “I’ve ruined your life and Amelia’s.She’ll never forgive you for this betrayal. No matter what you do, she won’t believe you now. You see, you could never understand. Your father loved you so much. My father never had a moment to spare for my mother or me. No, he was always rushing off to see his kept woman and her bastards. The humiliation was so intense, and he could never understand it. Maybe if he had understood, it would have made a difference, but I doubt it. No, not dear Papa. He only ever did what he wanted. But there are consequences, Stephen. There arealwaysconsequences.”
Clutching the knife, Harry rushed forward, the point glinting in the moonlight. He planned to go in for the kill, then.
Neatly, Stephen stepped aside, grabbing Harry by the wrist and wrenching his arm back. When he didn’t immediately drop the knife, Stephen’s fist flashed out, his knuckles white.
Crack.
He delivered a sharp blow to Harry’s face, square on his nose. Blood spurted, and Harry gave a warbling cry, his free hand flying to his face. The knife clattered onto the ground, and Stephen kicked it away into the darkness. Next, he delivered a neat kick to the back of Harry’s knee, and the man buckled. He landed heavily, since Stephen saw no reason to soften his fall.
Harry lay there, on his back in the filth and rubbish, groaning and weeping, his hand fluttering to his face.
“You’ve broken my nose!” he groaned.
Stephen squatted beside him, and when Harry made an effort to sit up, he placed a large hand on the middle of his chest, pushing him back. Harry’s eyes widened when he couldn’t struggle against his old friend’s strength.
“I’m not the young man you once knew, Harry,” Stephen whispered. “You forget who you’re talking to.”
“You could never let me forget,Your Grace,” Harry spat.
“I’m not talking to you as a duke now. No, I’m speaking to you as a man who survived war. Do you have any idea what war is like? No, of course you don’t. How could you? The papers and stories tell tales of heroes. But the truth is that there are two kinds of men on a battlefield, once the fight is over. There are murderers, and there is the dead. That’s it. No heroes, no gentlemen, no martyrs. The killers and the dead. Which do you think I am, Harry? Say it.Say it.”
Real fear flashed in Harry’s eyes. It wasn’t the first time that Stephen had seen naked terror in another person’s eyes when they looked at him. He prayed that it would be the last.
“You’re a killer,” Harry whispered.
Stephen nodded slowly, letting a grim smile creep across his face. “I’m a killer because you made me into one, Harry. Never forget that. This is allyour fault. I’ve killed men, again and again. Never think for one moment that I won’t do it again. Here’s what will happen, Harry. You are going to go to the constables and tell them how you abducted Amelia. You’ll gothrough your father’s will and give Amelia and her sisters whatever money and property should have been theirs. I doubt that anything would happen to you for what you did to me all those years ago. The courts don’t care about press-ganged men, even ones who are dukes. Once they start there, there’ll be no way to stop. But don’t think that I’ve forgotten.”
Harry’s throat worked. “Would it mean anything to you if I told you that I regretted it?” he whispered. “That I wished I hadn’t sent you away? But once you were gone, it was too late to change it. Too late to bring you back. So, I had to commit. I could only hope that you wouldn’t come back. So I did. Made sure you wouldn’t come back, that is.”
Stephen bit the inside of his cheek. Pain bloomed, enough to clear his head and make him focus.
