“I don’t see how you are going to stop me.”
The earl was already moving. Several sections of the bridge expansion’s skeleton had been bolted into place, and a narrow strut—barely wider than the palm of a hand—offered a chance to put himself between the engineer and the Windsor Castle grounds.
Without breaking his stride, Wrexford stepped on the thin piece of iron and kept going, trusting his balance . . .
And Clotho, the Spinner of Fate, who seemed to have a soft spot for him.
Ignoring Wheeler’s yelp of dismay and the sudden gust of wind that tugged at his shirt, the earl hurried over the last few feet of danger and leapt to solid footing on a section of planking.
“As you see, there’s nothing wrong with my balance—or my footing in high places,” he called.
“Damn you,” cried Wheeler in frustration. “Why the devil do you care so deeply about vengeance for Milton? His personal flaws were legion.”
“I don’t care about vengeance, I care about principle.” A smile. “It’s nothing personal, Wheeler. It’s all about justice.”
A look of disbelief spasmed over Wheeler’s face. “You are willing to risk your life over an abstract ideal?”
Wrexford thought about all the light and love he was putting in jeopardy—Charlotte . . . the Weasels . . . the family’s inner circle of dear friends—and felt his heart clench. Would such a sacrifice be worth it?
“Principles are what challenge us to rise above our own selfish needs and desires and do the right thing. And they matter most when things are complicated and confusing,” he replied. “The difference between Good and Evil is rarely black and white. And so for me, drawing a moral line in the sand is what keeps the Darkness from taking hold of our hearts.”
“You are welcome to bask in platitudes,” snapped Wheeler. “I prefer the more tangible pleasures that money can buy.”
“You are free to decide what is important to you,” said Wrexford. “But the choices you make have consequences. You don’t have the right to decide who deserves to live and who deserves to die. And so you must answer for your actions.”
Wheeler took a step closer and flicked his knife in a menacing gesture. “And so must you.”
They stood facing each other, the moon flicking in and out of the shifting clouds. A gust of wind shuddered through a nearby copse of trees, rustling the leaves. A squall looked to be blowing in.
The earl held himself very still. One learned a great deal about an opponent by allowing him to make the first move. His guess was that Wheeler would use his bulk and muscle to go straight for the jugular.
With a subtle shift of weight, Wrexford balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to react in an instant to whatever attack was coming.
Wheeler dropped his arms to his side and looked away. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I must face my faults—”
The blade whipped up without warning, aiming to cut an angled slice between the earl’s ribs and thrust upward to pierce the heart.
Wrexford parried the blow with a lightning-fast swing of his forearm, knocking the engineer’s knife hand up and away from his body. His own weapon darted in—the engineer’s unprotected chest was at his mercy—but merely pricked with the point to draw a tiny bead of blood.
Wheeler recoiled with a grunt. A wink of starlight showed his brow was sheened in sweat.
“Unlike you, I’m not aiming to kill,” said the earl as he reset his stance. “I’m taking you back to face justice.”
“Never!” cried Wheeler. “I don’t intend to be used as a source of entertainment for the masses by being made to dance the hangman’s jig at a public execution.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have murdered three of your friends, all because you lusted for money that you didn’t even need,” said the earl. “If you’re whining for sympathy, look elsewhere. You’ll get none from me.”
A snort of rage sounded as Wheeler lowered his head and charged.
Wrexford twisted to evade the hit, but a glancing blow from the engineer’s shoulder knocked him across the width of the planking. His boots slipped on a patch of grease, and for a perilous moment he teetered on the edge, fighting for balance.
The engineer pivoted.
A rope dangling just out of reach caught the earl’s eye, undulating like a snake in the fitful breeze.
He lunged for it just as Wheeler raised his knife and charged again.
For an instant, the bristly hemp slid through his fingers, scraping the skin from his palms. But thoughts of family summoned an extra measure of resolve. His grip held as his momentum carried him over the yawning gap between the center beams and the planking on the other side.
