Believing them was another matter entirely.
“Edward. Edward, please.”
Leonard stood at the entrance of Heatherwell House, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale in the lamplight. Rain streaked the windows behind him. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“I cannot stay here. You know I cannot. Father will never accept her.”
Edward reached for his brother, but his hands passed through empty air. “Wait. Leonard, wait.”
“Tell me you understand.” Leonard’s eyes pleaded. “Tell me you do not hate me for leaving.”
“I could never hate you.” The words scraped from Edward’s throat. “But if you go, I cannot protect you. I cannot?—”
The scene shifted. The entrance hall melted away, replaced by a muddy road.
A carriage lay overturned in a ditch, its wheels still spinning. Rain pounded the wreckage. And there, sprawled in the mud, unmoving, was Leonard.
“No.” Edward ran toward him, but the road stretched longer with each step. “Leonard!”
His brother’s eyes stared at the sky, empty and accusing.
You let me go.
Edward woke with a gasp.
His sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat. His heart slammed against his ribs. The darkness of his bedchamber pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating.
He threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The clock on the mantel showed half past two. The house lay silent around him, servants long asleep, Oliver tucked safely in the nursery two floors above.
Oliver. Leonard’s son. The boy with his father’s eyes and his mother’s stubborn chin.
The boy Edward was failing, just like he had failed Leonard.
He dressed in the dark, pulling on clothes by feel. His valet would be horrified by the result, but Edward did not care.
He needed to move. Needed to exhaust the guilt that clawed at his chest until he could breathe again. Needed to hit something.
He knew just where to go.
The streets of London lay quiet as he made his way toward the Crossed Keys. A few carriages rattled past, their occupants hidden behind drawn curtains. A watchman called the hour from a distant corner. The city slept, unaware of the ghosts that walked among them.
Grimsby raised an eyebrow when Edward pushed through the tavern’s back door.
“Your Grace. We were not expecting you tonight.”
“Find me an opponent.” Edward shed his coat and began rolling up his sleeves. “Anyone. I do not care.”
The landlord studied him for a moment, something like understanding flickering in his calculating eyes. Then he nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Edward wrapped his hands and stepped into the makeshift ring. The man who faced him was large, scarred, and built like a brick wall. Perfect.
The first punch landed against Edward’s jaw, snapping his head to the side. Pain bloomed, sharp and clarifying. He welcomed it.
He welcomed all of it.
For the next hour, he fought. Took hits. Gave them back harder. Let the physical pain drown out the memories, the guilt, the image of his brother’s accusing eyes.
When it was over, he stood alone in the ring, chest heaving, knuckles split, blood dripping from a cut above his eye. His opponent had been carried off ten minutes ago. The crowd had dispersed, leaving only Grimsby and the lingering smell of sweat and sawdust.
