Quietly, all of the ladies knit, as if each neat stitch could restore order to the world. As if they were building safety nets for the men like Hawkes, whohad already saved her, but whose lot it was to go and fight for justice even years after the war was over.
In the end, a footman was one of the heroes of the story.
Because despite the fact that he’d been told to do otherwise, Pike of course let Hawkes into Brundage’s house.
Hawkes had watched the St. James Square townhouse long enough to know that no soldiers stood watch before calling at the door.
As instructed in whispers by Hawkes, Pike had called the earl out of his office on a pretense of concern over whether to dust a particular urn in the sitting room—to the earl’s great and audible incredulity.
The earl’s day was only going to get worse.
And now Hawkes waited and watched from behind one of the long velvet curtains in Brundage’s vast office as the earl, wearing a scowl, settled with a sort of irritated vigor again at his desk, from which Hawkes had already removed a letter opener and hidden it in the windowsill. He’d done a swift search of the desk drawers for other easily accessible potential weapons and found none.
Brundage muttered something as he seized a quill, bent over a sheet of foolscap, and began filling it with words.
Hawkes silently, in minute increments, breath held, slipped from behind the curtain. His footsteps muffled by the gorgeous, thick carpet, he came to a stop right in front of the desk, pistol aimed at Brundage. And stood there.
Three or four seconds elapsed before Brundage paused in writing, sighed.
And glanced up.
His body rocked violently backward as though he’d been lightning struck and a sound emerged—a sort of choked howl of terror. His hand went over his heart.
His mouth was cavernously agape. “H-H-Hawkes... h-h-o-w...”
He paused to gulp for air.
“Perhaps I’m a ghost,” Hawkes suggested pleasantly. “Perhaps it’s all been a dream. Perhaps you actually succeeded in having me killed after all, Brundage. But just in case I’m real... you don’t want to move a single hair, or I’ll pull the trigger.”
Brundage’s complexion was a sickly green-white. He managed to get his mouth mostly closed but he continued to suck air through parted lips in short bursts, like a fish.
“I want you to know what it feels like, you useless, vile secretion,” Hawkes continued conversationally. “And I want you to scream—go ahead, do it—with the knowledge that no one will come to help you in time. That no one cares. I’m just going to rest the barrel of this loaded gun against your head, and you are just going to have to take it. And do you know why? Because I want to. Because I can.”
He leaned slowly toward him, and he did just that.
Brundage’s face glistened with sweat.
His lips trembled. His words emerged as dry, staccato clicks. “Y-you... don’t... want... to... do... this, Hawkes.”
“Here is what I want,” Hawkes said silkily. “I want you to sit with the feeling that you are helpless to do anything at all to defend yourself right now. I can violate you in any way I please. I can do anythingI want to you right now, and I want you to imagine what those things will be. Go ahead, let your imagination run amuck. I want this feeling to soak into your bones, into your desiccated black soul. This violation of your personhood. This disavowal of everythingyoumight want or feel. This negation of you as a person. I have stolen every choice from you. Do you like that feeling, Brundage? Do you know why I’m doing this? Because I want to. Because I can. I have the power right now, over you. Do you know why and in whose name I’m doing this?”
Brundage’s chest heaved.
“I asked you a question,” Hawkes snapped. “Answer meloudlynow or so help me God...”
“Yes,” he croaked. “Aurelie. You’re doing it for Aurelie! You’re doing it because of what happened with Aurelie.”
Hawkes slowly stepped back from Brundage, but kept the gun aimed on him. He lowered himself into the chair across from him.
“Open your eyes,” he snapped.
With an enormous struggle, Brundage opened one, then the other.
“Her life is more important than your death,” Hawkes said. “And so is mine. And that better be the last time you utter her name.”
They stared at each other from across the desk.
“She lies,” Brundage said.
