Page 139 of Immortal Rose

He had watched it transform from a simple warehouse into a place of refinement, a school that catered to princes, lords, and gentlemen who could afford its galling membership fees.

Old Almici himself had taken a special interest in Hugh’s bladework, a fact that had filled him with no shortage of pride. Until, of course, it had become clear that his uncle’s reach had extended even into his fencing lessons. In Uncle Giles’s eyes, the point wasn’t for Hugh to hone a skill or find some measure of calm in the flow of the fight. It was to listen to his fellow students—lordlings and the like—and report everything he’d learned.

Still, Hugh had returned to the school throughout his life, to refine his skills, to disappear into a blood-pounding match, to humiliate his old classmates, and sometimes, such as today, on deadly business.

Hugh opened his reserved storage cabinet and ripped off his jacket and boots. He’d only just pulled on his fencing kit when he felt Reddy sidle up behind him, opening his own cabinet.

“Go away,” Hugh ground out.

“Before or after you kill Glenmoor?” Reddy asked. “That is why we’re here, isn’t it? Dueling is illegal . . . unless it is a ‘sparring accident.’”

Hugh said nothing. His hands shook with the force of his anger, making it difficult to button the stiff jacket.

“You said death was too good for him,” Reddy reminded him. “For years you’ve said this. He wants you furious—he knows he cannot beat you otherwise.”

Hugh slammed the cabinet shut, stepping into his light shoes. “There is no other way now. It has to be answered.”

Viola’s poisoning had taken him to the point of rage, and Eleanor’s injury past it. Parliament could send him to the gallows, but God curse his soul to eternal hell, it had to be answered.

Glenmoor had to be stopped.

“Hugh,” Reddy said, gripping his arm, “please. Your uncle—”

“Is dead,” Hugh seethed. “Killed by the very man in question.”

Reddy released him with a grunt of frustration.

Hugh didn’t care. He was beyond caring; he had found that place Glenmoor occupied, where nothing existed beyond what he desired. Hugh had forgotten—in all the years he had been told to smother his fury, to master his immense feelings and pain, he had forgotten how very powerful anger could be. His body was alive with it, heat flooding his muscles.

He would surrender to it, and it would serve him well.

“You are my only friend in this soggy shoe of a kingdom,” Reddy said, following him out into the main room. “Not even Patricians can avoid a murder charge. Am I supposed to stand aside and allow you to potentially hang for killing the bastard?”

Hugh did not waste a look back at him. “Yes.”

Bold strokes of sunlight filtered through the school’s tall windows, pouring over the rows of practice mats, a fact his opponent was using to his advantage, moving in and out of that glare to blind the instructor he was drilling with.

Hugh breathed in the familiar scent of sweat, polish, and brick dust, rage flaring hotter at the sight of Glenmoor enjoying himself. The duke wore a mask, but Hugh had marked him at once; only Glenmoor would insist on peacocking here in his floral silk-trimmed kit.

Hugh’s mouth twisted in disdain. A crowd of admirers had congregated around Glenmoor, applauding obediently as the duke demonstrated his vast skill. He’d ten years on Hugh, and ten years more training, but it wouldn’t matter. Not when Hugh was finished with him. All of it writhed inside him.

Viola’s sobbing.

Eleanor’s bruise.

His mother’s screams, and then the silence.

With unerring focus, he strode to the board used for challenges and instructed the boy, “Myself and Glenmoor.”

“Good God, Foxcourt,” Baron Wentworth complained from the mat behind him. “Have you not already caused enough of a stir?”

“Why settle for a mere stir when you’re capable of maelstroms?” Hugh answered smoothly.

Like most of society’s pointless rules, a man of lesser rank could not challenge one of greater standing—or rather, it was not the done thing.

Reddy fell in step behind him as he approached the rack of foils and swords.

“I thought you didn’t approve,” Hugh murmured to him.