Page 54 of A Legacy of Lies

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The folly rose from the mist like a ruin half swallowed by time. Stone slick and dark, mortar crumbling, it crouched at the edge of the parkland as if guarding a secret too heavy to hold. Its low wall carved the land into halves, civility on one side, shadow on the other. Nathaniel slowed with his lantern raised, his breath white in the cold.

A crack rang out from the Hall behind him, the kind of sound that made a body listen. He turned, every sense sharpened. Something moved in the fog, quick and certain.

The fist came from the side. Reflex answered before thought. He caught the arm mid-swing, his grip closing like iron.

His hand locked on a wrist, twisting, dragging the attacker forward with trained precision. Cloth tore. Bone strained. A boot slipped on gravel. A grunt. A curse. Whiskey burned on the breath.

“You think you could ignore me?” the voice spat. “That I wouldn’t come? You’re late, girl. Just like your mother, always making me wait.”

The words cut harder than the blow. Nathaniel’s grip faltered, the chill sliding deeper. He wasn’t the one this man had come for.

“Willie F. Moore don’t get ignored. Not by his own blood? Do you hear me, Clara?”

The name hit like a blade drawn from memory. The name she had buried with her childhood. The beard was fuller, the eyes wild with drink, but the voice, rough, bitter, cut through the years.

Willie Moore, Clara’s father.

The realization burned through him. The favor for Charles. The pouch. The silence. Every missing piece locked into place.

The man swayed, blinking hard to focus. “And look who we have here. If it isn’t the solicitor duke.” He gave a mock bow, unsteady, then wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve. “You think she’s safe now? Where have you taken my daughter?”

Nathaniel stowed the truth deep. His jaw flexed. “She is not here. And she will never stand before you again.”

Willie’s grin turned feral. “She’s mine. Blood and bone. That doesn’t change with silk gloves and a title.”

“Your blood is not her fate.” Nathaniel stepped forward. He met the man’s glare, every word a quiet blade. “You’ll not decide her end.”

“She carried them for me!” Moore roared. “The brooch, the pearls, that cursed masquerade piece. She was there, at the ball. She knew.”

Nathaniel’s grip tightened. Clara? At the masquerade? The thought sliced cold, but the man’s slurred boast was confession enough. Jewels. Theft. The ball. He’d tied himself to all of it.

“You damned her with your greed,” Nathaniel bit out. “You would see her broken just to bury your shame.”

“So what?” Moore spat. He lunged again, wild. Nathaniel met him head-on. His shoulder caught the man’s chest and drove him into the stone. The crack echoed through the fog.

Moore roared, shoved off, and came back swinging. His fists were untrained, mean things born of tavern brawls. Each swing reeked of whiskey and spite.

Nathaniel fought with restraint born of discipline. Every motion was clean, deliberate, meant to end, not punish. He ducked, turned, drove a sharp elbow into Moore’s ribs, then followed with a precise strike that sent blood flying in a fine mist.

Moore spat, grinning through it. “Not bad, Duke. Didn’t think you had fists under all that parchment.”

Nathaniel said nothing. His silence spoke the judgment he would not voice.

Moore lunged again, catching Nathaniel’s side with a knee. Pain flared bright, but Nathaniel absorbed it, braced, and answered with a blow to the gut. The man doubled, choking on bile, yet still didn’t fall.

“You think she’s yours?” Moore rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’ll always be mine. She carries my blood. My debt. My curse.”

The words landed like acid. Nathaniel answered with a strike that cracked across Moore’s jaw, the sound sharp as breaking wood.

“You’ll never speak of her again.” His voice dropped, rough and low.

Moore staggered, but rage steadied him. He swung wide, desperate. Nathaniel stepped inside the arc, caught his forearm, and twisted. Bone strained. Moore howled, dropping to one knee.

Nathaniel forced him lower, every muscle tight with the will not to kill. “She is not your legacy. Not your leverage. Not yours.”

Moore jerked his head back and slammed it forward. Skull met chin. Stars burst behind Nathaniel’s eyes. Still, he held on. He forced Moore down, his knee to the man’s back, and one arm pinned beneath him.