Page 55 of A Legacy of Lies

The fight should have ended. But Moore thrashed, spitting curses thick with whiskey, and rolled. His fist caught Nathaniel’s temple, a blind, ugly swing. They both staggered up, breath tearing through the cold.

For a moment, they faced each other, bloodied and gasping, lantern light slick on their faces. Then Moore charged.

Nathaniel braced, turned the force against him, and sent him crashing into the folly wall. The sound was final. Stone and bone both seemed to shudder.

Moore slid down, knees in the mud, blood dripping from his nose. He laughed, a sound as splintered as the man himself. “You fight well, Duke. But she’s still mine. She’ll never be free.”

Nathaniel knelt, fists tight, breath steady. “She already is,” he said, his voice low and certain. “Because she’s nothing like you.”

His last blow sent Moore sprawling. The fight finished.

*

The mist pressed closer, swallowing sound, until new footsteps broke through, boots pounding across the sodden ground.

“Your Grace!”

Nathaniel turned, breath rough, fists still curled. Matthew Fletcher emerged from the haze, cap askew, lantern swinging wildly in his grip, its glow quivering across his pale, startled face. Moore crouched against the folly wall, blood streaking his mouth, one arm bent at an angle that would never mend.

“My God…” Matthew slowed, lantern shaking hard. “What—”

Moore’s laugh rasped through broken teeth. “Ask him, boy. Ask your fine duke what your Miss Whitmore’s been hiding. Pouch of jewels, tucked neat in her cloak. Like father, like daughter—”

“Enough.”

Nathaniel’s voice cut through the fog. He moved forward, placing himself squarely between Moore and the groom, a barrier of bone and resolve.

“You will not speak her name again.”

Moore spat red into the grass, his grin slick with spite. “Afraid the truth will out?”

“The truth,” Nathaniel said, each word precise and cold, “is that you’ve confessed enough to hang yourself twice over.” He turned his head slightly, gaze locking on the groom. “Fetch the magistrate. Now.”

Matthew’s gaze darted from the duke’s bruised jaw to Moore’s swollen face. Then he nodded, the lantern jerking with the motion. “Aye, Your Grace.” He ran for the Hall, his light bobbing like a distant heartbeat in the mist.

Moore wheezed a laugh, the sound hollow as he dragged himself upright. “Magistrate won’t matter. Men like me don’t hang for stealing from those with more than they can count. But her—” His swollen lip curled. “She’ll never outrun me. Never.”

Nathaniel’s fists twitched, every tendon tight. He drew a slow, disciplined breath instead of striking. “You are finished,” he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “The next time you reach for her will be your last.”

Moore’s grin faltered. The defiance in his eyes guttered. Failure carved deeper than fear.

*

Clara’s boots slipped on the gravel as she reached the narrowing path. Mist clung to her gown’s hem, chilled against her legs, the cold seeping through every layer. She had followed the sound, thuds, grunts, the crack of bone, but nothing prepared her for what she saw when she broke through the fog.

Two figures moved like shadows in the lantern glow. One staggered, blood at his mouth. The other surged, broad shouldered, relentless, fists clenched with brutal precision.

Nathaniel.

Her heart seized. She stumbled forward, breath catching, and in that flicker of light, the attacker’s face turned toward her. The grin split and bloodied, the eyes glassy with drink. Recognition struck like ice.

Her father.

“Stop,” she breathed, voice ragged.

Nathaniel heard her. He turned, breath rough, face streaked with blood, eyes fierce and searching for her through the haze. And in that heartbeat of stillness, Willie stood up, spat blood, and saw her too.

“You,” he rasped, a broken laugh spilling into the fog. “Took you long enough.”