Page 52 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)

At dawn on Christmas Day, Dorian came to call on Octavius to accompany him to Hampstead Heath.

They rode their horses in silence. Octavius had his father’s pistol right there with him—the only dueling pistol in the house. He’d never owned a set himself, having avoided anything that had reminded him of that dreadful Christmas.

Did he really believe one of his best friends would kill him today?

He didn’t know, but he knew Archibald needed satisfaction, and satisfaction he would give him—even if he didn’t feel any need to fight over Temperance.

If she had wanted Archibald—as much as it would kill him—he would give her that choice.

All he wanted was for her was to be safe, and happy, and free.

But her happiness wasn’t the only matter of consequence. There were the children to consider. Was he really going to go through with this duel? If he died, wouldn’t he be abandoning them? The images of them growing up alone, like he had, clawed at his heart.

Should he turn back? Forget his honor, refuse Enveigh’s madness, and cower yet again?

No. Octavius would finish it, once and for all.

He looked at Dorian’s sky-blue eyes, icy and sad, contrasting with his inky black hair as he watched the streets pass by, no doubt remembering countless times he’d driven to duels at this exact hour and location.

“Dorian,” said Octavius.

His friend looked at him. “What is it? Should we turn back?”

“No. If this ends badly for me… Will you and Patience take the children in as your wards? Raise them as your own?”

Dorian’s sharp features softened in pity. “Of course we will.”

Relief had Octavius sink back in the seat. “Thank you.”

When they arrived, dawn had crept across the sky, pushing back the winter darkness. Snow covered the ground, reflecting pink and yellow light as the late December sun finally rose. The morning was beautiful—quiet, fresh, with barely a whisper of wind.

Christmas Day had arrived. Temperance’s one and twentieth birthday.

Octavius wished he was waking up next to her, spoiling her with a private feast, showering her with jewels, exquisite gowns, and books on any scientific topic she wished.

Instead Enveigh met him, together with the rest of the Dukes of Sin, all of whom came despite knowing they would be left to pick up the pieces of their broken brotherhood, whomever the victor would be today. Luhst, Pryde, and Fortyne stood in the middle, all hoping to prevent bloodshed if possible.

They had shared so much over the years. All of them, when they had signed that credo years ago, had known it was written on paper, but it might have as well been welded in iron.

Kingdoms might rise and fall, London might burn in another fire, or someone might come wanting to take what was theirs—but their bond, their word to each other would be one absolute, one constant in this world.

No one could break the Seven.

No one—unless it was one of them.

Irevrence and Dorian checked the dueling pistols, as was customary.

“You will stand back-to-back,” said Dorian, the most experienced duelist of them all.

“At my signal you will walk twelve paces. Then turn and shoot. But before you do, once again”—and his thick eyebrows drew together with a dark gaze—“I urge you to reconsider. For over ten years, you’ve been friends…

no, brothers. Can you not forgive each other? ”

A year ago, Dorian talking of forgiveness would be like witnessing glaciers in Egypt. But his wife, Patience, had changed him into a man who was complete.

Octavius looked at Archibald, whose normally bright gray eyes were bloodshot as they squinted against the pale morning light.

His brown hair was windswept but greasy, and above his dark green greatcoat his face had the gray, pinched look of a man who’d drowned his sorrows in drink—something Octavius understood all too well.

“Dorian is right, Archibald,” said Octavius. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, we do,” Enveigh declared bitterly. “You broke the credo and took the woman who should have been mine?—”

“Look at yourself,” said Octavius. “Isn’t this what you always do? You always think everyone else has it better. You want what they have simply because it’s not yours.”

Archibald’s lip curled up in an expression of malicious rage.

“I know my flaws, but this? You truly didn’t need her.

I did. You ruined her, dishonored the woman who could have been my wife.

You couldn’t keep your dirty hands away from her.

You cannot stop yourself, can you? You’ve broken the credo twice.

You live for eating, drinking, and bedding women. Insatiable. Piggy .”

The snake bit, and somehow it was so much worse than when his father had said it.

He understood now what Temperance had meant; people you allow close can hurt you the most.

Archibald had been a friend. Octavius had shown him his tender side, trusting him just like the other five dukes.

That was why every word felt like a nail hammered into his skull. In the early days of their friendship, he’d shared the worst thing that had ever happened to him, why, since he was ten, he’d never eaten pork in his life.

He knew why Archibald had insulted him. It was done to hurt and anger him so that Octavius would not change his mind. So that he’d shoot.

And Archibald had been successful. Rage and hurt boiled deep within him.

Octavius nodded to Dorian. “Ready,” he barked. He understood now Dorian’s previously uncontrollable need for violence, to lash out, to do something to relieve this pain. There was nothing but this pistol.

He and Archibald stood back-to-back, Archibald slightly shorter and not as bulky as Octavius. The hurt in their friends’ eyes was obvious. They would never be the same again.

“March!” exclaimed Dorian, and they began their steps.

Irevrence was counting, “One, two, three,” and as Octavius walked, his mind raced. Was he truly ready to turn around and shoot at one of the people dearest to him?

Was he really going to murder him, or was he going to be murdered by Archibald? Never to see Temperance again, Margaret, James, and Sophie, all of whom filled his heart with love?

“—four, five, six?—”

Was he really a glutton, unworthy of all the good things that came to him?

“—seven, eight, nine?—”

Archibald had lashed out because he was hurt, like his father had—because he’d been hurt, not because it was true.

“—ten, eleven, twelve.”

Octavius stopped, and in that moment he knew he wasn’t the worthless glutton his father had told him he was.

He was a lost soul who had transformed thanks to Temperance, becoming the best version of himself.

He wasn’t a glutton anymore. He hadn’t had a drink in weeks, didn’t whore, didn’t gamble nor race horses.

He was a man in love.

The best version of himself wouldn’t shoot one of his best friends—a man who was hurting so much, he was ready to break their brotherhood.

“Turn!”

Octavius turned. There, thirty feet away, was Archibald, slowly lowering his pistol and aiming it at him. Octavius’s heart drummed in his ears. He was ready to die if he needed to, but he would never hurt his friend.

He didn’t lower his pistol. He shot it straight into the sky.

Crack!

The force of the shot slammed his shoulder down, the sound ricocheting through the air. A few spooked crows darted up from the trees, squawking angrily.

Archibald was holding his pistol straight at him, but he hadn’t shot…yet.

“I am sorry!” Octavius shouted, his voice echoing across the empty space between them. “Shoot me if you must, but I am sorry, Archibald. I am sorry I took your woman and ruined her. I love her. I truly do. I never used her. It was because I couldn’t resist her.”

Archibald roared and fired—another deafening crack, the acrid cloud of smoke filling the field between them. Octavius’s body jerked as, for a mere moment, he felt small and helpless, ten years old, the echo of the pain of his right shoulder as his father’s bullet grazed him.

But there was no more pain. No wound had been inflicted.

Archibald had shot, but missed—on purpose.

The shot echoed across the field, the frozen water, the trees.

Then there was only silence, and the wind in his ears.

Archibald lowered the pistol with an exasperated scowl. “Then what the hell are you waiting for, you oaf? It’s her birthday, the twenty-fifth! You know where she’ll be trying to get to today.”

His blood chilling, Octavius nodded. She would be at Mr. Barton’s office trying to gain her independence. “And where Langston and Lady Auster will be.”

And he’d be damned if he’d let her try to fight them alone.

Constantine’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry I haven’t said this before.

Modesty made me swear I wouldn’t say a word, but now you’re going there…

Yes, that is Lady Agatha’s plan. She’s been hiding at Grace Lockhart’s almshouse in Whitechapel and fully intends to claim what’s hers today.

My wife said the Misses with Microscopes wouldn’t let their fourth sister face her greatest adversary alone, so they must be heading to Mr. Barton’s office first thing in the morning. About now.”

Octavius’s heart leapt. She was alive, she’d been safe—and within a few hours, he’d be with her. “Let’s go,” he called, and all seven Dukes of Sin began to run.