The Duke of Sargen stumbled slightly as he meandered down the gravel path towards the hedge maze, stones crunching under his boots. The night was growing cold but his blood was warmed with whisky. Rather a lot of whisky, truth be told. This cursed house party would drive any man to drink.
Damn Lord Garvey, inviting them all, and then flirting with Judith right in front of him. Judith was a widow, for God’s sake, with Nicholas dead less than a year ago. Besides, if anyone was going to flirt with her, it was going to be Dacian. He had waited long enough. Damn Garvey for being a cursed lecher.
Even apart from the lascivious Lord Garvey, it was bloody torture, being so close to Judith and yet so far, after all these years. Seeing her day and night, yet knowing he couldn’t rush her. She was angry with him - again. They had fought yesterday in the greenhouse. Dacian smiled a little to himself, remembering how her hazel eyes had flashed with fury, and her pale cheeks had coloured. It was good to see some spirit enliven her. She’d seemed so lost after Nick’s death.
And Dacian couldn’t even blame her for being angry.
She was furious at both of them. For Dacian had helped keep Nick’s secret - how could he not? It was up to Nick to tell Judith about his bastard child. Dacian couldn’t whisper it in her ear. He had long ago resolved not to interfere in their marriage, even if it meant sleepless, agonising nights and too much whisky on too many occasions.
He heaved a sigh. The moon hung high above the gardens, round and full, and he slowed his steps as he entered the maze. The yew walls loomed around him, still and thick. Perhaps his time had finally come. Could it have been Judith who had written the note, directing him to the maze? He doubted it, but allowed himself a moment’s hope. She had said her piece yesterday; maybe now she would forgive him, and allow some closeness between them again. Maybe she would apologise for pushing him in the chest yesterday. He could tease her about it, and ask her to do it again, and capture her hands and draw her close…
No. It was much more likely Isobel who had written the note. If so, now was the perfect time to puncture any expectations that Lady Vosse might have formed. God knows he had already told her that it was over between them, last year, when Nick died and a secret, wretched hope had been born in his heart. Yet Isobel seemed determined to take this blasted house party as an opportunity to renew their intimacies.
Lord Garvey’s suggestive comments had not helped matters. It was almost as if he expected his guests to be debauched. He had set up this accursed maze like a satyric pleasure garden, with coloured oil lamps at intervals and dark corners in others. There were nude statues throughout, and various ribald displays. The Apollo alcove, where Dacian was headed now, was one of them: the stone figure of the god held his bow over his shoulder casually enough, but the quiver at his thigh was thrust at a suggestive angle. At certain hours of the day or night, its shadow cast an obscene silhouette. It was just the sort of thing that amused Lord Garvey’s vulgar tastes.
Unfortunately, it also meant that it was highly unlikely Judith had chosen the spot for a rendezvous. Unless she hadn’t noticed the erotic, shadowy double entendre? Dacian somehow doubted it. Judith might pretend to be calmly aloof from life, sedately retreating into matronhood, but he knew those ludicrous mobcaps hid a passionate nature. He could prove it to her, if she liked… He could think of several ways to do so, and they all ended with Judith naked and completely undone beneath him.
His blood heated at the thought of it but his footsteps were now quiet on the grassy path. A creature rustled through the hedge, but Dacian ignored it. He was almost upon the Apollo statue. Could Judith possibly be waiting for him, in the black gown trimmed with gold that she had been wearing earlier in the evening? Would she smile at him - wryly, warmly - and put her hand out to him? Forgive him? Maybe she would finally forget Nick. Could Dacian even ask it of her?
He didn’t care. He was goddamn tired of playing second fiddle.
And Dacian knew exactly how to make her smile, how to bring light to her eyes. That, in truth, was why he had stayed away. One didn’t bring light to the eyes of another man’s wife. Especially when that man was your best friend since childhood.
Stealthily, his heart beating fast, Dacian rounded the corner of the hedge. Then he came to a halt, startled.
Lord Garvey was in the Apollo clearing. His profile was to Dacian: his blond hair bare in the moonlight, his stocky, muscular legs planted wide, his hands on his hips. His expression was one of appreciation and ownership.
For an infinitesimal moment, Dacian thought the man was simply admiring the Apollo statute, or the obscene proportions of its shadow. Then he saw a woman leaning back upon Apollo’s stone calf, on the other side of the stone quiver.
Her gown was undone to her waist, the curve of her breasts exposed to the moonlight. Her neck was arched back, her face turned away to expose the delicate line of her jaw. Her hands were splayed on the plinth. She was opening her body to Lord Garvey’s gaze.
Dacian’s first thought was, of course, that it was Isobel. Then he saw that the woman’s hair glinted blonde, without the curl of Isobel’s russet red, and the woman’s curves were lusher than the viscountess’s slender form.
And the gown was black with intricate gold trimmings.
Lord Garvey said something, which Dacian could not make out. Something proprietary in tone, as he took a step forward, brushing a hand down his pale yellow waistcoat. He leaned the same hand on Apollo’s thigh. The woman lifted her head and looked at Garvey, her eyelashes fluttering open.
It was unmistakably Judith.
Dacian froze in place, his head swimming. Rage coursed through him, bewildering and painful. He could feel his power thicken in the air, volatile and eager. Then Garvey lifted a hand and placed it on Judith’s breast, leaning forward to kiss her neck.
Dacian leapt forward. “UNHAND HER.”
Lord Garvey pulled back sharply. He turned his head, but - insolently - he did not step away. Judith’s eyes widened in horror as they fell upon Dacian.
“Sargen.” Garvey’s voice was uneasy yet belligerent. “What are you doing here?”
“Do not touch her again.” Dacian bit out the words.
A faint swallow marked Garvey’s throat, but still he sneered. His hand stayed resting against the stone next to Judith, as if marking ownership.
“Back off, Sargen. She is mine now.”
Dacian lashed out with his Gift.
It was a violent, satisfying surge of power. The Impact grabbed Garvey and spun him round like a doll, flinging him aside. The quiver cracked off Apollo and shattered to the ground.
Garvey’s head hit the corner of the stone plinth with a thud.
A deathly silence followed. Judith was pale in the moonlight, her eyes darting from Garvey to Dacian. She fumbled with her gown, pulling it up. Dacian glared at her, betrayed and furious. How could she dally with that posturing ape, instead of him?
She turned and ran, into a corridor of the maze.
“Wait.” His voice was loud, but she did not stop. As she was about to disappear past the hedge, she turned briefly, casting one more terrified look back.
At the same time, Dacian thought he heard footsteps closer at hand. He spun round but saw no one in the clearing. When he looked again, Judith was gone.
He returned his gaze reluctantly to Garvey and strode forward. Yet at his brusque command to name his seconds, Garvey did not move. He was lifeless on the grass, face-down. Dacian leant in and shook him roughly.
“You damn scoundrel. Get up!”
The body was limp. Garvey’s head rolled back, his eyes open.
Dacian stared down. An awful sense of inevitability came over him. He looked round again, with the impression of being watched. Had someone witnessed his uncontrollable rage, other than Judith?
He knelt and put his fingers to Garvey’s wrist. The flesh was warm, yet no pulse beat through the veins.
“God damn it.” Dacian withdrew his hand, filled with hatred. “You damn well deserved it.”
Even as he said it, guilt surged through him. He hadn’t meant to kill the bastard. He had tried to temper the Impact, just enough to throw the lecher aside. It was confounded ill luck that Garvey’s head had met stone with such force.
Not ill luck. Ill judgement. And his own lack of control, let loose by his rage and jealousy, and the sight of Judith in Garvey’s arms.
Dacian cursed long and vividly, barely noticing the cold damp under his knees. Then he stood, feeling shaky and suddenly almost afraid, staring at the corpse at his feet. His mind was a little unbalanced from the exertion of his Gift, mixed with whisky, and his head was spinning. What the devil was he to do now? He already had two deaths to his name. They were long ago, it was true, but a third might be enough to hang him. Even if he was a duke. Especially because he was a duke. And if the law of the land didn’t fall upon his head, the Musor Custos might well do so.
He had misused his power. Again. This time, they might very well take it away from him.
For a moment, he considered going quietly. Then he scowled down at Garvey. The devil take it, he wasn’t going to let that cur’s death neuter him. He’d rather flee England and make his own way abroad for a while. What was left for him here, after all?
He turned to look at the place where Judith had disappeared, golden hair flying out behind her, and remembered her last glance of horror. He swallowed. The taste of spirits was now bitter at the back of his throat.
He should leave now, and quickly.
He left Garvey lying there, and went to find Biscuit.
Otherwise known as Lord Anthony Triskett, Biscuit was an old friend of Dacian’s from their school days. They had helped each other out of trouble before. Furthermore, Biscuit was one of the few who knew about Dacian’s Gift.
Although Biscuit himself didn’t have any Musing to speak of, his family tended to produce Travellors. It was hard to hide magic from a boy when his younger brothers would vanish and reappear right in front of him. So Biscuit had become accustomed to covering up his brothers’ misdeeds, and then, when he became Dacian’s friend, the duke’s.
Biscuit could help now, if only Dacian could find him.
He crept out of the maze, looking round warily. The gardens were deserted, the trees and shrubs flattened by moonlight. Despite the late hour, candlelight glowed from the drawing rooms and bedrooms. A cold breeze pulled at his cravat, which was already loosened by the night’s events. Biscuit was probably drinking and gambling with Lord Vosse and Kenneth. Dacian gnawed on his lip. Kenneth was Lord Garvey’s brother. How was he to pull Biscuit aside without alerting Kenneth to his brother’s death?
Luck was with him, however. As he trod up the terrace steps, Dacian saw a dark figure sitting on the ground, leaning against a pillar, smoking a cigar. The gleam of moonlight and embers showed the aristocratic features and slender wrist of Lord Triskett.
“Sargen.” Biscuit nodded amiably. “Join me? These French rolls are damn good.” He took a long draw of smoke.
Dacian’s shoulders dropped with relief at the familiar sight. “I can’t. I need your help. I’ve killed Charles Garvey.”
Biscuit’s eyes widened and he coughed violently. “You’ve what ?”
“By accident - I swear.” Dacian hesitated. “Well, I did mean him harm, but I didn’t mean to kill him. I flung him aside and he hit his head on a stone plinth.”
Biscuit stared fixedly. “Good God. You sure he’s dead?”
“Fairly sure.”
“ Dead dead?”
“Yes! I checked for his pulse. Snuffed out like a candle, from a paltry blow to the head, damn him.” Dacian sighed. “Now I have to leave the goddamn country.”
Biscuit’s mouth was agape, but he shut it at this. “You think you’ll hang? Good Lord, man. Surely not, if it was an accident.” He scrambled to his feet, grinding the cigar on the pillar, orange sparks spluttering to the ground. “I guess they won’t see it like that, will they?”
“No,” said Dacian bleakly. “Third time unlucky. Worse, the Musor Custos might hear of it.”
Biscuit grimaced. “Lord. What do you want me to do?”
Dacian jerked his head. “I can ride for Exeter and catch a boat, but I need your help to set the scene first. Do you still travel with your duelling pistols?”
Biscuit wasn’t one for violence, but he liked shooting wagers. He could be counted on to have his guns on hand for a gamble or a game. Yet his face fell. “Not this time, I’m afraid.” Then his expression lightened. “Garvey has a nice pair in his gun room. I could fetch them instead?”
Dacian grimaced but nodded. It seemed worse to shoot the man with his own pistols, but if there had been a duel, they might very well have used Garvey’s guns.
Biscuit vanished into the house while Dacian waited in the cold night. There was no sign of anyone about, not even the footsteps he had heard in the maze. A bird-bath gleamed, flat with the faint iridescence of moonlight, like an eye of judgement.
After a while, Biscuit returned, and Dacian led him into the hedges. Once they were out of sight of the house, Biscuit stopped and pulled a gun from within his coat and handed it to Dacian.
The steel landed heavy in his hands, weighted with what he about to do. The hedge maze loomed over him, suffocating. Yet it was far better that Garvey was found dead by duelling than flung by some mysterious power. Dacian had to fool the Musor Custos, and by doing so, sentence himself to exile.
Selfishly, Dacian knew he was also thinking of Judith. She might guess he had killed Garvey with his unfettered Gift, but she couldn’t know for sure. She had fled before Dacian had realised it himself. If he and Biscuit staged a duel, she might still think he had fought Garvey honourably after his slip of temper. Like a gentleman. God knew, she also disapproved of duelling, but at least it gave the other fellow a fighting chance. Not so if you simply pounded him to death with a magical, unseen Impact.
And then Dacian would leave to save her name. For if he was hauled before the courts, Judith’s reputation would be blackened by the scandal. He couldn’t do that to her, even if some part of him felt that she deserved it.
He always had been a fool for her. Even now.
Curse Judith to hell and back. This wasn’t the first time she had devastated his life. A black sense of despair swept through him.
Grimly, he made his way back to the Apollo alcove. Biscuit trailed behind, still muttering muted protests. Then the sight of Garvey’s crumpled figure silenced his friend. Dacian turned to face Biscuit, the statue of Apollo behind him, the stone quiver now truncated. Dacian curled his lip at the irony of the God of the Sun overseeing this wretched deed of darkness.
“Twenty paces away,” he rapped out. “Fire on the count of three.”
Biscuit frowned. “Shouldn’t we make it appear like suicide? We can leave your name out of it.”
“Someone was here. Two people, in fact. And I did kill him, Anthony. It is only right that people know it. I can’t consign him to a pauper’s grave, and his family to that kind of shame. He has a daughter, for God’s sake.”
Biscuit heaved a sigh, but obediently pulled the second duelling pistol out. “You always were a damned honourable sort.” He pointed the gun in the air, then lowered it again. “Will you use your Travelling charm to make it to Falmouth?”
Dacian glanced down at his topaz ring, the unusual blue appearing black in the night: a gift from Biscuit’s family. “There’s no point wasting it, when I can ride Gallant. I doubt anyone will give chase. I’ll be long gone by the time anyone makes it down here.”
“Very well,” said Biscuit. “Don’t stay away for too long. I’m sure it will all blow over soon enough.” He waved his gun casually, his thin shoulders hunched against the cold.
Gritting his teeth, Dacian wrenched Garvey’s body around so they had a clear shot. Grim horror spun through him, looking down at that lax face, ugly in death.
A short time later, the sound of two pistol shots rang out, shattering the quiet of the night, leaving Garvey with a convincing bullet wound through the heart.
Hands steady, Dacian worked his own gun in Garvey’s grip, then let it fall.
“Time for me to go.”
Hours later, his hands still stank of the old metal. The boat lurched in the pitiless emptiness before dawn, black waters churning around him. He was headed to France, where he would travel across land to Spain.
He wouldn’t return to England for another nine years.