Page 76 of The Duchess and the Beast
“A change of plans?” Justine whispered apprehensively.
“I’m glad you said it,” Prescott concurred. “The stables do seem a more likely holdout. But why the delay? Would we not benefit from numbers?”
“We do not know what awaits us inside. It is plausible they are expecting me. They arenot, however, expecting the two of you. If I am to walk into a trap, I need to know that you two are still free to act.” He looked at both men, making sure to meet their eyes so he could confirm they were with him. Lord Prescott nodded firmly, his resolve clear; his readiness was beyond question. Justine was less giving, offering a vague scowl and a nod of the head; nowhere near as keen to be here but knowing that if he ran off, he would have to deal with Sebastian come tomorrow. “And remember, whatever happens, Virtue’s safety is paramount.”
Justine opened his mouth. “What if—”
“Virtue’s safety is paramount,” Sebastian interrupted sternly. “That is your primary concern. No matter what befalls me, ensure her safety first. Understood?”
Justine sighed but nodded his understanding. Lord Prescott offered a firm, commanding nod which told Sebastian that at the very least, he would heed his orders. The man’s face was still bruised from the thrashing he had received just hours earlier, and Sebastian almost felt a twinge of guilt at it.
“Good. Now, gentleman, I shall see you on the other side.”
With those parting words, Sebastian turned and began his cautious approach along the path, melding into the shadows cast by the night's dense darkness. His knees were slightly bent, his steps meticulously silent. If he was lucky, he would be in and out before either Simon or Ralph knew what was happening. But if luck was not on his side, and they were expecting him...
The betrayal by Simon was now undeniable. Why he had chosen such a vile course of action, Sebastian could not fully comprehend. He had believed Simon and Ralph to be his comrades. They had shared battles, had been inseparable for over a decade. And Jasper—Sebastian had considered him akin to a brother. Did that not mean anything to Simon? Evidently, it did not.
The reason behind their treachery didn’t concern him for now. Sebastian’s sole focus was the safety of Virtue.
It was a moonlit night, which made his approach to the lone-standing barn rather simple. Sticking to the trees and shrubs for cover, he considered rounding the front but decided instead to veer towards the rear at the last moment. Crouching low, he moved swiftly to a window on the back wall, his saber ready in hand, his heartbeat steady. It was a strange thing, feeling as calm as he did. The rage was gone. The anger too. He was back on the front lines, his mission clear, his goal singular.
But that calm was quickly shattered by a scream.
Virtue's voice, fraught with despair and pleading, cut through the stillness of the night.
“Please!” he heard her cry from inside the barn. “You needn’t do this!”
The sound of Virtue's voice, laced with unmistakable fear, shattered the last remnants of Sebastian's forced composure. Right then, he nearly surged to his feet to jump through the window in a reckless attempt to save her. But the chilling sound of laughter halted him—the laughter of Simon Wellington, a man he once considered a dear friend.
“We are well past begging,” Wellington’s muffled chuckles reached him from within the barn. “I suggest you make peace, Your Grace. It would not do for you to die in such a state.”
“I hope you perish!” she screamed at him. “I hope Sebastian finds you and tears your throat out with his—argh!” Her cry of pain echoed sharply through the night, the sound of a harsh slap driving Sebastian to clench his fists in rage and strike them against the ground.
“I am done with you,” Wellington sighed wearily. “Ralph. Gag her, please. Her floundering is sapping all the joy from this.”
Slowly, and with great effort, Sebastian steadied himself and peered through the window, mastering his impulses so he did not rush in unprepared. Inside the barn, the scene was grim. Virtue was bound to a chair in the center, terror evident even from a distance. Simon loomed over her, a grotesque smile of satisfaction on his face, while Ralph moved quickly to silence her cries with a rag.
“Why, you ought to be thanking me,” Wellington's voice carried clearly as he addressed Virtue. “If I were truly the monster you so accuse, I might indulge in prolonging the affair. However, I choose instead to grant you a small kindness—a swift, merciless end. It is the least you deserve.” In his hand, he brandished a pistol, methodically loading it as he spoke. “You shan’t feel any pain, I promise you. A shame I cannot promise the same for your husband.”
Time seemed to slow as Sebastian's old battlefield instincts reawakened. A mere fifteen feet lay between him and where Wellington and Ralph stood. Ralph was without a firearm, yet a knife hung from his belt. Loose, easy to dispatch of if necessary. Wellington, engaged in the precise task of loading his own pistol, needed only a few more moments—a commodity of which there was little left. For now, he was unarmed for all intents and purposes. If only Sebastian could delay them a little longer for the arrival of Prescott and Justine... But time was a luxury he no longer possessed.
The decision was upon him: it was now or never. So Sebastian acted.
With a burst of energy, he leaped to his feet and hurled himself through the window. He landed hard on his shoulder, but skillfully broke the fall into a roll, springing to his feet in one graceful motion. Even before he stood fully, he noticed Ralph and Wellington—both former soldiers with equally sharp instincts—acknowledging his sudden entrance.
“You!” Wellington called out in surprise but not shock. His hands never once faltered—they continued their methodical work on loading the pistol.
In that crucial moment, Sebastian made his choice. To his left, Ralph reached for the knife at his belt. To his right, Wellington had almost finished loading his pistol. Braced for impact, Sebastian let out a roar, reminiscent of a lion prepared to pounce upon a gazelle, and charged full tilt at Simon. Wellington, taking a quick step backward, lowered his pistol, aimed, and—
But Sebastian collided with Wellington an instant before the trigger could be pulled. The pistol was sent flying, as was Wellington, who seemed to weigh next to nothing—his body hurled through the air and crashed against a beam with such force that it reverberated through the barn. However, Sebastian did not pursue him. Instead, he executed a fluid turn, saber on guard, just in time to intercept Ralph's incoming knife.
The clash of sharp metal rang out as Sebastian, employing both his strength and his fencing prowess, parried Ralph's shorter blade, throwing him off balance. The man faltered only briefly—a brief yet sufficient window for Sebastian to seize him by the knife-arm and deliver a bone-snapping blow with his elbow onto the man’s forearm.
“Argh!” Ralph’s outcry filled the air as his arm fractured, the knife clattering to the ground, followed swiftly by a punishing strike from the pommel of Sebastian's saber to his face. He dropped to the floor in a heap.
Adrenaline coursing through him, Sebastian's senses only sharpened. He spared not a glance at Ralph's passed out form as he pivoted once more, his gaze sweeping the area for Wellington, who he was sure would still be flat on the ground. Only... he was gone.
“Not so fast, old boy...” Wellington had somehow managed to reclaim his pistol and step around the scene, putting both Sebastian and Virtue in his eyeline. He stood back by ten feet—ten feet to Sebastian’s left, ten feet from Virtue’s right. “That was a narrow escape,” he chuckled nervously. “I had almost forgotten your swiftness, Greystone. For a man of your stature... remarkably agile.”