Page 7 of The Rake’s Absolutely Devilish Reform (The Notorious Briarwoods #4)

“T he puffed-up popinjay is dead,” Ajax stated.

“You need us to kill him for you, don’t you?” Zephyr added.

Hector drew in a long breath, then exhaled it slowly through his teeth. “Quite possibly,” he replied as he eyed Priscilla and Lord Fitzhubert dancing about the floor to a rather romantic allemande.

It was a bouncy dance, but it also required the gentleman and lady to be intertwined. He had not been a jealous sort of man before. He’d never had cause for jealousy. But the emotion traveling through his body at present was hot and white and crackling. It was definitely jealousy because, quite frankly, he wanted to march across the ballroom floor, rip Lord Fitzhubert away from Priscilla, and tear off the man’s hands and beat him with them.

It was completely irrational.

Hector had never felt animalistic in a violent sense. He’d always given over to love and reason.

All things must come from love, and one must use one’s intelligence, both emotional and mental and physical too. That was what his mother and father had taught him.

But at present, he felt as if all thought in his brain had completely vanished to be replaced by an emotion which ordered him to decimate his opponent. Of course, he would never do such a thing.

Or so he thought.

“It’s perfectly fine,” he bit out after a moment. “She’s dancing with the gentleman, and that is all.”

“No, it’s not,” Ajax cut in, outraged for him. “He clearly wants to marry her.”

Zephyr gave a nod. “Exactly. It’s written all over his face. And the way he’s holding her? Fitzhubert already considers her his.”

“Cease,” Hector growled.

“Why?” Ajax demanded.

“Because if you say it again, I’m going to murder him.”

“No, you’re not. You’re in far too much of an emotional state,” Zephyr declared.

Ajax and Zephyr exchanged a quick glance.

“We will handle it for you,” Ajax announced.

Zephyr nodded. “We’ll be far cleaner about it.”

The truth was his brothers had never actually killed anyone for him or the family. At least not yet.

He did believe they were capable of doing murder if such a thing was necessary. It was just that they had so many other tools. The three of them, over the years, had of course rearranged faces and other body parts too. They were all capable men.

They also had power and tactics and money to make certain that anyone who was causing their family difficulty or trouble, or difficulty or trouble to their friends, could be dealt with in an effective manner. It’s what they had done for Mercy when that idiotic Mr. Norris had showed up from America. The man was all the way across the world now, thanks to good coin and connections, never to be heard from again and on a ship headed towards parts unknown.

At this point though, with Fitzhubert holding Priscilla in his arms, murder sounded quite appealing.

It was very easy for one to die accidentally in London. There were so many choices: down an alleyway, down a flight of stairs, being found in the Thames. Bridges could be very tricky in the dark. For a gentleman who wished to make certain that another gentleman did not pop up again, there was a veritable buffet of possibilities.

There was, of course, dueling.

Dueling was more challenging. Dueling was chancy. And of course it was illegal, though people still did it.

Watching the two of them go about the dance floor was perhaps, shockingly, the hardest thing he’d ever done. And though many didn’t believe it, he had done many hard things.

She was smiling, smiling, at Lord Fitzhubert. She even laughed. And the two of them were moving about the floor with utter grace.

The only person he wished for her to be in union with was him.

“He’s perfect, you know,” Ajax observed.

“He’s not perfect. He’s a Fitzhubert,” Hector ground out.

“Yes, but to someone like Priscilla’s father, he is perfect,” Zephyr pointed out. “Don’t you know what her father wants?”

He frowned and shook his head. “Not exactly.”

“Old name, old prestige. Those are the only men that I think her father is considering.”

“Well, we’re those things,” Hector insisted.

Ajax let out a sound that sounded doubtful. “We are, it’s true, but we also come with other interesting things… Like mother.”

“And Fitzhubert’s family came over with William the Conqueror,” Ajax pointed out.

Zephyr nodded sagely. “Our family originates from an upstart mistress who had the good fortune to bear a king a son.”

Hector let out a sigh. It was true. As to his mother, he was not about to start apologizing for her or regretting her. She was one of the greatest things in his life. And frankly, one of the greatest things to ever happen to the ton. His mother was an asset, not a flaw, and he wasn’t about to start thinking so. No, his job would simply be to convince Priscilla’s father of the same.

And then the two stopped dancing.

Ajax and Zephyr pounded him on the back. “Come on then. Let’s go to the East End, sort you out, and have a few drinks and a few laughs with the ladies.”

“No,” he said. “I’m perfectly well as I am. I have other plans to deal with my situation.”

“Do you, by God?” Zephyr said before he gave him a sympathetic look. “You really are done for, old man.”

Ajax let out a sad sigh. “Turning us down for drinks. Bloody hell, you are already an old married man.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “I’m not yet and may never be. At least not to her. Not at this rate. And I bloody well don’t like this. These emotions are…”

“Unfamiliar?” Ajax supplied. “You’re so used to ladies falling all over you.”

“So are you,” Hector pointed out.

Ajax laughed and clapped him on the back. “It’s true, but I’m not trying to marry someone who doesn’t feel the same way about me.”

“She does. I’m certain that she does,” Hector said softly.

He could see it in the way she looked at him, the way her body moved towards his, but she wasn’t allowing herself to give in. She was a woman of duty, a woman of sense, and he admired her deeply for it. But it was going to be difficult. With that, Zephyr and Ajax gave him one last salute.

“If you need assistance in the burying of a body, you know where to find us,” Ajax said in adieu.

His brothers headed out into the hall for a night of revels.

Lord Fitzhubert led Priscilla off the floor to her chaperone, and much to Hector’s shock, Lord Fitzhubert honed in on him and began cutting through the crowd.

God’s teeth. The man really was coming over to engage with him.

“Fancy a drink, old boy?” Fitzhubert asked, though it was not a question.

Fitzhubert was a large man. It would not be easy to take him down. He wasn’t the sort of product of an ancient line that one usually came to expect. No, he had not been overbred. Somehow, the Fitzhubert family had managed to keep a great deal of their tenacity, even though they had lost all their wealth in recent years.

They’d managed to keep hold of their lands too, which was no small thing, given the fact that they’d held them for more than seven hundred years now.

“Lead on,” Hector said. After all, information was power. If he knew what Fitzhubert wanted and was about, he would be able to maneuver better.

He caught sight of Priscilla watching the two of them, a look of displeasure upon her face as she arched a brow and gave a tight shake of her head.

He gave her a slow smile, then headed off with Fitzhubert. He wasn’t going to cause any difficulty for her. He really wasn’t, but he wanted to know why Fitzhubert wanted this tete-a-tete.

Fitzhubert led him into one of the smaller rooms off the main ballroom, poured out two brandies into crystal snifters as if he owned the place, which he did not, and handed Hector one.

Fitzhubert swirled his own drink around as his gold signet ring winked. “Leave her alone.”

Hector nearly sputtered his brandy. He had not expected such a blunt, callous warning. “I beg your pardon?”

“Leave her alone,” Fitzhubert reiterated. “She’s marrying me, and I don’t want you to sully her reputation.”

“I will not sully her reputation,” Hector said.

“Good. I’m glad we have an understanding, and you will pursue her no further.”

Hector did not reply. And given the Latin maxim of qui tacet consentire videtur, silence was consent, he had to be careful. He did not consent. In fact, he longed to throw Fitzhubert across the room as far as he could.

But the truth was he didn’t wish to play his hand as of yet.

Fitzhubert cocked his head to the side, and his pomaded hair, which was perfect, did not move. Indeed, the man was perfect from the top of his head to the tips of his polished dancing shoes. “You quite like the lady.”

Again, Hector remained silent.

Fitzhubert narrowed his gaze and then his lips parted in astonishment. “You are serious about her.”

Hector inclined his head. There was no point in denying it. “I am.”

Fitzhubert took a surprisingly long drink of brandy. He appeared resigned. In fact, there was a touch of sadness to the man, as if he was on a path that wasn’t of his own making. “Look, Priscilla will want nothing to do with a gentleman like you.”

A strange sensation settled over him, and instead of expressing raw fury, Hector narrowed his eyes. “If that is so, why are we in this room?” he deduced, “You are afraid. Afraid she will pick me.”

Fitzhubert drew in a little breath through his nose, took a long drink, and scowled. “Afraid is not the correct word. Wary? Yes. Wary that you will get in the way of my plans.”

“To fix your moldering estates?” Hector interjected, though he knew it was a rather low blow.

“I do not deny it,” Fitzhubert said, lifting the now half empty snifter. “My father made terrible decisions. He gambled a great deal. I will not be making those terrible decisions, and I wish to put my family back on the right track. Priscilla’s family will help me do that, and I will give her father exactly what he wants. I don’t think you can say the same thing, can you?”

“My family is just as powerful as yours.”

Fitzhubert’s lip curled. “Yes, but you’re not the first son, and you do not have the sort of lineage and ancient gravitas that I do. I have family buried in Westminster.”

“You mean your family was gadding about on horses with long sticks, charging at each other? That sort of thing? They fought with William the Conqueror.”

“Exactly,” Fitzhubert said. “That is the sort of thing that her father is looking for. You have only been around since the Stuarts. It’s not nearly as impressive.”

Fitzhubert was not wrong.

But still, to be made to feel as if Hector was somehow less interesting because his family had only come to power a few hundred years ago was rather ridiculous and amusing and sad.

“I’m not going to leave her be just because you’ve told me to,” Hector declared.

Fitzhubert’s nostrils flared, and he gazed with disdain. “You do seem a stubborn sort. I was afraid you might say as much.”

“And what are you planning to do in return?” Hector asked.

“Don’t play games with me, boy,” Fitzhubert barked, that dark sorrow seeming to rise again as if he had faced pain and been changed by it. “I know how to win.”

Hector merely raised his brows. He was no fool. Nor was he a boy. He hadn’t been for more than a decade. And he wasn’t about to get into a game of words with this man. No, one didn’t do that sort of thing if one wished to truly win. One didn’t warn people that they were going to attack. One simply came at their enemy in the dark. Without warning.

Some people liked fair fights. Hector was not one of them. Because no fight was actually fair. Even with rules.

Fitzhubert’s hand tightened on his snifter, making his knuckles white. “She’s going to be my wife. You’re going to leave her alone, and you’re going to stop asking her to dance because it causes people to talk.”

“And you’re afraid of a little talk?” Hector drawled.

“She is,” Fitzhubert said softly. He placed his empty brandy glass down on the mantel, turned on his booted heel, and strode from the room.

Hector gripped his own snifter, and a dose of fury throttled through him because, as much as he hated it, Fitzhubert was right.

Priscilla was afraid of people talking. She didn’t have that devil-may-care attitude that he and his family had because very few could afford to have it.

Certainly newcomers to the ton couldn’t, unless they were exceptionally bold.

It drove him mad that Fitzhubert was right about so many things. He wanted to be able to throw Fitzhubert’s words in his face, but he could not.

The man was infuriating. But there was something not quite right about him too. There was a hint of desperation under all that ancient privilege.

And there was really only one thing to do when one was infuriated, and it wasn’t to go back into the ball and potentially make an utter fool of oneself in front of the lady one was determined to have.

And he was determined to have her. Perhaps he was mistaken about his feelings. Perhaps he didn’t love her. Perhaps she wasn’t the one. Perhaps he was making a great mistake, but he did not have time to find out.

Fitzhubert was going to marry her.

And in Hector’s mind, he was certain the man was now going to act swiftly.

Hector could not take his time to court her slowly. No, he would do things the Briarwood way. With conviction and without apology.

Besides, he had to act, or he might lose the greatest thing of all. Which meant he had to handle his anger at Fitzhubert so that he could play this game sensibly. So, instead of going into the ball, he would head to the south of London, to the only man who could sort him out.