Theron
The first mistake was inviting the tutor to dinner.
It's for Julian's sake, he'd told himself.
The boy was different lately. Actually smiling. Laughing, even. A sound Theron hadn't heard in so long he'd almost forgotten it.
And it was all thanks to the tutor.
"And Mr. Vale says the Romans had a special formation called the testudo," Julian was explaining, his voice full of excitement. "It means 'tortoise'! They would lock their shields over their heads so arrows just bounced off."
Theron grunted, his eyes fixed on the slice of roasted pheasant on his plate. He could feel Vale's quiet presence across from him.
"Isn't that clever, Uncle?"
"Very clever," Theron managed. Then, against his will, his gaze drifted to Vale.
Or, more specifically, his mouth.
Christ. That mouth.
He watched it move, watched the soft, full lips part as Vale lifted a glass of wine to them. He watched him dab the corner with a napkin gracefully.
Theron's hand clenched around his own glass, his knuckles turning white.
He wanted to know what that mouth tasted like.
He wanted to feel it give, to bruise it, to devour it.
Bile crawled up his throat.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
He was the Duke of Blackwood. These thoughts… they were filth. The kind of rot that destroyed men.
He threw back his wine. It burned.
"The craftsmanship is extraordinary, Your Grace." Vale said. He was gazing up at the dark, vaulted ceiling of the dining hall.
Theron's eyes snapped to his mouth as it formed the words. He was a fucking addict and that mouth was his drug.
"Tudor, I believe?"
Say something. Anything. Don't just sit there and stare at him.
"Sixteenth century," Theron said, his voice a harsh rasp. "The fourth Duke. Nearly bankrupted the family for it."
"A worthy expense," Vale murmured, his gaze still on the carved angels in the rafters. "To be connected to all the men who came before you. It must be a heavy weight."
"It is my duty," Theron said flatly. The word tasted like ash.
Vale finally lowered his gaze, and his eyes met Theron's with a quiet, unnerving understanding.
It felt like being seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.
And he hated it.
Theron drained his glass and signaled Barrow for more. The butler refilled it immediately and he drank again, deeply.
The wine was beginning to affect him. One more minute of watching that mouth, of feeling those eyes on him and he was going to do something unforgivable.
He had to get out. Now.
"I have work to do." He shoved his chair back from the table, the sound a loud screech in the hall.
Julian jumped, his fork clattering onto his plate.
Vale didn't even flinch. He just gave a slight inclination of his head. "Your Grace."
Theron strode out of the dining hall. He didn't stop until the door of his study was shut and bolted behind him. He leaned against it, his heart hammering against his ribs.
* * *
Finn
The dining hall was dead silent after the Duke rushed out.
Finn kept his eyes politely lowered, wearing an expression of mild concern. He counted to ten before placing his fork down.
Inside, he was laughing.
The Duke was coming apart at the seams!
He excused himself with a soft murmur to Julian and walked out of the hall, his posture straight, his steps measured and silent on the marble floor. He could feel Barrow watching him from the shadows.
The second he pushed through the door to the servants' passage, it was like coming up for air. He ripped the starch collar from his throat in relief.
He found Elsie in their spot, a damp, dark corridor behind the kitchen that smelled of rot. She was a shadow in her plain gray dress, blending into the stone.
Finn sagged against the wall, scraping a hand over his face as if trying to scrub Peregrine Vale off.
"Fuckin' hell, Elsie," he breathed. "Did you see his face?"
"Looked like he was gonna either throttle you or kiss you," she said.
A harsh, ugly laugh escaped him. "One or the other. Don't much care which."
"He just stares at my mouth when he thinks I'm not lookin'. Like a dog beggin' for a scrap. It's pathetic."
His expression turned to pure contempt. The great war hero, the powerful Duke, brought to his knees by a pretty face.
"What've you got?" he rounded on Elsie.
"Barrow doesn't see a thing," Elsie reported, her eyes darting toward the end of the corridor. "But the housekeeper, Albright… she's the problem."
"What about her?"
"Wrote a letter. To your last supposed employer. That vicar."
The one he'd invented.
The address was a dead end, a letter that would never be answered. It bought him time, but it meant the clock was ticking.
A cold knot tightened in Finn's gut, but he didn't let it show on his face.
"Let the old bat write her letters. It'll go nowhere. By the time she figures anythin' out, it'll be too late."
"Don't get cocky, Finn," Elsie warned, her voice dropping. He recognised the tone. It was the same one she'd used when they were kids starving in the workhouse, just before the overseer came around the corner. "He ain't some merchant on the docks we can roll for his wallet. This is different."
"It's no different," he snarled. "He's a man. He wants somethin'. I'm just gonna make sure what he gets costs him everythin'."
"That's what my Billy said," she whispered. The name hung in the air between them.
Billy, her older brother. Sent to the same war as Daniel and came back in a cheap wooden box a month before Daniel had stopped writing.
"He said they were all just men. Said the officers were soft. Then one of them soft men sent him over a ridge with no cover."
The memory hit Finn like a punch to the gut.
Elsie, standing in the rain outside their tenement, her face white, holding the letter. He'd been the one to put his arm around her, to hold her up while she sobbed. He'd been the one to whisper the promise. They'll pay, El. I swear on my life, they'll all pay.
He reached out and grabbed her arm. "This is for Billy, too. You know that."
Her face hardened. "Just make sure you don't forget why you're here, Finn."