Theron
The mud clung to his boots. The rain was ice, hitting his face like shards of glass. And the blood… the blood was everywhere. It slicked the ground and covered the faces of the screaming and the dead.
A boy of about seventeen stumbled toward him, his face white with terror. "They've broken the western flank—"
A cannonball tore through the air, cutting short the rest of his words.
Theron felt nothing. He didn't even flinch.
He raised his saber and opened his mouth to give the order.
ADVANCE!
"Your Grace?"
Theron blinked.
The thunder of cannons faded. He was back in Blackwood Manor. Rain drummed softly against the tall gothic windows of his study.
Mrs. Albright, the housekeeper, stood before his desk, giving him a curious look.
She held out a silver tray with a letter on it. "A telegram from the Dowager Duchess, Your Grace."
His mother.
He took it without a word. He already knew what it said.
… the war is over... drinking too much… you cannot hide away forever… you need a wife... an heir…
He tossed the letter into a drawer without opening it.
"The tutor arrives on the afternoon train," Mrs. Albright said. "I have sent the carriage."
The tutor.
He'd completely forgotten.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Mr… Vale, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Mr. Peregrine Vale."
An intellectual man as the advertisement had stated. Someone to teach Julian Latin, Greek, philosophy and history. Someone to mold his nephew into the next Lord Ashworth.
"See that his room is ready."
She inclined her head and left.
Theron pushed back from his desk and walked to the window. His study overlooked the vast rain-soaked west lawn. He could see a small figure in the distance, standing under the drooping branches of a large tree.
Julian.
The boy was eight, but had the solemn eyes of an old man. He was holding a long stick, poking listlessly at a pile of wet leaves.
Julian's mother, Eleanor, had died giving birth to him. And his father, Theron's brother Reginald, had been taken by typhoid a year ago.
"Look after him, Theron. Promise me." Reginald's last words to him.
A promise he was failing to keep.
* * *
The tutor was late.
Theron stood before the massive, unlit fireplace in the great hall, checking his pocket watch again. He felt a flare of impatience. He hated being kept waiting.
The heavy oak doors groaned open. Barrow, the butler, stepped inside and bowed.
"Mr. Peregrine Vale, Your Grace."
Finally.
Theron turned, expression sour, ready to berate the tutor for making him wait.
He'd expected someone older. A dusty, spectacled academic. Meek. Forgettable.
How wrong he was.
The tutor stepped into the hall and Theron's reprimands died on his lips.
He was beautiful.
The kind of beautiful that belonged in a church window.
Angelic. Sinful.
He had thick ash-brown hair that fell over his brow in waves. Pale, perfect skin, with a smattering of freckles across his nose. And his mouth. . His mouth was soft, pink and full.
The tutor lifted his gaze and his bright hazel-green eyes met Theron's directly.
Theron's jaw tightened. He felt a sudden pull low in his gut. A raw, physical reaction he hadn't felt in years.
He crushed it immediately.
This was a weakness. An undisciplined reaction to a pretty face.
He was a Duke. A soldier. He was above such things.
"Your Grace." The tutor's voice was smooth as silk, the accent crisp and refined. He gave a respectful bow, his movements fluid. "Thank you for receiving me."
"You're late, Mr. Vale," Theron said, getting control of himself.
The ghost of a smile touched the man's lips. "My apologies. The train was delayed."
His lack of fluster was infuriating. Theron gave a curt nod to Barrow. "Fetch my nephew."
The butler disappeared.
Rain drummed against the stained-glass windows as the silence stretched.
Theron stared at the tutor, cataloging him. The coat was well-made but worn at the elbows. The boots were polished, but the leather was cracked with age.
Vale simply stood there, meeting his gaze, posture relaxed. Theron did not offer him a seat. He wanted this over with. Quickly.
Julian appeared in the doorway, a small, hunched figure, his blue eyes fixed on the floor. He clutched a small wooden soldier in one hand.
Theron's voice was clipped. "Julian, this is Mr. Vale. Your new tutor."
Vale moved forward and knelt in front of Julian, bringing himself down to his level. The gesture was so unexpected that it briefly disarmed Theron.
"A pleasure to meet you, Julian," he said softly. His gaze fell to the toy in Julian's hand. "Is that a soldier of the Queen's Guard?"
Julian's head shot up. He nodded, clutching the soldier tighter.
"I have a great admiration for soldiers," Vale said, his gaze flicking up to meet Theron's for a second. "They are very brave men. Perhaps you'll show me your collection sometime?"
Julian's face relaxed into a small smile. "This one is Captain Audley."
"An honor," Vale murmured.
Theron watched, his jaw tight. He saw the flicker of life in Julian's eyes, a spark he hadn't seen since Reginald's passing. The boy was charmed. Utterly and completely.
Vale rose gracefully and turned back to him, his expression politely neutral. "He is a fine boy, Your Grace."
"Mrs. Albright will show you to your room," Theron said, his voice harsher than he intended. "Lessons will begin at nine tomorrow."
With a courteous nod, Vale followed the housekeeper out of the hall, glancing at a young parlor maid as she scurried by.
Theron's gaze lingered on him until he was gone.
* * *
Finn
The second the door clicked shut, Finn sagged against it, dropping his 'Mr. Peregrine Vale, genteel academic' act.
He tore the silk cravat from his neck, the knot choking him. "Fuckin' hell." He threw it on the floor and kicked it.
He raked his fingers through his hair, mussing up the neat, perfect waves, wanting to feel like himself again and not some university-bred pretty boy.
He'd spent weeks building the character, stealing the accent from a washed-up actor in a pub, the mannerisms from a lord he'd once pickpocketed. It was a perfect lie.
He replayed the encounter in the hall. The Duke was exactly as he'd expected: proud, rigid, cold.
"Man's got a stick shoved so far up his arse, it's a wonder he can sit down," he muttered to the empty room, flopping down on the bed.
But he had seen the flicker in his eyes. The hunger. A crack in the armor. That was the weakness he would exploit.
The boy. Julian. He was the key. Winning the nephew was step one to gaining access to the uncle.
A soft knock came at the door. He froze, muscles tensing.
Two taps, a pause, then one more.
Elsie.
He jumped up and yanked the door open. The young parlor maid he had passed by earlier in the hall slipped inside, carrying a pile of linens.
"Well?" he demanded
"The old dragon, Albright, she's watchin' you. Been askin' Barrow if he knows anythin' about your last post."
"Let her ask. It's a dead end."
"The cook thinks you're the prettiest thing she's ever seen."
Finn let out a harsh laugh.
"And him? The Duke?"
Elsie grinned. "Couldn't take his eyes off you, could he?"
A slow, cruel smile spread across Finn's face. "This is gonna be piss easy."
He paced the room. "I need you listenin'. Any talk of the war. Scythia. Any names dropped, any stories. I want 'em."
He picked up the silk cravat from the floor. He hated this. Hated the soft clothes, the soft words, the whole damn lie.
But he had to do it.
For him.
For Daniel.