He spoke again, the gentleness of his tone stark with naked warning. “You’re young, Monteith. Although I applaud your dislike of Sir William and indeed, find myself amused at your wit in felling him, you must take care. I don’t think you stupid, my lad, so attend me carefully. Know well your victim before you lash out with your cutting words.”
“Victim, your grace? How oddly that word sets upon your shoulders. I see you in the light of the predator, without conscience, without remorse. You may be certain that I will indeed know the predator before I lash out. I do heed your advice, your grace, with only the minor adjustment to your character.” She saw the smooth line of his jaw harden, the twitching of a small muscle beside his mouth. He will strike me now, she thought, bracing herself. An arrogant man as he is will never tolerate such insults.
Lord Oberlon slowly replaced his snuffbox in his waistcoat pocket. He gazed down at the boy standing stiff as a young sapling before him, not with anger, but with tolerance. Good lord, had he ever been so young? So arrogant? So utterly certain that he was invulnerable? Yet there couldn’t be more than seven or eight years between them. He supposed that he must have once been as great a fool. Most young gentlemen were. Of course, there’d been no excuse for the greatest foolishness of his life, none at all. He said finally, his voice amused, “I find you tolerably entertaining, Monteith. But really, lad, you call me a predator? I can’t imagine how you come to that conclusion. It would appear to me that you have decided to number your years by willy-nilly insulting every gentleman who is unlucky enough to come into the sphere of your spiteful tongue. I doubt you are twenty-one yet. If you wish to see another year, you’d best mind your tongue and your manners.”
Hetty struggled to find words to push him to anger. She didn’t understand him. Why didn’t he take her by the throat and shake her? She managed more coldness, more disdain. “Nay, your grace,” she said, chin as high as it would go, “in your case, I don’t insult a gentleman, but rather a nobleman. Even with my few years, I know there is a difference, is there not?”
It was beyond what he would take. Jason grasped the boy’s wrist hard, twisting the bones, realizing as he did so that the bones were delicate, that he could break the wrist with just a twist of his hand. But he didn’t twist the boy’s wrist. He saw pain in the boy’s eyes, but he made no sound, merely looked down at Lord Oberlon’s hand, his look cold and dispassionate. Jason didn’t want to be impressed, but again, he was.
It was all Hetty could do to keep herself from crying out. His fingers were long and squared at the tips, overlapping about her wrist. I’ve succeeded, she thought, her elation overcoming the pain in her wrist. He jerked suddenly on her wrist, pulling her within inches of his face. He said softly, “I deplore bad manners and scenes, Monteith. You push me. On purpose. I ask myself why. Why, lad, do you do this?”
Damien’s name formed on her lips, but she bit it back. He deserved no explanation, not until she’d put a bullet through his black heart. As his lifeblood flowed from his body, then and only then would he know the reason for his death.
“Hey ho, Lord Harry, what are you about? Are you brewing some mischief with his grace? Don’t tell me, Lord Oberlon, that Monteith has false-carded you at faro? It’s impossible, he’s far too good a gamester. He never loses.”
Hetty bit her lower lip in frustration. Lord Oberlon dropped her wrist. He didn’t even bother looking at her again. She wasn’t important enough for more of his precious time. God, she wanted to curse at him, tell him he was a murderer, without honor, responsible for her brother’s death, and how she would kill him. There would be another time, she promised him silently, watching him turn into a bored gentleman as smoothly as a chameleon.