An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 25.0. Survival Instinct

The two men, uncle and nephew, circled each other in the darkness, relying on their intuition, on training, on survival instinct. Over a decade had passed since they'd parried together in the salon, since they had chased ruffians through the streets of Soho for sport. The rules of correct swordplay neglected, they fenced relying on sheer reflex and physical strength. Once Benedic had struggled to impress his uncle with his fledging skill, hoping to earn a word of preys, a toast at the end of a lesson.

Now he fought with but a single goal, a fire that burned in his heart. To challenge the man he'd admired and who had betrayed their blood bond in the most coldhearted way imaginable.

He sensed, rather than saw, the moment when his uncle began to grow careless, to weary. Edward had lunged in a move known as the final thrust; Benedic had deftly twisted his trunk to the right to protect himself, anticipating the strike.

"Not bad, Benedic," Edward murmured, "but I have to ask, is this the best you can do?"

Edward's blade came out of nowhere, slicing a thin layer of skin at the base of Benedic's throat. The heavy spill of lace of his highwayman's costume probably deflected a deeper cut.

At any rate, it caught Edward off guard long enough for Benedic to balance for his own final thrust, ignoring the blood that trickled in a stinging rivulet down his throat.

Mercilessly he advanced, his body bent in a lunge. He could feel Edward's desperation now, his realization that he was overpowered.

"You were always my favorite, Benedic," he said, his breathing uneven.

"Your favoritism sent me to hell."

"It isn't too late-"

Benedic did not hesitate. Positioning his left foot forward, he attacked. He felt his blade bury itself in skin, muscle, the tendon of Edward's shoulder, heard the surprised curse that came from his uncle's throat. It was not a killing blow, but a disabling one. He stepped back, sweat burning his eyes, his arm lowering.

"For Sebastian. For Bernard. The authorities can decide what to do with you now. You must answer for your other crimes. Be glad I did not murder you. I considered it."

He stood in absolute stillness to reflect on what had happened. He had wanted to kill Edward. Something had stopped him at the last moment, a scrap of humanity left in his soul.

He heard a faint, unfamiliar disturbance from the heavy floorboards above. Edward dropped his sword and staggered back into the bony arms of the skeleton chained to the wall. The impact of his fall wrenched one of the manacles from its rotted beam.

Benedic lit a candle and gazed dispassionately at the macabre scene. Edward zagging to his knees, drawing the leering skeleton to the dirt with him. The sight sickened Benedic. All that had brought him to this moment sickened him. He had done what he had to do, and now he felt drained. He was desperate to escape.

He turned to the flight of steps, then paused at the peculiar noise that arose from behind. He glanced back, his gaze disbelieving.

As the skeleton swung free, there resounded the hollowed by a rusty hinge snapping loose from the ceiling.

"A trap," he said, and watched in detached horror as a wooden platform poured a crushing load of stones upon Edward's body. Dislodged chalk and mortar flew everywhere, filling the hole with billows of dust. It stung his eyes, clogged his nose as he hastened to flee for fear the whole damned vault would collapse.

The dust settled like a shroud on the scene below. The beams holding up the remaining walls seemed seemed stable.

Edward lay buried on the floor, crushed to death, his sword glinting in the dust. On the last step, Benedic slowed to bid his silent companion Baron Bones a final tribute.

"Well, we are both released at last, good friend, but it doesn't seem right to leave you in such an undignified pose. Not after we have shared so many confidences. At the very least you deserve a decent burial for listening so patiently to my tale of woe. It was what I promised you."

"That's where I come in." A shaft of light filtered down from the crevice cut into the wall; Finni stood peering down at his chalk-coated master with a relieved grin. "Looks as if you've a carcass that needs to be carried off, my lord."

Benedic glanced up in gratitude at the bruised face of his middle-aged Irish gamekeeper. "Finni, what perfect timing. Do be careful of the skeleton, won't you? The poor fellow has suffered long enough. As for my uncle, well, he is done inflicting pain."