Who is to say the child is even his? Pendleton had her first, or perhaps one of the stable boys. The room went dead silent. I didn't yell. I didn't need to.
I simply picked up the heavy leather-bound ledger I had spent the last 8 months bleeding over, walked across the room, and slammed it onto the small table next to Reginald's chair. The sound was like a gunshot. "You are speaking to the Duchess of Harwood," I said. My voice was a cold, flat void. You are standing in my house.
You are breathing my air. You will apologize or I will have the estate workers drag you to the property line by your hair. Reginald laughed. A high, desperate sound. You arrogant little.
He didn't finish the sentence. Nathaniel crossed the room. He didn't rush. He walked with a heavy, terrifying inevitability. He bypassed Reginald entirely, stepping to the massive fireplace.
He picked up the heavy iron poker. Reginald scrambled backward, throwing his arms up. Finch, you see this? He's mad. He's going to kill me.
Nathaniel didn't look at him. He shoved the iron poker deep into the burning coals, stirring the fire until it roared, throwing a fierce orange light across his scarred profile. He stood bathed in the heat of it, the very element that had destroyed his life. He did not flinch. He did not hide.
He pulled the glowing iron out of the flames and turned to face his cousin. I burned once, Reginald, Nathaniel said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in the floorboards. It took my skin. It took my family.
It nearly took my mind, but it did not take my teeth. He drove the iron poker into the stone hearth, embedding the tip into the mortar with a shower of sparks. This estate is mine, Nathaniel continued, taking a slow step toward his trembling cousin. This woman is my wife. Her child is my blood.
You have spent 5 years waiting for a ghost to die. I am not a ghost anymore. Get out of my house. Reginald looked at Nathaniel. He looked at the glowing iron.
He looked at me, standing cold and immovable by the door. He didn't say a word. He practically ran from the library, abandoning his hat and his brandy. Mr. Finch cleared his throat, his hands shaking as he gathered his papers. I have seen everything I require, your grace.