Page 140 of The Duke's Dream
William stopped.
He approached slowly and crouched beside him.
"Easy," William murmured, and reached a hand through the bars.
Gently, he ran a thumb down Echo's head, and the bird stilled.
They stayed like that—man and creature—two forms of containment.
Echo tilted his head. "Who are you?"
William froze. The voice, in the nasal tone, affected him as if it came from a priest.
He looked into the bird's eyes, and something in his chest gave way.
Who was he, indeed?
He had spent his life controlling himself, keeping the beast inside himself in check. And forcing others to do the same. And where did it lead to? Did he do any good? Helene was gone. Badajoz would forever be a scar in the army's memory... but Farley.
Being the villain would be easy. All he had to do was return home. Let Thornley send in the Horse Guards.
William closed his eyes. The wind shifted around him. Somewhere in the distance, bells marked the hour. The raid would begin soon.
Echo didn't move—just blinked as if waiting to see what came next.
William stood, fingers curling into fists, then loosening again. He had made mistakes.
But there was still a choice in front of him.
ThecorridorswallowedWilliam'ssteps, the carpet muffling the sound beneath his boots. The air inside Mrs. Hill's house was heavy with lavender and lust, and the noise of men indulging their urges behind velvet curtains. Gilt-framed paintings lined the walls—nymphs writhing among vines, satyrs leering behind fans.
The house in King's Place had nothing of the fleshy bordellos of the last century. It catered to the aristocracy's need for private indulgence wrapped in public decorum.
Mrs. Hill grasped his sleeve.
"Your Grace," she simpered, lashes fluttering, "my lord is currently occupied—"
"I'm aware," William said, his voice low. "Don't interfere."
London's most infamous procuress wilted under the force of his stare.
"Of course, Your Grace."
William brushed past her and halted outside the second door on the left. Thornley had moved faster than expected—arresting Farley before William could intercept, advancing his chess piece with the confidence of a man who believed the board belonged to him. And now, if William intended to act, to do the right thing to protect the future, not the past, he would have to make a reckless move.
He turned the handle and stepped inside.
Firelight bathed the room in a sultry haze. Lord Thornley sprawled in the center of an enormous bed, shirt open, cravat discarded, a cut-glass tumbler of brandy rising and falling on the curve of his stomach. A half-naked woman rode him, her cries more artificial than her bleached hair.
"Out," William said.
The woman gasped, then gathered her chemise and vanished.
Thornley's expression passed briefly through confusion before settling back into practiced polish.
"Has Napoleon landed?" He tucked his robe closer and adopted the calm cadence of a seasoned orator.
William said nothing.
