Page 48 of The Duke's Dream
“Society must uphold its morals. Such punishments deter behaviors deemed unnatural.” He spoke the words in a passionless staccato as if they had been ingrained in him.
Helene sucked in a breath. “You don’t believe that. You cannot believe that.”
The cart teetered and then toppled over, spilling the prisoners onto the cobblestones.
The crowd—a pack of frenzied wolves—descended upon the poor souls. Rotten vegetables and vile insults flew, striking the men with sickening thuds. Their desperate cries mingled with the jeers, creating a cacophony of human malice. Helene could scarcely breathe, her feet rooted in place. The sheer brutality of the scene—the inhumanity—left her aghast.
“Do something! The Silent Sovereign should do something.”
William’s expression became thunderous. “Yes, he should, and he will—get you out of here.”
He caught her arm and Celeste’s, pulling them away from the fray.
But the shouts—so loud, so full of hate—fractured something inside her. Flashes slammed into her—a different street, a different crowd, the thundering rhythm of the Carmagnole blaring as her father was dragged away. Cold sweat drenched her temples.
That had been then. These were not her people.
No one had saved her father. No one had stood between him and the mob.
Twisting free of the duke’s grip, she surged toward the cart.
She barely heard him shout her name. Her legs trembled, breath ragged, but she pushed through the crush of bodies. A cabbage struck the prisoner’s face. Laughter exploded around her.
Not again, her mind screamed. Not again.
Just as the Horse Guards burst into the chaos, iron hooves clanged against the cobbles like war drums. Screams swelled. A stallion surged toward her—a wall of muscle and fury, its nostrils flaring, eyes wild.
Helene stepped in front of the younger prisoner.
The world blurred. Her pulse roared in her ears.
The guard raised his whip—high, merciless, gleaming in the smoky light.
She braced for the blow, arms curling over her head.
Out of the chaos, a shield appeared. The duke moved like a soldier charging into cannon fire, thrusting himself between her and the oncoming blow.
The whip struck him square across the shoulder.
The impact sent him staggering. He tumbled off the curb, crashing to the ground.
Helene shrieked. The crowd vanished. The prisoners, the guards, the riot—it all blurred. The Duke of Albemarle was down. Because of her. She had orchestrated this entire spectacle—and now he bled for it.
Like a column of stone, he forced himself upright, jaw clenched, coat hanging from one shoulder. His gaze locked on the guard still astride his horse.
“You will return the prisoners to Newgate,” he barked, voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “And the pillory ends now.”
The guard hesitated. “Orders came from—”
“Obey,” the duke growled. “Or I will ensure His Royal Highness the Duke of York hears precisely why his cavalry refused the command of the Duke of Albemarle.”
The man’s face paled. With a stiff nod, he turned his horse and began shouting orders to the others.
Helene darted to William’s side. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, though his breathing was shallow, and blood already soaked his sleeve. “You cannot stay here. We need to get off the street.”
Helene slipped her arm around his waist to steady him. “My building—it’s close.”
