The Hidden Blade by Sherry Thomas Page A

unpleasantness.”
    He took the decanter and the glasses from Leighton and set them down. “I’ll get dressed. Let’s go for a walk—the inside of my head still rings a bit. And then after dinner we’ll talk to your father again.”
    Herb was dismayed, but not afraid yet. “You should be careful too,” said Leighton. “When Sir Curtis said he would send Father to an institution, he also said he would send you to prison.”
    Herb started. “He can’t do that.” And then, in a smaller voice, “Can he? That would be downright barbarous.”
    But Sir Curtis
was
barbarous. That was why Father feared him. That was why, when he came to visit, Mother tried to pass herself off as a simple woman with nothing on her mind but her children and her charities.
    “I think you should take Father and leave the country,” said Leighton.
    Herb stilled, a glass of whisky raised halfway to his lips. “What?”
    “He is too afraid of Sir Curtis to protect himself, so we must protect him—by making sure Sir Curtis cannot get to him. People go overseas for their health all the time, don’t they?”
    Herb hesitated. “I will if that would help matters. Would he come?”
    “I think he’ll do anything to not go back to an asylum.”
    Herb bit his lower lip, then nodded slowly. “You might be—”
    A shot ran out, cutting Herb off—a shot that sounded as if it came from the direction of Father’s rooms. Herb turned to Leighton, his face pale. “Was that…was that a firearm going off?”
    Leighton couldn’t speak—it
had
been a firearm going off. He could only stare at Herb.
Don’t! Don’t even think such thoughts. Father wouldn’t. He couldn’t do such a thing.
    “Why don’t you stay here?” Herb said, his voice shaking. “Stay right here.”
    But Leighton couldn’t. He followed two steps behind Herb, who shuffled, as if sleepwalking, toward Father’s rooms.
    Already Mr. Mims and a footman were racing up the stairs. Mechanically Leighton held out a hand. They stopped on the steps, regarding him uncertainly.
    “Is everything all right, Master Leighton?” asked Mr. Mims.
    Leighton did not answer.
    Up ahead, Herb had his hand on the knob of Father’s door. His lips were moving. It looked as if he were calling Father by name, but no sound emerged.
    Or was it because Leighton could not hear anything over the upheaval in his own head? He was almost at Herb’s side when Herb, with a grimace, at last pushed the door open.
    Immediately Herb recoiled. A fraction of a second later his hand came over Leighton’s eyes. Leighton pushed it away.
    Just beyond the door was the sitting room of Father’s apartment, where he was slumped over the writing desk. Leighton knew a moment of intense relief—Father was tired, that was all.
    Then he saw the blood on the wall behind, the blood that pooled beneath Father’s head, the blood that fell, drop by drop, onto the floor beneath the desk.
    Someone tried to restrain Leighton. He struggled, shoving his elbow into that person’s side, only faintly registering the pained cry as Herb’s as he freed himself and ran to Father.
    Father’s eyes were open, an almost surprised expression on his face. In his hand was an ivory-handled dueling pistol that had been in the family at least a hundred years. It still smoked faintly at the muzzle, the tang of gunpowder as overwhelming as the scent of blood.
    A note sat on top of a stack of books, the ink not quite dried yet.
I am sorry. I am so sorry. But I cannot go back to an asylum. I cannot. I am sorry.
    Leighton thought it was Herb whimpering in anguish. But it was him, making half-strangled noises in his throat, not wanting to understand what happened, but unable to keep a rising horror from swamping him.
    He stumbled backward until he was stopped by a wall. And from there he sank to the floor, his hand clamped over his mouth.
    He was wrong.
This
was what the monks must have felt when their monasteries had been torn down: despair and utter