freedom or loneliness?

[ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐎 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓      𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐓 . . .                           𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐌 𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒?

Goodness, LORD ATTICUS ‘KIT’ THORNE, VISCOUNT DARTFORD has arrived in London. HE is 31, of the CANTERBURY THORNES. Though they are NEW to the Season, we can only describe them as CURIOUS and CHARISMATIC, dear reader. Accompanied by HIS SISTER, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their PRIDE.

sarah-st-john​:

Crowds and coats and now, “Whatever happened here?” 

For there must have been a group of overly enthusiastic guests, who, in their excitement, must have knocked over… something, such that there was now a mess of broken pottery and ceramic shards in the corner, behind the intimidating bronze statue of the crocodile guarding the entry. 

“Oh, botheration.” A moment, and then, taking a deep breath, “Tom, please go fetch someone to clean this up, and bring a string or ribbon? We must keep this place off-limits, or other guests might injure themselves, oh! These broken bits will go right through a dancing slipper.”

Looked up and her eyes widened at the two gentlemen, one of whom looked very familiar indeed. “Oh! It is – I mean, I have never seen either of you before, but welcome to the party. Could I ask that you keep away from that corner behind the crocodile? Only it is all over a mess, and it will be cleaned up in a trice!” 

With that, she herself quit the room; perhaps she had a length of cord that would suffice?

[OOC: There is a mess in the corner that, despite Sarah’s warnings, might warrant a second look. Or will you stay away instead? Roll for round two and reply here, before posting link in the Discord.]

[Guest] / Invite No. 9 / Entryway / Roll: 6 [Guest @thornedrook​ ] / Invite No. 1 / Entryway / Roll: 5

Raising his eyebrows, William wondered exactly how the young woman that he was going to steadfastly insist that he did not recognize, happened to be acquainted with Effingham. It was likely best that he didn’t know, but William still stared her down until she left.

Glancing at the mess, William wondered if Dartford’s statue was once in that corner, but wasn’t anymore. It wouldn’t do any good to have it roped off before it was checked, which meant that there needed to be a different, more pressing matter for their hosts to attend to. Taking a few wandering steps away from Dartford, his cane clunking as it hit the floor, William looked at his surroundings. People busy searching for their items, not paying attention, perfect.

As one man came rushing through, William casually pushed his cane out and tripped the fellow, who didn’t fall, but instead went cartwheeling across the room, hitting the opposing wall with a solid thunk that dislodged a mirror. The mirror fell, knocking down a shelf and hitting the corner of a low table before hitting the ground, shattering on impact as the poor man who tripped jumped back and finally, finally fell, landing on his posterior.

“Oh, dear,” William murmured lazily to himself before moving over to help the man up, but the man, upon seeing the cane, waved him off.

“Well, since you’re down there, do you want to check if anything is hidden under the table?” He asked instead, using his cane to point. Hopefully Dartford was taking advantage of this.

Kit recognized Sarah instantly as Effingham’s ward, and also the woman who’s letter had been delivered to his address by accident, of which he subsequently read and resealed. He nodded at her, acknowledging her request and fully intending to abide by it.

Hastings, however, had other plans. It all happened so quickly it took the Viscount several moments to register the scene before him. Will’s cane sticking put, wedging itself perfectly beneath the shoe of an unfamiliar man as he went flying across the room, shattering a mirror on impact. Kit’s jaw fell open, his head snapping over to the Baron in disbelief. 

They’d managed to avoid wrecking havoc for a total of 5 minutes, he presumed, which he was beginning to believe was a new personal best. “By God, man,” Kit muttered as all eyes turned to the new scene, distracting from the shattered mess in the corner. And then he caught Hastings eye, and it clicked, and Kit could not help but... laugh.

[Guest] / Invite No. 9 / Ballroom / Roll: 3 [Guest @thornedrook ] / Invite No. 1 / Entryway / Roll: 6

Checking again what item he was searching for before casting his eyes around the room and the other item hunters, William tightened his grip on his cane before stalking out. Absolutely not. From the Ballroom back to the entryway, he briefly caught sight of Catherine, but didn’t approach her, eyes snagging on someone else entirely. “Dartford,” William announced, fingers curling around the man’s arm to prevent him from getting away. “Distract me before there’s a body to be found tonight. What are you searching for?” Even as he said it, William was trying to read over his shoulder, but it didn’t matter because they needed to search anyway. Releasing Dartford, William moved towards a very large vase to peer around it.

Dragging Dartford off could certainly be arranged, but, in a show of tact, he didn’t say so as he continued to row through the still water, the breeze dying down before picking back up. “Absolutely not,” He said instead once Dartford asked about Effingham. Really, there was nothing to say. Except…

Pulling the oar rather aggressively through the water, William turned and managed to get as far as saying, “Actually, about that -” Before the boat jerked, a cracking noise sounding from below as cool water began to pool into the bottom of the boat. In the distance, a horn sounded, signaling the end of the hunt. Completely forgetting about Effingham, as was wise, William sighed, and then turned to sky as he calmly swore over their predicament.

As the boat picked up speed, Kit relaxed his back against the side, his head tipping up towards the sun and eyes closing. Content, for the first time during this trip. Kit was curious enough to ask, but not enough to push or pry. There were ways to acquire information without such means after all, if he were really desperate.

Crack.

A jolt.

A horn.

Silence.

“If you expect me to believe that you’re injured, I would do far more than tackle you.” William said idly, the threat carrying no heat. There was enough gratitude inside of him that he didn’t mind rowing and if their current luck in making shots was to be taken into account, it would be best for Dartford to handle the shooting - proving he didn’t try to take a nap and dream up a target that didn’t need to be shot at in the waking world, of course.

“If I’m rowing, that means I decide where we’re going. Which is to the other side, so don’t get too comfortable.” It was the only warning that Dartford would get as William saw that they were pushed off from shore before introducing the oar to the water once more. Slicing evenly through the depths, William pointed them directly across the way, eyes fixed on a particularly interesting tree.

Kit realized the mistake that he’d made by getting into this bloody boat almost immediately. His head snapped towards Will, eyebrows laced together. “I am not getting off of this boat unless you bloody drag me, Hastings.” He shot him a warning glance before taking a moment to reload his gun, eyes scanning the horizon. 

adelsonjacobs​:

baronwillliam​:​

“The woods are nice,” William muttered without any intent of being heard, closing up the flask and slipping it into his own pocket for the moment since apparently he and Dartford shared things now. Or maybe he just understood that a good, strong drink was needed when it came to dealing with certain people. Maybe he should be proud of Dartford for not taking a swig directly in front of the king, come to think of it.

“We didn’t scatter well enough.” William took in their surroundings with an expectant gaze. The wind appeared to be picking up, the breeze causing the trees to rustle as the cry of birds carried across the water to them, and William hummed before reaching into his coat to retrieve Dartford’s flask and hand it over. 

“The way I see it, we have three options. Cross to the other side of the river, allow the river to carry us away to a different point to disembark, or don’t bother with the boat - but the larger of a party there is, the more noise we’ll make to scare away the game. Smaller parties are better.” In other words, Will did not want to team up. “Perhaps we should switch, you two on land while Dartford and I take the boat since he seems so keen on water travel now.”

@adelsonjacobs​

After hills, meadows, water, constant disparagement and now, from their new compatriots, no promised deliverance of Lord Halifax, Adelson’s brittle patience was nearly entirely withered away.

There was no room for careful nuance, only frustrated extremes. He was too hot, too tired and too irritated to appreciate the levity in Lord Thorne’s tone. The suggestion that being paired with the Earl was a trial grated at him. An objective observer might have pointed out that Adelson had done very little to suggest that it wasn’t, to which Adelson would have been prepared to reply that it was quite different when he was churlish with Lord Effingham.

“I quite agree with Mr. Hastings,” Adelson said cooly. “Smaller parties are better, and I find I much prefer my current one.”

“Jove,” Adelson said sharply, with the prim command of a Duchess. The dog sat at attention, for the first time looking the part of a hunting hound (save his nose, yellowed with pollen from sniffing at a patch of buttercups.)

Some failings could be overlooked.

He nodded North, along the shoreline. It was counterproductive to stake out in the same direction the other gentlemen had come, but this path would keep them close enough to woods as to hopefully yield results.

“Lead the way.”

@ixnay-on-the-ipshay

-

He stared in some bemusement as Dartford swanned right past them all – had ensconced himself with a-a flask and a quip, even as Hastings laid out, hrm, options. 

“Good God, Hastings – lighten up; this is-is no campaign in need of-of strategy. Having just come from the water – as I had just said –” the last bit aimed at the viscount who had-had hailed them as if he was in a hackney for hire and they the driver and horses both, “– I should prefer to have my try at the-the woods, now that you both are so-so generously quitting it.”

Damme it, did this mean he was – agreeing with Mr. Jacobs? A glance over his shoulder confirmed it, along with Jove’s status as either easily duped or a fickle traitor – sitting primly at the other man’s feet, tail thumping. 

Best not to think too much on it. 

He gave Dartford and Hastings each a nod – shouldered his own rifle – and gestured ahead. “Godspeed to you both – the boat lists terribly to one side and-and has only the one set of-of oars, mind you; we shall be off. Mr. Jacobs, we should follow along the banks upstream – less chance of us getting turned in-in circles.”

Once they had gone far enough that he judged they were out of-of hearing distance, he added in an undertone, “Poor Hastings; given Dartford’s state – I wager Hastings will be the fellow manning the oars for them both. Rather – dubious that they say they have not run into anyone else, however; my prior visits did not indicate Cliveden being quite that expansive an estate.”

@adelsonjacobs​

Kit did not want for the company, only the boat, which he had not asked permission to board before settling comfortably into. “So long, gentleman!” Kit called happily, granting them both a wave despite Jacobs attitude. He found it confusing, and rather unwarranted but, opting to be the bigger person, chose to ignore it. His friendly wave and cheer was for Effingham, who he now wished luck over everything else.

His smile for Will said I told you so. “See, Hastings! We both get what we want.” He leaned against the side of the boat, arms crossed across his chest and gun in his lap, appearing to have no intent to row. “I fear that you injured my arm when you tackled me,” he lied. “You row, I’ll shoot.”

adelsonjacobs​:

baronwillliam​:​

“I think you’ve lost your mind!” William hissed sullenly and then, more quietly, “He’s certainly my enemy.” Not having forgotten their previous two encounters by any means, William wasn’t in any mood to speak with Effingham and there was an unmistakable look of insult at Dartford’s perceived betrayal of giving away their position on William’s face. Only the fact they were somehow teammates in their excursion led to William accept the hand up.

That, and the little glimpse of a flask that he’d perceived earlier. Without asking, William went from accepting a hand up to picking the man’s pocket, pulling out the flask and working on the lid. “You owe me for putting me on a ship with that man twice in a month,” Was William’s only explanation as he took a drink from it before walking towards the shore, indulging thoughts of knocking the other man overboard. He wasn’t exactly certain who else was there with Effingham, but they couldn’t be worse, and they could join Dartford in being a barrier to distract Effingham on the little vessel. “I wish we’d stayed in the woods,” William announced flatly by the time he’d reached the water.

@adelsonjacobs​

Two new arrivals were enough of a distraction to cause Adelson to hesitate, and before he could return his finger to the trigger his opportunity had been snatched away.

He scowled, suppressing several choice words as the other gentleman came within earshot, their dog trotting behind them happily, several birds dangling limply in his mouth. 

Jove, by contrast, was chasing his own tail.

“Lord Thorne, Mr. Hastings.” They were allotted a nod of hello each. “The woods proved productive did they? How interesting.”  

He turned to Lord Effingham with an arched brow. “I do recall someone advising we follow a similar path. Pity we chose not to heed their advice.”

@ixnay-on-the-ipshay

-

“Fine words for-for someone barely able to point the damme rifle in the-the correct direction,” he said – quickly turning to the newcomers with a sharp nod in acknowledgment. “Dartford, good to-to see you out of the brush and upright once more – and-and Hastings. Well. Well, then.”

It was not a pairing he would have expected, yet – undeniably a-a successful partnership, judging by their prizes. 

“Where –” he began, only to have his dog suddenly still – then blunder forward, barking furiously. “Jove!”

Out of the very shrubbery where viscount and baron had been crouching just moments before burst a flurry of feathers; his dog, immediately distracted from the order, turning and diving back in. 

“Jove – heel!” he snapped, trying to aim in the commotion, but by the time the dog had gotten clear enough for a shot – the opportunity was lost. 

“Dash it – no, no, not you,” the latter said in response to Jove’s dejected whining; then, looking back up at the gentlemen, “Well. Looks like the-the pair of you have brought the hunt with you. What – what of the others, have you seen them? I-I was just thinking of-of heading further up north and-and west myself, after having gone through the trouble of crossing this stream.”

@thornedrook​ 

Kit, who had gone into this rather biased against his hunting partner, felt the unfamiliar feeling of guilt as if he’d betrayed him. As if that moment in the clearing, the fever dream with all of the George’s running a-mock, solidified an unspoken understanding. Kit clapped Will on the shoulder, a sly grin on his face as if to say ‘atta boy as he snatched his flash back, took a swig, and them promptly handed it back. “I’ve had enough of the woods,” Kit told him as he stepped gratefully onto the boat and greeted both men.

Moments later, there was a flurry of chaos, wings flapping, dogs barking and Effingham shouting orders. Kit fired, and though the furious squawk let him know it was a valiant effort, no grouse fell from the sky. “Damn,” Kit muttered, lowering his gun as he watched the flock fly away unscathed. Then turning his attention to Effingham, he lied. “You’re the first party we’ve come across. It seems everyone scattered rather nicely.” He turned to Jacobs then, giving the man a nod. “Tell me, what short stick did you draw to be paired with our dear Captain?” Kit laughed, noting the bit of tension between the two. Kit, who’s choice of direction had led them into more trouble than he wanted, was content to allow the Earl to make the geographical decisions. “Take us North, take us South,” Kit told him, reaching expectantly for the flask from Hastings. “I am but here for the ride.”

baronwillliam​:

Rather disappointingly, the left lead them not into some interesting location full of rare trees or overgrown specimen of wildlife, but to a river which was pretty enough, if not what he wanted. Besides, there were people out there, likely disturbing any hunting and - dear good lord, was that Effingham?

Before William could suggest turning back the way they came, Dartford was signaling to the man and without thinking about it, William grabbed at his arm and pulled, both of them finding the ground behind a shrub of some sort. “Have you lost your mind?” William hissed, forcing Dartford into hiding with him so they wouldn’t be spotted by anyone else. “I thought you were among the sensible kind!“ 

And sensible people would rarely seek out Effingham since the man was more than happy to track you down - William had certainly learned his lesson about finding him first and wasn’t in any rush to talk to the man again.

"We should go in the opposite direction, back into the woods and away from men that will scare away all the game. I’ll see if the coast is clear, hopefully you haven’t given away our position.”

-

[continued from here]

“You –” Stared at where the other man’s hand had been on his arm a moment before, spluttering, “You will do no such thing – need I remind you what happened the-the last time you, hrm, took the shot?”

He had been a breath away from-from – something drastic, wrenching the damme rifle away from a boy who had clearly never been properly trained in its use when – 

"Did you hear that? That – no, forget the grouse, that was my name, was it not?” Then, craning his neck, he could just make out one – no, two forms over the way, one of whom looked rather familiar. “Is that – by Jove, Dartford – is that you? The devil are you – you hiding behind the bush for?”

Another sound – a rustle, a definite rustle; at least his own gun was still in hand –

He turned on his heel, aimed more by ear than by sight – fired – 

A scuttle in the puff of smoke and dust that resulted; he lowered the gun, disappointed. 

“Well if we cannot find the grouse, we may at least have company – Dartford, why don’t you and your – your –” Squinted, but the other figure appeared quite blended into the shrubbery, “– companion join us?” 

@thornedrook​​

“Bloody hell, Hastings!” Kit whispered fiercely as he was unceremoniously pulled to the ground. He sat there for a moment, hiding behind a bush like an utter fool as Will plotted their way out as if they were in a skirmish. “Have you lost your mind?” Kit asked the Baron, quietly and rather sincerely. He sat on the ground a moment longer and then, hearing Archie respond in kind (asking why he’s hiding behind a damn bush), stood up, brushing the dirt from his jacket rather annoyed. 

“See, they have already seen us. We are not in the trenches, and Effingham is not the enemy.” Kit countered. He waved at Archie, and called back “Hold the boat!” He then looked down at Will who he assumed looked like nothing more than a talking bush at the moment. Despite himself, he held his hand out to help the other man up and then thinking for a moment said slowly, “Perhaps we should keep our run in with the King to ourselves though... For now.”

baronwillliam​:

There were certain things about royalty that you heard that sounded too ludicrous to be true, and at times sounded like they would cause the church to riot against you, and the clearing was in some sort of sweet spot there. He’d never believed in it and even now, standing there with the King and the Georges, William thought that it would be more appropriate if Unicorns decided to waltz out and gore them.

It would be more realistic than their invitation to join them… in hunting? Did they have some secret hunting ground as well as a clearing? Were they going to be sworn to secrecy by sword point later?

As the hunting party took off and Dartford’s gun sounded, William fell back to stand next to the man. “I think… that we just intruded on the sacred space of the King’s preferred men.” William answered, a funny note in his voice. “There’s supposed to be some… ritual on the night of the solstice to be inducted into the inner circle. That we may have just been invited to join.”

Really, where were the unicorns?

Shaking off his confusion, William clapped Dartford on the shoulder. “This hunt is turning interesting. Keep up, Dartford, to the left! That should be the sinister path if you pay attention to word origins.”

The left it is, then! Away you go, with Lord Hastings missing a shot entirely and aiming into a rather unfortunately-shaped tree, and Lord Thorne scoring another hit for the party. The sack is getting heavy now.

As the pair wind farther into the forest, there seems to be water up ahead. And - is that a river? is that a boat? - you spot a boat floating upon the water, rowed by two familiar gentlemen. Quickly: do you wave or do you hide to Lord Effingham and Mr. Jacobs?

@ixnay-on-the-ipshay​ @adelsonjacobs​

Kit’s middle finger pressed into a spot in the arch of his eyebrow, rubbing small circles as he felt a headache begin to bloom. He could not for the life of him deduce how he’d gotten from point A to point B. From happily tipsy, content to spend this trip mending the wound in his pride that Kate had left behind, to joining a bloody damn secret society.

“Yes, the sinister path seems to be our best option, I suppose,” Kit mumbled, words dripping with sarcasm as he followed Hastings out of the clearing. Kit spotted another grouse and deciding that the least he was owed from this trip was to win, executed the shot rather perfectly. 

Kit heard the river before he saw it and spotted Effingham’s head before he saw the boat. Kit threw up his arm happily, waving at the passing party. “Effingham!” He called.

baronwillliam​:

Following along through the thicket, William sucked in a breath as he stared around in awe at the dead trees, naked branches reaching up to the heavens as they ringed around a great oak. Perhaps lightning could have killed one tree, but to have all of them dead and still standing seemed to be quite the feat even though he knew they could strike fires.

What fortunate circumstances that whatever caused the issue here hadn’t spread, although ‘fortunate’ seemed the wrong word. The site seemed almost unearthly, captivating, and William didn’t even realize he was smiling as he looked around.

Head snapping to the side at the sound of the crack, William was instantly stepping back as his weapon raised, a motion that it seemed came thoughtlessly to the both of them. For a moment, there was only halted breath, the air holding still and nothing revealing itself in the depths.

“Don’t mind if I do.” William muttered, gun still held at the ready as he approached. “Now things are getting interesting. Maybe we’ll see some tracks.”

“Good man!” The voice booms out, through the trees. It is fortunate that they spot Lord Hastings first, for Lord Thorne seems to have his rifle pointed squarely at King George’s chest. George Spencer – Earl Spencer, as styled – steps forward and clocks Lord Thorne a long glance. In a low, hushed tone: “Do you draw your weapon against the sovereign?!”

The bramble comes to life as the hunting party nears, and suddenly the King and his friends draw up before you. “How do you fare?” Gasps another George, this one Bussy Villiers. He peers keenly at the boy and the bag behind the two gentlemen.

“Ah,” says a third George – Lansdowne, it seems. “So you’ve found the grove.”

It came upon the pair with such a start that its meaning seemed to have escaped notice, at first. It rushes back to Lord Hastings’ memory: a rumor about the king, a society of his most favored gentlemen, and a bonfire in a clearing on the longest summer night. An initiation to an inner circle. Power, prestige. Myth, really, except the charred trees are as real as anything.

The king approaches, his cheeks splotched with red. “They should join us,” says he, this fourth George. His lips quirk. “Now that they have found it.”

There is silence for a moment, and then the group begins to move past the pair with calls of onward! and tally ho!. As quickly as the other party approached, they disappear into the brush. 

Lord Thorne uses the moment to snipe a grouse who, thinking itself clever, crosses the path in their wake. Hit one!

The choice is yours, as the forest closes in again. Right or left?

—

It’s up to you! The hunt will end OOC Friday – each successive round here gives you another opportunity to hunt, but there is no pressure. 

It takes Kit a moment too long to lower his weapon. Not in defiance, but shock. He thought it a bear, or a mountain lion, certainly not the King or the other George’s. It is a peculiar thing (that he only realizes now that he’s confronted with all four of them) that they are all named the same. Even more strange is the familiarity they express, as if they have seen this burnt clearing before, this strange place that Kit cannot manage to put his finger on. 

They should join us.

Kit does not attempt to hide his confusion, which admittedly is carefully masking how very much he does not want to join whatever took place here. Despite this, he finds himself curious, his eyes immediately traveling over to find Will as the hunting party moves in and out of the clearing as if they were ghosts. For a moment, as the pair stand in silence, Kit wonders if he hallucinated the entire thing. 

It’s in that sudden, startling silence that Kit spots a grouse sneaking carefully behind the George’s, and shoots. Teddy runs to the fallen bird diligently as Kit lowers his gun, feeling very much in a daze as he looks back at Will. “What the bloody hell just happened?” He asks the other man, noting that Will himself seems to be finding an odd sort of solace in this charred space. 

baronwillliam​:

William was very proud of his engagement, that was true, but it was also true that he was temperamental and even the slightest suggestion of mocking or doubt about his relationship gathered beneath his skin like a thorn - he’d dealt with it from too many people and it had only been two weeks.

“I have an unfair advantage,” William allowed as he nodded at the suggestion, leading the way into the thicket with careful steps. “After all, I imagine I’ve spent more time shooting at things than you have.” And received a accommodation for it to boot, but mentioning that part would be bragging, which wasn’t his goal. “The day is still young.” But not as young as it could have been, if Dartford had his business in order that morning.

Deeper in, then. The trees only grow thicker, this far into the forest. The underbrush changes from fallen leaves to rough with roots and bits of rock, and you head down a series of makeshift steps (made only by nature, not even a man would be so daft). After several minutes, though, where no grouse nor hare are seen, the trees lessen. Or, rather, the leaves.

As you approach, sunlight trickles in through bare branches. These trees are dead. And up ahead, as you progress, is a clearing, the earth charred and strange. In the center of it lies what was once a grand oak, now blackened at the base, lifeless and strange. What happened here?

Crack. A noise to the left.

Players choice: do you investigate, or do you flee?

Kit shrugged as if to brush the sentiment off, the way his muscles tensed and hand gripped the base of the gun nearly unnoticeable. He was not a solider, that much was true, but he’d spent more time shooting a gun than he would, or could, admit. Still, the Barron saw battle, and for that he did not envy him. But he did, however, bloody bother him.

“I suppose we shall see who has the advantage,” Kit replied, though the end of his sentence trailed off into a stunned silence as they pushed through the thicket. Kit turned in a circle in the middle of the clearing, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. A fire, no doubt, but there was something... off. Kit would have been more than pleased to go back the direction they came and never speak another word about it.

A crack. Kit’s gun was aimed in the direction of the noise before his brain registered it. He could fire quickly and with excellent aim, sure, but he wasn’t the sort for physical fights. He glanced over at Will, nodding in the direction of the sound as he waited expectantly. “Go on then, solider. Lead the way.”

baronwillliam​:

If left to his own devices, William would be just that - left alone. He didn’t have any particular desire to wander around with someone that appeared to have woken up in time to join the hunt merely by the grace of god - or perhaps by the call of his bladder, as truly divine intervention would have allowed William to enjoy some peace and quiet. You would think he’d enjoy that anyway, it being a hunt, but he had his doubts.

“As is mine.” William agreed, casting a glance at the dog the other was patting. The man currently had two points in his favor - He had the sense to pick the same path that Will wanted to take, and his borrowed dog seemed pleasant. Of course, Will was someone that enjoyed animals, that was an easy point to gain and not much to the credit of the other. “Shall we?” Assuming the man had managed to get his feet in order.

Delightful! As the pair gets closer to the forest, Lord Hastings comes across an easy shot and takes it. It hits. Unfortunately, Lord Thorne seems to have been distracted at the moment – perhaps by his own reflection.

The trees are thick here, and they grow up quite quickly until the mid-morning sun is obscured entirely. As the ground changes from grass to underbrush, the hunting dog begins to rustle amidst the leaves. Trees sprout in every direction, so it is time to be clever.

Moss collects on the north side of trees. Do you follow it and go north, or follow your intuition and continue deeper into the thicket?

Kit’s head snapped towards the direction of the gunfire, having previously not been paying an ounce of attention. They’d barely started their hunt! Kit decided two things all at once. First, the Baron was cheating, though he hadn’t quite deduced how yet. Second, he suddenly cared about the points. More specifically that he had none.

“Nice shot,” Kit said, though his tone did not necessarily indicate that he meant it. “Miss Lockhart should be so proud.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as Kit continued ahead, boots heavy on the Earth. He examined the trees around him, noting the moss before nodding ahead. “Shall we keep going?” He asked, opting for the pair to continue deeper into the thicket.

Kit was a rather accomplished hunter, as far as things went, but it was not a sport that he chose to partake in often. Rather if he did it would be a quiet weekend spent at his countryside, not one spent among rowdy gentlemen. But his purpose here was not to win, but rather to socialize. In particular with one Conrad Mowbray, the brother of a Duke in want of a wife. 

Kit did not so much as move when the Master of the Hunt yelled go, but glanced rather lazily around at each path as he double checked that the safety on his rifle was on. He was rather pleasantly buzzed, and though he did not feel a particular fondness for the Hastings boy, he decided not to risk shooting the other man in the foot just yet. “My vote is West,” Kit decided, giving his borrowed hunting dog, Teddy, a pat on the head without glancing up.

“I am,” Harry agreed. It was childish to paddle around the matter; he was in London for a singular purpose, to find a wife. “Cadogan requires a Countess, and my father wishes to step away from Parliament within the next handful of years.” An exhale, another sip of his drink. “To enjoy the countryside, and grandchildren – this is made to me quite pointedly – and travel upon the continent without obligation.”

It all sounded wonderful, and the fact that it was not for him made it dreadful.

“Are you here just for sport, then? Playing cavalier about marriage?”

.

“Can you blame him, really?” Kit asked, shrugging slightly. It all seemed rather ideal, save the grandchildren, of course. He had never wanted for children at all, really. 

Kit shook his head. “Not for sport,” he answered quickly. “For Emmeline. To secure her future, and her happiness. She’s my only priority.” He thought for a moment, debating his next words and mulling them over as he sipped his drink.

“My eye is set on a Duke,” he finally admitted, having previously kept his plans for Emmeline close to his chest.

I daresay, Atticus Thorne is absolutely divine at horseback riding, geography, french, and dueling. And accomplished in languages, fencing, dancing, and matters concerning literature and politics, too. Though – did you know – he is dreadfully poor at penmanship and all manners pertaining to art? We do hope that won’t harm their prospects.

With one last fond ruffle of Dash’s large ears, June rose to her full height, her spine ramrod straight and her chin lifted ever so slightly. His returned insult hurled itself at her with the unerring accuracy of a shot fired at five paces, and she clenched her jaw against the urge to spit venom at him. Kit had always known exactly how to slip inside of her skin, to leave her undone in every way that counted –– both blissful and horrible. She nearly raised a hand to touch her cheek, as if that would confirm that what he said was untrue, and that the blood had not drained from her face, leaving her pale and sickly. It was only through the grace of all of her ancestors that she did not, and instead stood stock still and looked at him as if down her nose at an overlarge bug. 

“No illness,” she replied, inclining her head slowly, “though I thank you for your gracious concern, Lord Dartford.” God, even his title was different. So many things had changed. In another life, they were walking down this street side by side, arm in arm, gossiping quietly behind her hand fan about the more scandalous members of the ton. June’s heart ached for that version of their lives, ached for the choices she’d never been able to make, and all the years that now spanned between them. But it was a sharp ache, with lethal edges that would split her skin open if she dared to try and soothe it, and so she would not allow herself to try. Not now. Not while he was looking at her so coldly and she hated him so. They’d had every chance in the world, and he’d thrown it away over a stupid miscommunication. “I believe being pale is a rather common sighting to seeing a ghost ––– after all, surely you were killed while overseas, yes? I can think of no other reason as to why you did not deign to send word you were not dead.” I was worried.

.

Perhaps it was not a good thing, how well they knew each other. He knew of her dreams, and of her fears and shortcomings. He knew her secrets, just as she knew his. That much shared history could not be rewritten just as it could not be ignored, no matter how hard one tried. June was just as much a part of him as he was of her. He’d covered himself in armor and still, after so much time lost, she knew how to hit her mark. He thought it a talent when not directed at him, one that he admired once upon a time. Still did, unfortunately. 

He worked to control his features, willing his jaw not to fall slack. “I wrote to Emmeline,” he fired back immediately, baffled by her accusation. Surely she did not begrudge him his duty? Surely she understood his choices, and understood that he did not have the luxury of a confidant all of those years. “Surely she told you of this?” But even his letters to Emmeline were vague, he realized all at once, and he felt now as June must have felt all these years. Left in the dark. “I could not -” He stopped short, letting his hand fall onto Dash’s head as a comfort, a grounding mechanism as he carefully controlled his features. “I could not write,” he tried again, though even now there was not much he could say of his time overseas. “And when I could, I wrote to Emmeline.” He stated and though he knew it would hurt her, for that he would not, could not apologize. He shoved the familiar feeling of guilt down, refusing to give it the time of day.