The Hidden Blade by Sherry Thomas Page A

buy them new dresses or fashionable hats. His wife complained loudly of their poverty, but even she, Leighton thought, was in truth quite fond of her husband.
    And now Leighton would lose a good-natured guardian for a five-pound forged cheque from before he was born.
    “So,” said Sir Curtis, “you have not ended your miserable existence yet.”
    Herb started—Leighton had not passed on Sir Curtis’s command for him to kill himself. “I have no intention of ever taking my own life.”
    “Hmm. Let me tell you about your other choice then. There is a grieving mother whose son died of an overdose of chloral. She blames his death on the fact that he had recently been spurned. By another man. The homosexuality of the liaison does not bother her—one of those stupid women who can never find a single fault with her own child—but she is out for blood against that man.
    “Only she does not know his identity. I, however, have decided that you are that man, Mr. Gordon. It will be quite easy for me to convince her of that, as you and her son do frequent similar circles. And then it will be only a minor step to have her go to the police and report you for the deviant you are.”
    “But others will be able to testify that I do not know her son.”
    “In the end it would not matter. It will be about whether you have committed the kind of perverted acts that the law condemns. And it really is too bad that you will receive only a prison sentence, and not a trip to the gallows.”
    “You can’t do that,” said Herb, but he sounded impotent.
    “I can and I will,” answered Sir Curtis, anticipation in every syllable. “And I will enjoy your downfall, Mr. Gordon. So it is up to you: a quick, private end or months of public humiliation followed by years of misery.
    “This just came back from the inquest. It would be poetic justice, wouldn’t it?” He opened a case on the library desk, which contained a pair of antique dueling pistols. Leighton recoiled—Father had used one of the pistols to take his own life. “Hell now or hell on earth. Make your choice, Mr. Gordon.”
    Sir Curtis left. Slowly, as if sleepwalking, Herb approached the desk and picked up the pistol that was still marred by bloodstains.
    “No!” Leighton cried.
    Herb, startled, looked up.
    Leighton ran down the circular stairs. “Please don’t even think about it.”
    Herb gently set down the pistol. “I wasn’t. I promise I wasn’t—not seriously, in any case. I was thinking more of your father. How desperate he must have felt, how terrified, to resort to such a measure.”
    Anguish weighed down his words.
    “It isn’t your fault,” Leighton told him. “Father—he loved every moment he had with you.”
    Moisture glistened in Herb’s eyes. “And I him. And I loved coming here. I loved spending time together, all three of us.”
    He settled his hands on Leighton’s shoulders. “Please don’t ever think he meant to abandon you—or anyone else he loved. Sometimes it’s hard to think clearly when you are in a panic. I wish he’d drunk himself to a stupor instead, or smashed up a room—anything but this.”
    Leighton was shocked. It had never occurred to him that something as grave and irreversible as suicide could have been a moment’s impulse.
    “Believe me, I’ve had friends who have jumped from bridges and then never did anything to endanger their own lives again. If only…There are so many if-onlys, aren’t there? The important thing to remember is that he never meant to leave you unprotected. He loved you very much, and he was infinitely proud of you.”
    “He loved you too. He wouldn’t want you to listen to anything Sir Curtis says.”
    Herb glanced at the pistol on the desk. “I’m afraid that man isn’t bluffing.”
    Sir Curtis would probably consider it an affront to his honor and capability to bluff. No, he was a man of action. The right hand of God. “But he doesn’t have infinite reach. You can leave the country. You