Sarah was pushed to the side as Hugh launched himself toward his father. Fist met flesh with a horrible crack. “You are not fit to speak her name,” Hugh hissed, looming menacingly over his father, who had fallen to the floor, his nose bloodied and almost certainly broken.

“And you’re the better of the two,” Lord Ramsgate said with a little shiver of revulsion. “God above, I do not know what I did to deserve such sons.”

“Nor do I,” Hugh bit off.

“Hugh,” Sarah said, laying her hand on his upper arm. “Get off. He’s not worth it.”

But Hugh was not himself. He did not pull his arm away, nor did he give any indication that he’d heard her. He leaned down and retrieved his cane, which had clattered to the floor in the fracas, never once taking his eyes from his father’s face.

“If you touch her,” Hugh said, his voice terrifyingly clipped and even, “I will kill you. If you speak one untoward word, I will kill you. If you so much as breathe in the wrong direction, I—”

“Will kill me,” his father said scornfully. He jerked his head toward Hugh’s bad leg. “You just go on thinking you’re able, you stupid little cr—”

Hugh moved like lightning, his cane arcing before him like a sword. He was beautiful in motion, Sarah thought. Was this what he had been like . . . before?

“Would you care to repeat that?” Hugh said, pressing the tip of his cane against his father’s throat.

Sarah stopped breathing.

“Please,” Hugh said, in a tone that was all the more devastating for its calm. “Say more.” He moved the cane along Lord Ramsgate’s windpipe, easing the pressure without breaking contact. “Anything?” he murmured.

Sarah wet her lips, watching him warily. She could not tell if he was the epitome of control or whether he was one breath away from snapping. She watched his chest rise and fall with his heartbeat, and she was mesmerized. Hugh Prentice was more than a man in that moment; he was a force of nature.

“Let him go,” Daniel said in a weary voice, finally rising to his feet. “He is not worth a trip to the gallows.”

Sarah stared at the tip of the cane, still flush with Lord Ramsgate’s throat. It seemed to press forward, and she thought, No, he wouldn’t . . . and then, quick as mercury, the cane flew away, leaving Hugh’s grip for a split second before he caught it again and stepped away. He was favoring his injured leg, but there was something dashing about his uneven gait, something almost graceful.

He was still beautiful in motion. One had only to look.