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Lord Tucker Must Die


Balls were intended to find a husband—and not to plan a murder.

Except this one.

“We’re not going to actually” –the brunette darted a glance around the pillar to make sure no one was nearby— “kill him, are we?”

“If we must.” The blonde held her empty dance card as if wielding a sword. She was as familiar with a blade of steel as the steps to a quadrille. Her dagger never left her side, and even now, she could feel the warm press of it against her bosom.

The brunette knew the blonde’s affinity for steel. But why use a dagger when a pistol would do? Still, she swallowed and looked toward the woman with the flaming hair.

Once upon a time, the redhead had been sweet and mild, a young woman who sought to make others happy and never said an unkind word. She used to have stars in her eyes and dreams of romance and happily ever after. She’d trusted in that vile excuse of a human being, and he’d ignored her cries, her struggles, her repeated “no’s,” and had raped her.

Lord Tucker had raped all of them.

The redhead, at a house party.

The blonde, at an afternoon gathering.

The brunette, at a ball.

And the redhead feared that they weren’t his only victims—that there were others, besides the girl. More nameless victims. More women like them, who hadn’t come forward, because they knew that they wouldn’t be heard or believed.

After all, there were always whispered accusations, of blame assigned to the victim, of where the victim was brought to trial and the accuser given the benefit of the doubt.

They all remembered the sweet-faced, soft-spoken girl, a servant in his household, who dared to speak last year. The one who wasn’t believed by the ton. The one who was blamed.

Why had she taken that punch from him? Why did she meet him outside? She’s looking for a payday, mark my words.

What about Lord Tucker’s family? I can’t imagine how they’re suffering.

She doesn’t even remember what happened. No one witnessed it. Lord Tucker is a decent man, and he doesn’t deserve to have his reputation besmirched.

Even though the accusations had felt true, they’d been washed away. Lord Tucker was in a position of power, and those in control, simply did not care.

By chance, the redhead met the brunette and blonde at a ball much like this one. They’d searched for the sweet-faced girl to no avail. Another woman lost, another woman found guilty for speaking the truth.

Still, the redhead hoped, as did the blonde and brunette, that they would find her one day. Strength was in numbers, and yet they knew—that, most likely, the numbers would not be enough. Their stories, not believed. That they would not be enough.

If society would not see justice done for them, then they must find justice themselves.

“He must be destroyed,” the redhead finally said. “One way or another, Lord Tucker must die.”