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Authors: Joanna Shupe
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age of two and fluent in four languages by the time he’d turned eight, he’d studied alone for long hours.
His father had died when Quint was six. Quint had begged his mother not to send him away to school, to let him stay with her, and for a few years she had allowed it. But when Quint turned ten, she would hear no more arguments and he was shipped off to Eton.
School had been excruciating, especially the first few years. The absurdly facile lessons had frustrated him, and the other students had mocked him for the questions he asked during instruction. The boys had been merciless, both in and out of class, though Quint had tried his best to ignore them. Kept to himself. He was there to learn, after all, not make friends. And though he was physically capable of fighting back, why on earth would he lower himself to such a base display of unenlightened behavior?
Everything changed the day four older students locked him outside in his smalls. Mid-January, the weather was near freezing and his bare feet had begun turning blue when two boys from a neighboring house took pity on him. They brought him inside, warmed him up, and gave him clothes and tea. When he recovered, his two saviors marched over to Quint’s hall, busted down the door, and proceeded to beat the stuffing out of the boys responsible. It was the most fearsome and humbling sight Quint had ever witnessed in his eleven years.
And a lifelong friendship had been born.
Nick Seaton, then just a duke’s forgotten second son, and Simon Barrett, the prized future Earl of Winchester, soon taught Quint everything one could not learn in books. How to throw a proper punch. How to cheat at cards. How to sneak out without getting caught. Quint, on the other hand, helped both boys with their studies. The three of them were inseparable, and school grew tolerable.
Fate had thrown them together, and Quint remained grateful for the two men who’d saved him on more than one occasion. Now, however, he thanked providence that both of his childhood friends were in absentia, that they would not bear witness to his humiliation. He still felt like the eleven-year-old boy out in the unforgiving cold, trying to comprehend what made him so different, so broken. And he’d rather no one saw his failing struggle, his desperate attempts to remain sane.
Sighing, he brought his attention to the present. On the far wall stood a glass curio case, which he kept locked. Inside were various bits and mementos he’d picked up in his travels over the years. Nothing particularly valuable, but the intruder must’ve thought otherwise because he’d broken the thing open. So that was the crashing sound Quint had heard earlier.
He was inspecting the shelves for missing items when Sophie’s voice shattered the silence. “Well, I lost him in the mews,” she panted. “Dratted man was fast. He turned up Charles Street and disappeared on me.”
Quint could not look at her. Could not withstand the questions or the pity. He stared intently at a small refracting telescope from Rome. “Regardless, I thank you for your effort. John will see you home.”
Silence descended, and he sensed her waiting. What in the hell did she want him to say? He had no explanation, no answers. And he absolutely did not want to have a damned conversation about it. Everything inside him wanted to howl, to scream, in anger and frustration as misery boiled inside him, rising like a tide he struggled to contain. One crack and the levee would burst . . . and no telling what would happen then.
“Are you dismissing me?”
Her dismay caused more emotion to leech out, a sliver in the wall of his composure. He straightened and crossed his arms. “Hard to believe I would dare to speak rudely to such a paragon, the perfect daughter of a marquess out running amuck in men’s clothing. But dare I shall. Consider yourself dismissed, Sophie,” he snapped. “The lessons are over. The advice, the exercise, the everything . . . it is
His father had died when Quint was six. Quint had begged his mother not to send him away to school, to let him stay with her, and for a few years she had allowed it. But when Quint turned ten, she would hear no more arguments and he was shipped off to Eton.
School had been excruciating, especially the first few years. The absurdly facile lessons had frustrated him, and the other students had mocked him for the questions he asked during instruction. The boys had been merciless, both in and out of class, though Quint had tried his best to ignore them. Kept to himself. He was there to learn, after all, not make friends. And though he was physically capable of fighting back, why on earth would he lower himself to such a base display of unenlightened behavior?
Everything changed the day four older students locked him outside in his smalls. Mid-January, the weather was near freezing and his bare feet had begun turning blue when two boys from a neighboring house took pity on him. They brought him inside, warmed him up, and gave him clothes and tea. When he recovered, his two saviors marched over to Quint’s hall, busted down the door, and proceeded to beat the stuffing out of the boys responsible. It was the most fearsome and humbling sight Quint had ever witnessed in his eleven years.
And a lifelong friendship had been born.
Nick Seaton, then just a duke’s forgotten second son, and Simon Barrett, the prized future Earl of Winchester, soon taught Quint everything one could not learn in books. How to throw a proper punch. How to cheat at cards. How to sneak out without getting caught. Quint, on the other hand, helped both boys with their studies. The three of them were inseparable, and school grew tolerable.
Fate had thrown them together, and Quint remained grateful for the two men who’d saved him on more than one occasion. Now, however, he thanked providence that both of his childhood friends were in absentia, that they would not bear witness to his humiliation. He still felt like the eleven-year-old boy out in the unforgiving cold, trying to comprehend what made him so different, so broken. And he’d rather no one saw his failing struggle, his desperate attempts to remain sane.
Sighing, he brought his attention to the present. On the far wall stood a glass curio case, which he kept locked. Inside were various bits and mementos he’d picked up in his travels over the years. Nothing particularly valuable, but the intruder must’ve thought otherwise because he’d broken the thing open. So that was the crashing sound Quint had heard earlier.
He was inspecting the shelves for missing items when Sophie’s voice shattered the silence. “Well, I lost him in the mews,” she panted. “Dratted man was fast. He turned up Charles Street and disappeared on me.”
Quint could not look at her. Could not withstand the questions or the pity. He stared intently at a small refracting telescope from Rome. “Regardless, I thank you for your effort. John will see you home.”
Silence descended, and he sensed her waiting. What in the hell did she want him to say? He had no explanation, no answers. And he absolutely did not want to have a damned conversation about it. Everything inside him wanted to howl, to scream, in anger and frustration as misery boiled inside him, rising like a tide he struggled to contain. One crack and the levee would burst . . . and no telling what would happen then.
“Are you dismissing me?”
Her dismay caused more emotion to leech out, a sliver in the wall of his composure. He straightened and crossed his arms. “Hard to believe I would dare to speak rudely to such a paragon, the perfect daughter of a marquess out running amuck in men’s clothing. But dare I shall. Consider yourself dismissed, Sophie,” he snapped. “The lessons are over. The advice, the exercise, the everything . . . it is
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