by Shana Galen
And then the world went black.
Twenty-Three
Nash had finally managed to escape the reception line. He’d hoped Pru would appear at his side as soon as he stepped away, but he wandered about the grounds for a good while without finding her. He would have asked where she was, but he’d walked about for at least a quarter hour without a single person speaking to him. He could hardly blame the villagers. They were probably afraid of him. Perhaps they thought he would shoot them.
Nash touched his empty coat pocket. He would have felt better with his pistol in his pocket. Rowden still had it in his possession, and that meant Nash needed to find Pru. She would calm his nerves. Everything would be well with Pru at his side.
“Oh, Mr. Pope,” said a familiar voice. Nash paused and turned to face the speaker.
“Mrs. Brown?”
“Yes.”
Oh, thank God. Finally, someone he knew.
“Are you looking for Mr. Payne?” she asked.
“No.” He could guess where Rowden was. Somewhere there was a group of men who liked a little sport. Rowden could needle the most obnoxious among them, stir up a fight, and make a few pounds from the betting when he knocked the man on his arse. “Actually, I had a question for Miss Howard,” he said.
“Oh, is it something I can answer?” Mrs. Brown asked.
Nash sighed. “No.”
“I see. I saw her in the tent earlier. I believe she was helping with the baked goods competition.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brown. The tent is...” He tried to orient himself, which wasn’t easy with all the changes to the lawn of late. “This way?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Straight ahead.”
He started away then turned back.
“Was there something else, Mr. Pope?”
“Yes,” he said. “I owe you my thanks.”
“Not at all, sir.”
Nash clenched his jaw. “Let me get this out, Mrs. Brown.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you for staying here through...everything. I realize I behaved abominably.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Mrs. Brown.” He drew her name out.
“Oh, very well. You were perfectly horrid.”
“Thank you for not abandoning me. You kept me alive.”
“Nonsense. I practically poisoned you with my cooking.”
Nash laughed. “I would beg you never to cook again, but at least your broths and soups kept me from completely pickling my innards with gin. Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary, sir.” She paused for a moment. “But I appreciate hearing it nonetheless.”
“Good, and I would appreciate it if you would go and enjoy yourself. I’m giving you the rest of the day off. Tomorrow as well.”
“Oh! That’s not necessary. And there’s so much to do here after the festival.”
“You won’t do any of it. Go see your family. Sleep late tomorrow morning. I don’t want you lifting a finger here, Mrs. Brown. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
He could hear the emotion in her voice, and he let out a huff. Why was she crying when he’d given her a day and a half off? “Good day, Mrs. Brown.”
“Good day. He always was a good boy,” she said as he walked away. Nash hoped to earn that praise again someday.
He knew when he neared the tent as he could hear the voice of Milcroft’s mayor. He was making a last call for all sweet dishes to be entered. The judges would begin tasting in just a moment. Nash hesitated at the entrance. He needed a moment before he went inside. He would take a few minutes to breathe just behind the tent. No one would see him there. But as he made his way toward the back, he heard the sounds of a scuffle and then Pru’s sweet voice enjoining someone to...shove a stick up his bum?
Nash didn’t hesitate. One hand on the side of the tent to guide him, he rounded the corner. With the informal gardens on one side, the light was dimmer here, and Nash could see two shapes. One seemed to be kneeling and the other standing over the first. As soon as Nash appeared, they broke apart. The figure he would recognize anywhere as Pru fell backward with a cry and the man who had been holding her stepped away.
“What’s happening here? Miss Howard?”
She didn’t answer, and Nash stepped forward, reaching out and catching the man by the neck. He hadn’t even tried to avoid Nash, obviously thinking he couldn’t see well enough to be a threat. But Nash didn’t need his eyes. He squeezed tightly and pushed the other man against the back of the tent. “I asked you a question.”
“We were just having a bit of fun,” the other man said.
Nash’s breath whooshed out of him for a moment. Pru and this man? She’d been on her knees. Nash shook his head. “I should kill you for touching her.” He began to squeeze.
“Nash.”
He turned his head slightly as Pru’s voice penetrated the red haze beginning to descend.
“Let him go. I’m fine.”
“I’ll let him go after I kill him.”
“No.” She was beside him, her hand on his arm. At her touch, much of his rage leaked away. The red haze began to dissipate, and a calm blue replaced it. “If you hurt him, he’ll use it against you. He’d like nothing better than to see you sent away. Let him go.”
Nash opened his hand and released the man, who crumpled, gasping for breath.
“You’re not hurt?” Nash asked, pulling her close. The feel of her in his arms was exactly what he needed. The world felt right again.
“No.”
“Who?” he asked, gesturing to the man.
“George Northgate. He saw us in the field that day and thought...well...”
She didn’t need to finish. Nash knew exactly what the man had thought. And he wanted to kill him all over again. Pru gripped his arm tightly, though, and steered him away. “Let’s go. We can leave him here in the dirt.”
“Walk away,” Northgate called as they turned their backs on him. “I’ll tell everyone you threatened to kill me. You’ll be on your way to the mad house before nightfall.”
“Come on,” Pru urged. Nash went with her. As much as he would have liked to kill the man, that was a sure way to be sent to the asylum. But they had gone no more than three feet before a man yelled, “No! Mr. Pope, please! Don’t shoot!”
Nash paused, confused.
And then a shot rang out.
THEY WERE JUST EMERGING from behind the tent when the shot startled Pru enough that she jumped. She was already shaking with rage and shock at what Northgate had tried to do to her, and it took little to upset her. But it was not only Pru who was surprised. The shot startled the rest of the assemblage as well, judging by the silence that descended and the immediate halt to all movement. Pru glanced at Nash. He seemed confused, but she knew exactly what had happened. And she knew in that moment she had failed Nash. George Northgate would have the last word, just as she’d feared.
“Nash.” Pru gripped his arm. “Stay calm.” The words were as much for her as for him. Her legs felt like jelly and her head still screamed in pain. She imagined her hair looked a fright, but fortunately her hair always looked a fright and people probably wouldn’t find its current state remarkable.
“What happened?” Nash asked
“What the devil was that?” The earl emerged from the crowd of people near the house and started for them, the vicar on his heels. “Was that a pistol shot?” he yelled.
“I’ll stay by your side,” Pru told Nash. “As long as I can. No matter what happens, Mr. Payne and I will find a way to come for you. Remember I love you.”
“Why are you telling me good-bye?” he asked.
He would understand soon enough, she thought as his father reached them, still cursing and shouting. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.
A crowd had formed, and Pru searched it for help. There was Mrs. Northgate, looking concerned and sympathetic. Where was Mr. Payne? She needed him. Nash needed him.
“Mr
. Northgate,” Pru began.
But then George Northgate stumbled out from behind the tent. “He shot at me,” Northgate said. “He threatened to kill me.”
Pru could have cheerfully murdered George Northgate. She wanted to scream that he was a liar, but for once, she checked her impulses.
The earl looked at Northgate and then at Nash and back at Northgate. “Who shot at you, sir?”
“Mr. Pope,” Northgate said. “I was speaking with Miss Howard, and he mistook my intentions. He pulled out his pistol and fired at me.”
The earl’s face hardened as he looked at his son. “Is this true, Nash?”
“No.” Nash didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t elaborate either.
“Do you want to explain?” the earl asked.
Nash shrugged. “He’s lying. If I’d shot at him, I would have hit him.”
The crowd gasped, and Pru closed her eyes. That defense, if it could be called that, could not have helped him.
“I see.”
“He came within an inch of hitting me,” Northgate said. “I felt the heat from the pistol ball as it flew by my face. That man isn’t safe. He needs to be locked up.”
The crowd began to murmur, and Pru tightened her grip on Nash’s arm. All she had wanted was to bury her head in his chest and feel safe after Northgate’s attack. But it seemed she would never get that chance now. Nash evinced no reaction to Northgate’s accusation. It was as though he heard nothing and blocked all of the unpleasantness. He appeared completely unconcerned.
“If this is true,” the earl said, raising his voice to be heard above the crowd, “he should be locked away. For his safety and yours.”
The people in the crowd nodded and muttered agreement. It seemed the entire village was there now. Even the children had left their games to see what the commotion was about.
“That isn’t what happened,” Pru said, feeling all the eyes of the village turn to her. “There was a pistol shot, but Mr. Pope didn’t fire it.”
“Then who did?” someone in the crowd yelled.
“We all know he carries a pistol in his pocket,” someone else said.
And then the entire village was yelling and talking over each other, and Pru knew it was hopeless. The earl would have to send Nash away just to prevent a riot. She drew her attention back to Nash and twined her fingers with his. She’d stand beside him as long as he could. He stood straight, head up, but his hand gripped hers back.
IT WAS OVER. NASH KNEW when a battle was won or, in this case, lost. Pru thought she could save him, and if anyone could, it was she. But Nash didn’t think anyone or anything could save him now. And it was his own fault. If he hadn’t allowed himself to sink into despair. If he hadn’t carried that pistol around all the time. If he hadn’t shot at the solicitor and Duncan Murray...
He would lose her now. He would lose Pru and he hadn’t even told her that he loved her. He hadn’t even told her how much she meant to him. How she had helped him when he needed it most.
“What is this about?” The voice rose above the rest, cutting clearly through the noise. It was the voice of a man used to speaking to rowdy crowds. It was Rowden Payne. “No, don’t all speak at once. My lord, what has happened?”
The earl cleared his throat. “Apparently, my son shot at this man in what appears to be a lover’s quarrel.”
The crowd murmured again, and Rowden seemed to wait for them to quiet before speaking again. “Is that true, sir?”
Northgate—cowardly bastard—moved forward. “It’s true, sir. He almost killed me.”
“I see.” Rowden’s voice was slow and deliberate. “This is very serious.”
“Lock him away!” someone called.
“Good idea,” Rowden said, making his voice heard above the crowd. He’d commanded the attention of far more belligerent crowds from a pugilism ring in London’s underbelly. Nash knew this gathering was nothing to him. “You there—take this gentleman away.”
Nash waited for rough arms to seize him, but instead he heard more murmuring. No one moved.
“What are you about?” Northgate said. “He tried to kill me!”
“Is that so?” Rowden drawled. “With what weapon?”
Nash didn’t allow himself to smile yet. After all, Rowden would not appreciate it if he ruined his moment.
“A pistol,” Northgate said, sounding as though he were speaking to a child. “The one he always carries with him. Same one he shot the Scot with, I imagine.”
“This one?” Rowden said.
Beside him, Pru gasped, and Nash could imagine Rowden drawing Nash’s pistol out of his own pocket.
“Not that one! He has a pistol!” Northgate said, but he sounded uncertain now. He sounded as though he knew he had just taken a wrong step.
“Mr. Pope,” Rowden said. “Would you empty your pockets, please.”
“Of course,” Nash said. He reached into his outer coat pockets and turned them inside out. Then he made a show of removing his coat and emptying the inner pockets and the pockets of his waistcoat. In the end, he had nothing to show for it except a few pieces of lint and a couple of coins.
“He threw the pistol into the garden!” Northgate said, sounding panicked. “He gave it to her.” He must have pointed at Pru because Nash heard people murmuring her name. But it must have been obvious she wasn’t hiding a pistol in her dress because the next voice Nash heard was that of his father.
“I’d like for you to empty your pockets, Mr. Northgate.”
“I will not,” Northgate said. He sounded very much like he was cornered now.
“I’m afraid that was not a request,” the earl said. “Empty your pockets, sir.”
“No.”
“Clopdon,” the earl said, his tone one of weariness.
“Yes, sir.”
Pru’s hand on his tightened. She leaned closer. “Clopdon has gestured to two footmen to take hold of Mr. Northgate, and they’re searching his pockets.”
Nash could have guessed as much from the sounds of a scuffle he heard. Then Northgate swore and said, “What does it matter if I have a pistol? That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Let me see it,” the earl ordered. “Bring it to me.”
The crowd gathered around them seemed to collectively hold their breath. Nash wished them all gone. He wished the entire day over. He wanted to pull Pru close, breathe in her scent and kiss her until they were both dizzy with need. For the first time in weeks, Nash wasn’t afraid he would be violently snatched from his bed and driven to an asylum this night. He had a reprieve and, whether it was for one day or more, he knew he wanted to spend it with Pru.
“It’s been recently fired,” his father said. “The stock is still warm and there’s powder at the muzzle.”
“I fired in self-defense!” Northgate shouted, which was clearly a last desperate grasp at a defense. Everyone had heard only one shot.
“George, do shut up now.”
Nash didn’t recognize the voice, and he waited for Pru to name the speaker, but he had to nudge her to remind her.
“It’s Mrs. Northgate,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “The dowager.”
“I want to apologize for my grandson,” Mrs. Northgate said. “He is, unfortunately, too much like his mother.”
The crowd chuckled quietly, and Nash assumed the younger Mrs. Northgate was not well-liked.
“I will take him home now, if that is acceptable, my lord. Or do you wish to summon the magistrate?”
“Grandmama!” Northgate shouted.
“I told you to shut up. I will, of course, give a statement,” Mrs. Northgate said. “But if you allow me to take him home, I think a nice long trip to the Continent is in his future.”
“Take him,” the earl said. “I do not wish to see him again.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The crowd shifted and there was some jostling as, presumably, the footmen led Northgate away. Pru squeezed Nash’s hand. “I am going after them.”
“No,” Nash said. He didn’t want Pru anywhere near George Northgate.
“I want to speak to Mrs. Northgate,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
And then she was gone, and Nash stood awkwardly in the center of a ring of people he did not know. He took a deep breath, tried to stand still and not fidget. Finally, a voice he did not recognize said, “Well done, Mr. Pope.”
Next came a female voice. “We always knew you weren’t dicked in the nob.”
“Er—thank you,” Nash said, realizing the villagers about him were speaking to him.
“This will be a festival we won’t soon forget,” another said.
“Lot more exciting than last year’s,” another man said.
“Excuse me,” came a voice Nash knew well. He braced for whatever his father would do next. But the earl put his arm about Nash’s shoulder and led him away, up toward the house. Nash stiffened at the unfamiliar feel of his father’s affection. It had been years since his father had draped a casual arm about him and walked with him.
When they were away from the crowd, the earl patted Nash’s back and said, “Well, that was certainly exciting.”
“I don’t know if exciting is the word I would use for it.”
“Lies, deceit, treachery—I feel almost as though I am back in London.”
“And when will you be returning?” Nash asked.
He’d expected a flash of anger from his father, but the earl slapped him on the back affectionately and laughed. “In a day or two. I came here for answers, and I suppose now I have them.”
“Do you?” Nash asked, turning to look at his father. He wished he could see more than the shadowy outline, but he would have to guess at his father’s expression.
“You are clearly not mad and you don’t belong in an asylum. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Nash felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He slumped and let out a breath.
“I can see you are relieved,” the earl said. “I am sorry I ever caused you so much anxiety. You know if I sent you away, it would have been for your own good.”
