A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

  “Some.” She brushed the errant lock of hair away from her face. “You?”

  Well now, that was nice.

  “I did,” he replied and caught his hands behind his back. “Thank you for inquiring.”

  “Habit.”

  “Liar.”

  “Lottie!” Peter’s young voice positively boomed across the lawn.

  Owen tilted his head to look around Lottie and saw the boy walking toward them, Esther at his side. So much for a few private words. He couldn’t tell her of the change in plan now. Well, he could, but he wouldn’t have time to convince her it was for the best, so why bother with the argument?

  “Healthy set of lungs on that one,” he observed.

  “He’s fourteen.” Lottie turned to wave at the newcomers. “He’ll settle.”

  “He has a lifetime of settled before him. There’s no hurry.”

  “Insightful of you,” she said with a glance over her shoulder.

  He stepped up beside her. “You needn’t sound stunned. Some people consider me a man of exceptional insight.”

  Other people considered him a barbaric reprobate and a disgrace to titled gentlemen the world over.

  She looked at him with great pity. “Might these people be your mother?”

  His mother belonged in the category of “other people,” but he appreciated the barb nonetheless.

  “It requires a perceptive and intelligent woman to recognize brilliance.” He gave her a consoling look of his own. “Trust me.”

  That pulled a laugh out of her. The sound was clear and sweet and made him feel as if he’d won a coveted prize. It was just as he remembered.

  “You’re delusional,” Lottie informed him. “Both of you.”

  “And you’re amused,” he returned softly. “It is nice to hear you laugh, Lottie.”

  He waited for the laugh to die abruptly and braced himself to see her eyes go cold. But it never happened. Instead, the laugh faded slowly. The tone became less sure, more hesitant.

  At last the laughter drifted away completely, and a weighted silence followed. He wanted to fill it, to find the words that would make her smile again.

  But there wasn’t time. A few seconds more, and Peter and Esther were upon them.

  “Good morning, Lord Renderwell,” Peter offered cheerfully and a little slowly, as if he was taking extra care with the words.

  Good God, surely Lottie had not actually disparaged his intelligence in front of the boy.

  Owen kept his tone light and easy, despite a rising irritation. “Mr. Bales. Miss Bales. Fine morning, is it not?”

  “It is,” Peter agreed. He smiled broadly. Much, much too broadly. “Have you plans?”

  “I’ve some pressing correspondence.” She had. The little hellion had told her brother that Viscount Renderwell was a dolt. “But Sir Samuel and Sir Gabriel have expressed an interest in visiting your village.”

  Peter shook his head and continued to speak slowly. “There is little amusement to be had there, I’m afraid.”

  “There are ruins to the south, I’ve heard.”

  “There are,” Peter confirmed, perking up and, thankfully, speeding up. “A twelfth-century motte and bailey with the remains of a keep converted to stone. I’ve spent a fair amount of time exploring them.”

  “Ah, a guide. Excellent. If you’re amendable, of course.”

  Lottie’s gaze snapped to his. “I’m afraid that’s not—”

  Peter spoke right over her. “Delighted to be of service, my lord. It is a bit of a ride, mind you. The better part of two hours by carriage.”

  Lottie shook her head. “Entirely too far. I am certain…” She sent Owen one of her extra-sharp smiles. “Quite certain the gentlemen have had their fill of travel—”

  “Nonsense.” Owen smiled right back. She was angry. Good. So was he. Dolt, indeed. “My men would like nothing better than a leisurely”—he drew the word out, just to be a little mean—“ride through the countryside.”

  “It’s settled then,” Peter announced.

  Lottie’s lips parted, she took a breath on which to object—strenuously, no doubt—just as the breeze picked up…and she found herself with a mouthful of hair.

  She spit it out with a remarkable lack of grace for a woman best known for her unflappable poise. Owen did his utmost not to laugh. Lady luck might be a fickle mistress, but her little sister serendipity made for one hell of a friend.

  Esther winced sympathetically, but she said, “A visit to the ruins does sound lovely,” in a perfectly cheerful tone of voice.

  “You mean to come?” Peter asked.

  “Well”—she wrapped her arm through his—“someone must keep an eye on you, else your mischief will land our guests in hot water before midday.”

  On the surface, the comment appeared to be a playful bit of teasing. But the subtle nod Esther sent to Lottie held a promise, not a jest. Esther meant to keep an eye on everyone.

  “Bit of a scamp, is he?” Owen asked while Peter blushed and stammered.

  “Complete rapscallion,” Esther assured him with a look that was neither playful nor reassuring. It was as hard as Lottie’s eyes. Clearly, Esther didn’t care for this turn of events any more than her sister.

  “Hardly that.” Peter laughed.

  “Prove it,” Esther challenged and placed a sisterly peck on his cheek. “Come inside and help me see to the arrangements, like a gentleman.”

  “I suppose we should pack a meal,” Peter agreed. “Will you be joining us, Lottie?”

  “I…” She pushed her hair back up with its pin. “Thank you, no. I’ve things to look after here.”

  Owen understood that to mean she had him to look after here. Under no circumstances would she allow him unsupervised access to her home.

  Peter looked genuinely disappointed, once again raising him in Owen’s estimation. It wasn’t every fourteen-year-old boy who sought out the company of his sisters. “Certain? It won’t be the same without you.”

  “We shall tell her all about it upon our return,” Esther promised and gave his arm a gentle tug. “We should begin our preparations straightaway if we wish to leave by a reasonable hour. You will excuse us, my lord?”

  He inclined his head. Peter bowed low. Esther curtsied prettily. And Lottie gave a merry wave.

  A companionable lot were they.

  Up to the very second Esther and Peter were removed from earshot.

  “Four hours,” Lottie ground out, spinning on him. “You couldn’t keep to an agreement for four hours?”

  “Four hours ago, I agreed to tell Peter a fictional variation of his family’s past. That hasn’t changed.” He held up a hand. “Allow me to finish. With Peter out of the house, we can search your father’s journals without fear of discovery.”

  “I have staff.”

  “Many of whom can be sent to attend those going to the ruins. Certainly the maids and footmen may go. I will find something else for the rest to do.”

  Her eyes turned murderous at the word I, but the overall effect was somewhat mitigated by the reappearance of the errant lock of hair. It slid back out of its pin slowly, the middle section first, creating a silken loop that grew larger and larger until finally the very end slipped free and came to rest on the gentle curve of her breast.

  He decided he would not look at it. “You can find something else for the rest to do.”

  “Your men were to limit their time with Peter, not seek him out.”

  “Samuel and Gabriel know what they’re doing. Deceit is not new to them. It is not new to you, either,” he pointed out, eager to switch from defense to offense. “I cannot believe you would tell Peter I’m a dolt.”

  Her brows lifted. “Can you not?”

  “It was reckless, Lottie. Don’t you think he’ll grow suspicious when he discovers t
he truth?”

  A short pause followed. “I don’t foresee the truth becoming a problem.”

  “Oh, for—”

  “I didn’t tell him you were a dolt.” She rolled her eyes with supreme impatience. “Honestly, when did you become so gullible?”

  Owen frowned and looked back at the house. “He was acting oddly. Didn’t you notice?”

  “Of course he was acting oddly. He’s nervous.” The wind caught her hair, lifted it to her face. She brushed it away. “You’re the first viscount he’s ever met, and you knew our father. He wants very much to make a good impression.”

  “Ah.” He nodded as irritation drained away. “Yes, that makes sense. I—” He stopped before he could apologize for having assumed the worst. The whole thing had been her jest. He was not going to apologize for being the butt of it. “He has already made a good impression.”

  “Well, he doesn’t know that,” she bit off. “He doesn’t know anything and I wanted to keep it that way. You agreed to my plan.”

  Owen studied her face. Her jaw was clenched tight, and her eyes kept darting to the house and back again. She wasn’t angry, he realized. He studied her some more.

  Yes, actually, she was. She was exceedingly angry. But she was also worried, maybe even a little fearful.

  And now he felt like a heel. Using Peter to provoke her had been bad form.

  “I did agree,” he said carefully. “And I should have told you I saw need to alter it. I certainly should not have surprised you with it in front of Peter. That was badly done. I apologize.”

  She said nothing, just stared at him through guarded eyes. Not a trusting woman, his Charlotte.

  “Your secrets are safe with me, Lottie. They always have been. They—” He broke off when she brushed at her hair again. “Here.” Stepping close, he drew his finger across her cheek, catching the loose strand and gently tucking it behind her ear.

  She stood very, very still during the process, like she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to lean into the touch or break his hand off at the wrist.

  The breeze caught her scent and brought it to him. “You smell different,” he said softly.

  She took a quick step back. “I beg your pardon?”

  Though he was reluctant to break the contact, he let his hand fall away. “I noticed it last night. You used to smell of flowers. Roses and lavender and such. Now you smell…” He bent closer and took in a breath. “Like lemons. Tart.”

  “If the scent offends you, I’ll go inside—”

  “Didn’t say it offends me.”

  “—and bathe in it.”

  “It isn’t offensive,” he pressed on. “Quite the contrary. It suits you.” He gave her a smile designed to charm. “It suits me too.”

  The design failed.

  “Don’t,” she warned and turned to leave.

  He caught her arm. “Wait—”

  “Don’t.” She yanked herself free. “You haven’t the right to tease me, Renderwell, and you damn well haven’t the right to flirt with me.”

  “I’m not attempting to flirt with you.” He was, a little, but only in a bid to make her smile again. He held his hands up. “I am trying to form a truce, Lottie. If you would be reasonable—”

  “Reasonable?” She spat the word out as if it burned her tongue. “If I—”

  “Yes. Reasonable.” Irritation was starting to return. “Being at odds with each other accomplishes nothing but to make our current situation unnecessarily uncomfortable. I want you to put aside your anger, your entirely unjustified anger, I might add, for two minutes and be reasonable. I want—”

  “Oh, to hell with what you want.”

  The venom in her voice took him aback. So did the depth of rage in her eyes. There was more here than old, irrational anger, he realized. Even more than fear for her brother. There was something else mixed in. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  “The unbelievable gall of you.” Lottie stepped up to him, hands fisted at her sides. “After everything that happened, you show up on my doorstep and expect friendly cooperation? Are you completely unhinged? Why should I bother myself over your comfort, Renderwell? Why on earth should I dance one step to your tune? I tried that once. My father tried it. He danced a merry jig for you and your men for four years, and look what he got for his trouble.”

  “Now wait a min—”

  “An unmarked, untended grave nobody knows where. That was his reward. Did you think I would forget? Is that your definition of reasonable—that I should pretend I don’t remember or that my anger is unjustified, so you might be comfortable?”

  What he’d done, Owen thought darkly. Sent her father out to single-handedly rescue the kidnapped Lady Strale from the nefarious Horatio Gage—that was his crime. He had sealed Will Walker’s fate by ordering him into a building full of armed criminals.

  Only Owen hadn’t done it. He’d never given that order. And she bloody well knew it.

  “Right.” He considered his options, calculated the risks, and made a choice. “Right.”

  Determined now, he took hold of her arm and marched toward a nearby bench hidden from the house by the low-hanging branches of an ancient oak.

  She pulled at her arm fruitlessly. “What do you think—?”

  “We’re having this out.”

  “I am not interested in—”

  “I am.” He spun her around, positioning her in front of the bench. “Sit down and listen.”

  “No.”

  “I have the advantage here, Charlotte. And we both know it.” He moved an inch closer. “Sit down.”

  She stood just as she was. But only for a moment more, just long enough to make it perfectly clear how little she thought of him and his threats. Finally, she sat, slowly and without taking her eyes off him. Her black gaze promised unholy retribution.

  She’d make good on that promise, no doubt. And well she should. A man who engaged in high-handed tactics with a woman deserved to lose a finger. A man who tried it with Lottie should expect to lose two.

  But, by God, it would be worth it. Damn well worth it to have this argument out and done with at last.

  He glanced down at his hands, then held them out for her to see. “Do you know how much blood I have on my hands, Lottie?”

  She narrowed her eyes, suspecting a trap. “No.”

  “Neither do I,” he admitted. “Enemy soldiers, mostly. It can be difficult in battle to know if it was your shot that felled a man or if the soldier standing next to you fired first. But it stands to reason I hit my mark at least some of the time, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. And then there are the men I’ve killed since the war. Criminals like Daniel Potts, George Brunten, and a half-dozen others, maybe more. Again, difficult to tell when there are men beside you and the smoke of shot all around. But I can tell you the name of every man who died whilst under my command. Every man who was lost because I missed a shot or because, maybe, I hesitated too long to sound a retreat or not long enough before a charge. It is an ungodly amount of blood. The weight of it is staggering.” He turned his hands over and studied the backs of his fingers. “I put it there, and I will live with it.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “But I will be damned before I let you add your father’s blood to that weight.”

  She blinked, reared back. “What?”

  “Your father chose his path. He chose to build his fortune through deceit and theft, and when he was caught, he chose to work with us rather than face punishment.”

  “I know that.”

  “And he chose to face Horatio Gage alone.” She bloody well knew that too. “He was ordered to stay away. He knew better than to walk into a building brimming to the rafters with Gage’s armed men. I was miles away. We were all miles away. There was nothing we could do to h
elp him. He knew that.” He leaned down, caught her gaze, and held it. “I am not responsible for the death of your father. Do you understand?”

  “I… You…” she sputtered—something he had never seen her do before—then closed her mouth and for nearly a full ten seconds simply stared at him as if he was some sort of exotic and possibly dangerous beast.

  And then, at long last—

  “You really are a dolt,” she said breathlessly, rather as if she was as surprised to discover this as he was to hear it.

  He straightened again. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How could you possibly think…?” She stared at him some more. “I loved my father. For all his vices, I loved him dearly.”

  “I know,” he said, uncertain as to the current direction of the conversation.

  “Do you?” A small, baffled laugh escaped her. “And yet you imagine I would choose for his murderer the blistering revenge of a cold shoulder?”

  “Your options were limited. And I thought—”

  “I was a Walker,” she reminded him ominously. “I’d all manner of options at my disposal. I know who killed my father. I have always known. Horatio Gage. And had he not met his demise at the end of a rope, I’d have seen to it that it arrived at the end of a knife. Slowly.”

  Owen found himself at a loss. “Then why in God’s name are you so angry with me?”

  She shook her head slowly. “You really don’t know, do you? It meant so little to you—”

  “How am I to know what it meant to me if I don’t know what it is? I’m not a gypsy woman, Lottie. I can’t read your mind—”

  “You disavowed him,” she cut in, stabbing an accusatory finger at him. “You tossed him aside like garbage.”

  Garbage? What the devil was this? “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “Didn’t you? Did you acknowledge what he did for you? Anything he did for you? Did you give him credit for rescuing Lady Strale from Gage? Did you ever speak one public word about my father?”

  “You know I couldn’t reveal your father’s involvement,” Owen returned, utterly confounded. “He was a thief.” Public opinion on the matter of the police working with the very thieves they were meant to catch was unforgiving, to say the least. Moreover, it would have put the entire Walker family at risk. “He was a criminal—”