A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

  The sustained display of temper was quite unlike him and highly annoying, but Lottie could scarcely blame him for it. He wanted explanation and action, and she could offer neither.

  “We don’t know who it is, Peter,” she explained on the second afternoon. “It might be a poacher, just as Owen, his men, and his colleague in London suspect.”

  “Bollocks. We are not holed up in this house because of a poacher.”

  “It is only a precaution,” she said again. Was this the third time they’d had this discussion or the fourth? It felt like the hundredth. “And mind your language.”

  “Then let us be cautious,” Peter said stiffly. “I want you out. I want you and Esther and the staff far away from here.”

  Lottie abandoned the set of ledgers she’d spent the last two hours struggling to reconcile with the possibility of an upcoming move and turned to run a loving hand down her brother’s arm. “I know, dear, but on the very, very small chance we are not dealing with a poacher, the wisest course of action is to stay protected inside the house at all times.”

  “He is alone in the woods. Sir Samuel says it appears as if he approaches the house for only a brief time, then leaves again and camps elsewhere at night. We can use the cover of darkness to slip away.”

  If it was the man’s intention to follow them, then there was every reason to believe he had someone watching the roads. Possibly several individuals. One or more could reach him and return on horseback much faster than they could get away in a caravan of carriages traveling down a dark road. She couldn’t explain this to Peter, however, without implying that they were almost certainly not dealing with a poacher. “I am sorry, Peter, but I am tired of discussing this. It is safer to stay in the house. We are not leaving. And that is that.”

  Peter puffed his chest up in a manner she could only assume was meant to be impressive. It put her in mind of a little boy playing soldier. “That, I believe, is for me to decide.”

  That sentiment was a hair more pompous than sweet, but she made allowances for age and circumstances. “It is not.”

  “Who else, then? Renderwell? It is his fault, like as not—”

  “It is not. And it is my decision.”

  “I am the man of the house.”

  This was a new tactic and not the least bit sweet. She rose from her chair to pin him with a single, cold stare. “You are a young man in my house, Peter. Understood?”

  His lips thinned into a single angry line and his hands fisted at his sides until his knuckles turned white. Lottie braced herself for the verbal firestorm to come. But Peter said nothing. He simply spun on his heel and strode from the room.

  After that unfortunate incident, Peter’s surliness grew into a veritable thundercloud of anger that rumbled and roiled over his head, pouring resentment and temper down on anyone so unfortunate as to cross his path.

  To Lottie’s considerable dismay, and Peter’s great delight, Owen rectified the situation by taking matters into his own hands on the morning of the third day.

  “Peter will aid me in a search of the woods today.” Owen announced this unwelcomed bit of news as Lottie walked into the front parlor to discover Peter loading a rifle.

  “What? No. Absolutely not. Absolutely not.” She stabbed a finger at Peter. “Put that away. You’ve no idea how to use it.”

  “Yes, I do,” Peter countered, sparing her a glance. “Mr. Whitlock taught me.”

  “Mr. Whitlock?” The handsome butcher? “When? Why?”

  “Two years ago, to start. When I’ve had the opportunity since. And because I asked it of him. He agreed the only man in a house ought to know how to protect it.”

  “That rotten—”

  “You like Mr. Whitlock,” Peter interrupted, and he sent her his first smile in days. “He quite likes you.”

  “This is not a source of humor, Peter.”

  He shrugged and went back to his gun. “If you wish to sulk about it, I cannot stop you.”

  For one infuriating moment, she was stunned speechless.

  Owen cleared his throat. “Peter, I am not certain it is wise—”

  “Me?” Lottie found her voice and, with it, a fair amount of volume. “You insufferable child. You have tried my patience, and the patience of every person in this house, for days. We’ve had nothing but sullen, peevish behavior out of you. I swear you were better company as a squalling infant. He had colic.” This last was snapped at Owen, to whom she felt compelled to offer some sort of explanation.

  “I see.”

  She jabbed her finger at Peter again and took a step toward him. “I couldn’t put you over my knee for that, but by God—”

  “Do you know,” Peter chirped and took a quick step back toward the door. “I believe I’ve forgotten my…er…my hat.” He set his rifle aside without taking his eyes off her. “I need my hat. Back in a thrice.”

  “Don’t you dare walk out of this… Oh, that little brat.” With the object of her fury gone, she whirled on Owen. Had she thought him a good, selfless man only a few days ago? She was an idiot. “What have you done?”

  Owen merely shrugged and checked his own weapons. “He needs something to do. He needs to feel useful.”

  “Oh, well, if a desire to feel useful is the only prerequisite for indulging stupidity, allow me to fetch my pistol.”

  “Rifle would be preferable. Greater range.”

  Temper was briefly overtaken by surprise. “You would take me?”

  He didn’t look up from his task. “Did you think I would make the offer to your young brother and deny you?”

  “Yes.” And his answer, she noted, had come in the form of his own question. “You said you don’t trust me with a gun.”

  “No, I implied that I do not trust your ability to properly handle a weapon during a time of danger. Which, in this case, is not a concern.” He leaned his rifle against the wall and finally gave her his full attention. “I would suggest, however, that you choose another time to accompany me. Peter is likely to take exception to having the butt of his rifle tangle in the leading strings.”

  “I am not interested in Peter’s exceptions.” And she still was not convinced Owen would be willing to take her along to search the woods, but it was the lesser of two concerns at the moment. “I am interested in his safety.”

  “He’ll be fine. He is a clever, capable young man.”

  “He is a child,” Lottie countered.

  “I am nearly fifteen,” Peter countered, reentering the room. He stopped near the door, hat in hand, and gave Lottie a speculative look. “You’re not really going to try to put me over your knee, are you?”

  She’d never put him over her knee in his life, but Lottie thought it best to keep a boy of fourteen on his toes. “That remains to be seen.”

  “I am not a child, Lottie.”

  “You are. He is.” When Peter shook his head and turned his attention to donning his coat and gloves, she stepped close to Owen and whispered so only he could hear. “He should be. Don’t take that from him. Not yet.”

  A mix of understanding and sympathy passed over Owen’s face. He shot a quick glance at Peter, then leaned closer and gently ran his hand down her arm. “Lottie. I’d not take that from him for any price. He will trudge about the woods with me for a time, nothing more.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “I can, or I’d not have made the offer to Peter.” His fingers brushed lightly over the back of her hand. “I’ll keep him safe. I promise. Samuel has already searched the area northwest of the house. There are no tracks there nor signs anyone has been through there at any time. There is no one there, but Peter will feel the better for having looked.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Let him help you. He will never forgive himself for not helping you.”

  Her resolve wavered. Owen was right. Peter w
anted so badly to do well by his family. He needed so much to take care of those he loved. She wanted the same thing herself, but she was not a boy of fourteen, standing on the cusp of manhood. She hadn’t so much to prove nor a confidence so easily damaged.

  She gave a shaky nod and reluctantly stepped away from Owen’s reassuring touch.

  “You have one hour,” she announced loud enough for Peter to hear.

  “Five,” Peter countered.

  “We will return in three.” Owen threw Peter a sharp look before the boy could protest. “It is the same for Samuel and Gabriel. There is nothing to be gained in staying out longer than necessary. And take off the hat. Nothing to be gained by making yourself a larger target, either.”

  Peter nodded, tossed his hat aside, and hitched his rifle to his shoulder with a practiced ease that made Lottie’s heart twist. Hadn’t he just been struggling to learn his letters? Hadn’t it been only yesterday that he’d needed her to kiss a scraped elbow or knee? How could he be standing before her now, with a man’s cocky grin on his face and a weapon in his hands?

  “Don’t be afraid, Sis.” He gave her a cheerful grin. “I’m not.”

  “You are. You are,” she repeated coolly when he would have argued, “because I did not raise a stupid, selfish boy.”

  His cheeks flamed red with insult, then quickly dulled to a faint blush of shame. “I’ll be around to flatten spiders for you a while longer,” he offered sheepishly. “Please don’t worry.”

  “I always worry,” she replied, but she smiled. There didn’t seem to be any other choice but to force a smile and keep it in place as she followed them through the house, then saw them out a side door.

  Owen paused on the other side of the threshold. “Who is Mr. Whitlock?”

  “The butcher.” She thought of the wiry strength in Mr. Whitlock’s arms and his sharp set of knives and let the smile go. “Bring Peter back with so much as a scratch, and I’ll arrange an introduction.”

  “Wouldn’t mind an introduction.”

  “You would mind his cleaver,” she promised and shut the door.

  * * *

  Three hours later, Peter returned as promised, without a single visible scratch and without the miserable temper of the previous days. His fine mood was further buoyed when Owen suggested later that afternoon that Peter join him during his night watch.

  Lottie didn’t argue. Walking about the house with Owen was hardly dangerous work. Still, it rankled that Owen had, once again, not sought out her approval, or even her opinion, before involving Peter.

  “You cannot presume to take over the running of this house and this family after mere days in residence.” He shouldn’t expect it at all. It was her house, her family. It was her parlor they were in. That was her settee he was sitting on. It was her carpet he’d muddied with his boots. “I appreciate what you have done and what you continue to do for us, but neither gives you the right to take charge of this house.”

  Owen’s lips turned down at the corners. “You’re quite right.”

  “Furthermore, if you… I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you are correct. I should have discussed the notion with you first.” He shrugged. “I am accustomed to leadership.”

  When further explanation was not immediately forthcoming, she tamped down annoyance and tried to help him along. “You are accustomed to issuing orders, therefore you issue orders?”

  “Without consultation or interference, yes. I meant no discourtesy. It’s habit. One I’ll make a concerted effort to alter whilst at Willowbend.”

  “Well. Good.” She thought about it as she took her own seat and decided that, no, it was not good. Quick capitulation was always suspect. “In the future, you’ll not involve Peter, or any other member of this house, without my permission?”

  He rubbed the backs of his fingers under his chin. “Well, now, I’ll certainly discuss it with you first.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Tell me of your Mr. Whitlock.”

  The abrupt change of subject left her reeling. “What? Why? No, never mind. It doesn’t matter. We are not discussing Mr. Whitlock.”

  “We could be. I’d rather be.”

  “But we’re not.”

  “I think we are,” he returned, a teasing glint in his eyes. “We have now made four consecutive statements—five including this one—of which your Mr. Whitlock is the topic. That constitutes a discussion.”

  They weren’t discussing Mr. Whitlock; they were discussing whether or not to discuss Mr. Whitlock or possibly whether or not Mr. Whitlock was currently being discussed. Whatever the case, it was entirely different than a discussion of Mr. Whitlock. Lottie hesitated to point this out, however.

  There was little chance they would come to an immediate agreement on who was currently in charge. It would take time to make Owen understand the difference between discourtesy and disrespect. So she would give him a few hours, or maybe the night, and then they would revisit the matter.

  In the meantime…she rather liked the idea of discussing Mr. Whitlock.

  A part of her—a small, juvenile part—was intrigued by the idea that Owen might be jealous. She’d never made a man jealous before. She knew how. She’d been given lessons in all manner of manipulation. But the opportunity to put this particular lesson to use had never presented itself.

  A larger part of her warned against playing games with Owen. He was not a dupe. She was not a schemer. And she didn’t want there to be games between them.

  The second part was older, wiser, and safer. But it wasn’t nearly as interesting.

  “He is not my Mr. Whitlock,” she said carefully, undecided as yet which part of herself she would heed. “He is Wayton’s butcher.”

  “The butcher who quite likes you.”

  “He did, once.”

  He stretched out an arm on the back of the settee. “And now you are mortal enemies?”

  “Now we are friends.”

  “But you were more than friends, once.”

  She brushed a fictional piece of lint from her sleeve. “He was a suitor for a time.”

  “How much time? How long ago?”

  She had to think about it, which gave her some pause. Until her kiss with Owen the other night, Mr. Whitlock’s courtship had been the closest thing she’d known to a great love affair. But if she couldn’t easily recall when this momentous event had taken place then, clearly, neither “great,” nor “love,” nor “affair” actually applied. Inconsequentially affectionate episode, that’s what she’d had. It was depressing.

  “Three years ago,” she replied, fairly certain it was the same summer Esther had saved the poodle.

  And, again, wasn’t that a sad statement of her affairs—or lack thereof—that she should remember those months as the summer in which my sister rescued a dog and acquired a desk, when it ought to have been the summer in which Mr. Whitlock kissed me. To combat the sudden desire to sag in her seat, she inched closer to the edge of the chair and straightened her shoulders. “Not for long. Two months, perhaps three.”

  “You encouraged his attentions, then. The courtship would not have lasted a day unless you were agreeable.” He tipped his head at her, his eyes inscrutable. “Handsome, is he?”

  “Naturally,” she drawled. “Why else would a lady bother?”

  “Why indeed? Who ended it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does.” He regarded her quietly for a moment. “It was you.”

  “Do you think?” She didn’t mind telling him it was, but she minded a little that he should be so quick to draw his own conclusions.

  “You’re embarrassed, but you’re not hurt,” he explained. “Was he angry?”

  “I’m not embarrassed.” She was a trifle embarrassed, but there were appearances to maintain, even with Owen. “And no, he wasn’t angr
y. It was all quite civil. I told him I could not return his affections, and that was the end of it.”

  “Was it?” He asked softly. “Do you think he let you go so easily?”

  “I don’t know as it was easily done.” That wasn’t at all flattering.

  “Wailed and gnashed his teeth, did he?”

  “There was a brief spot of gnashing. No wailing. And now we are friends. Friendly acquaintances, really. There are no sweet words of devotion nor hopeless gazes of longing.”

  “Not on your end, I’m sure.” He stretched his long legs out before him. “But it is naïve to assume a man doesn’t look, even when he shouldn’t. Especially when he shouldn’t.”

  “There is no assumption. He lets me alone.”

  “Doesn’t mean he isn’t looking.” His voice took on a silky quality. “I can’t imagine a man not looking.”

  Something warm and liquid started in her chest and spread. “You didn’t.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek and prayed she wasn’t blushing. In for a penny, she thought.

  “In London. You never looked.” That wasn’t entirely accurate. He’d looked that last year. She often wondered if he’d looked before without her notice. And since it appeared she hadn’t the gall to provoke his jealousy, she could at least have her curiosity assuaged.

  “Is that what you think?” Owen asked.

  “Did you?”

  “Not initially, no,” he replied, and she felt herself deflate. “You were an infant when we met.”

  “An infant? I was eighteen.” And worldly with it, in comparison to the sheltered misses he knew.

  “And had I been eighteen as well, I might have commissioned a poet to herald your beauty. But I was five-and-twenty, if memory serves. Too old for a girl just out of the nursery.”

  Most gentlemen were not of a similar mind, but that wasn’t the portion of his statement that snagged her attention.

  “Commissioned a poet?” She laughed at the very notion. “Good Lord, you are a viscount.”