A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

  He thought through his trip from London to Willowbend, scrutinized and second-guessed every choice to stop and rest, water the horses, stretch the legs, check a shoe. He brought to mind every face, horse and rider, and carriage they passed on the road or met at an inn. Had the enemy made himself known only to be overlooked? Had the signs they were being followed been there all along only to be missed?

  Where the devil had he gone wrong?

  For the life of him, he couldn’t find his mistake. He couldn’t nail down the point where he should have taken a second look, or a third, or turned right instead of left, or pressed on instead of stopping. It was infuriating.

  And pointless to boot, he told himself.

  One way or another, he would have found us. I’m glad you brought the letters here. I’m glad you’re here.

  Lottie’s words made sense. He knew they made sense. The Ferret’s determination would have met with success at some point. At least, this way, Lottie didn’t have to face the threat alone. This way, Owen thought darkly, he would have the opportunity to deal with that threat personally.

  But even the promise of vengeance did little to ease his guilt.

  “Cold comfort,” he muttered into the darkness. “Damned cold comfort.”

  Seventeen

  Though the next day dawned warm and clear, a thick cover of clouds rolled in by afternoon, carrying in an unseasonably cold rain. The miserable weather didn’t keep the men indoors during daylight, but when night fell, they had no choice but to call off the search in the woods.

  “Black as pitch,” Gabriel informed Lottie as he and the rest of the men joined the family in the library. “Can’t see my own feet.”

  “He leaves at night, doesn’t he?” Lottie asked. She glanced at the closed drapes and tried not to imagine someone lurking on the other side of the windows. “Makes camp farther out?”

  “Appears that way.”

  She exchanged a skeptical look with Esther. Appearances meant little.

  Peter set aside the book he was reading. “He won’t come to the house with all of us here. It would be suicide.”

  “It would,” she agreed and didn’t mention that a madman might not care overmuch.

  She rose to ring for refreshments, then froze in a half-standing position as a muffled pop of gunshot reached her ears. There was an unmistakable crack of glass and a pained grunt from Samuel as he stumbled back into the bookshelves and slid to the ground.

  Everyone else in the room dropped to the floor like a set of abruptly abandoned marionettes.

  “Stay down!”

  “Samuel!”

  “Alive! He’s alive!”

  “Lottie! Esther!”

  “Stay down, Peter!” Lottie yelled, torn between terror for Samuel and blinding relief that Owen and her family were alive and unharmed.

  “The hall!” Owen’s booming voice drowned out the chaos. “Everyone in the hall!”

  As a group, they crawled, bellied, and, in Samuel’s case, were dragged across the floor and into the hall.

  Owen kicked the library door shut with his foot before scrambling to his feet. “Peter, I need you to get to the staff. Put them in the hall. Don’t go in the rooms, any room—just call them out to the hall and make certain they stay there. Can you do that?”

  “I can.” Peter’s voice wavered, but he nodded and gained his feet. “Won’t you need us here? Shouldn’t we arm ourselves?”

  Owen aided Gabriel in propping Samuel against the wall. “No. It was a single, distant shot. He’s not trying to get in.”

  And even if he was, Lottie thought, Peter and the staff would be safer upstairs. “Do as he says.”

  “Right.” Peter nodded once and took off down the hall.

  Standing on legs that wanted to buckle, Lottie reached out and grasped Esther’s hand without looking. Her eyes were fixed on Samuel. He was awake, but his skin was ashen, his face drawn tight with pain.

  Owen and Gabriel maneuvered him out of his coat. They were brisk but careful. Still, Samuel’s already pale face turned a sickly gray when they pulled the material down his right arm. Blood had soaked through his shirt at the shoulder and continued to slowly spread down his side and across his chest. It would keep coming, Lottie thought. It would keep coming and coming until there was a pool of it on the floor. They had to stop the blood.

  Owen tore off his own coat, his waistcoat, and finally his shirt. Gabriel followed suit and promptly bunched one shirt against Samuel’s shoulder and pressed the other against his back.

  Bandages, Lottie thought. They needed bandages. “Esther and I can fetch bandages.”

  Owen didn’t look at her. “No.”

  “We can find them in the dark.”

  “No.” Owen pulled a knife from his boot. “Your petticoats. Sleeves. Skirts. Whatever is easiest. That will do for now.”

  “Yes, of course.” Her hands shook, but Lottie accepted the knife and immediately got to work.

  While Lottie and Esther sliced away strips of material, Gabriel gingerly cut and pulled the shirt away from Samuel’s shoulder and back to inspect the wound. “Clear through. Missed the collarbone. Missed bone altogether, by the looks of it. Christ, you’re lucky. Number four, my friend.”

  Samuel bared his teeth as his friends poked and prodded the wound. “Hurts…every…bloody…time.”

  “Bullet wounds are subject to the law of diminishing returns, same as everything else,” Gabriel told him. “Just need a few more to feel the effects.”

  Samuel’s only response was an obscene gesture with his good hand.

  Esther paused in her awkward efforts to remove one of the detachable sleeves from her chemisette without taking off her gown. “Four?”

  “Fourth bullet he’s taken,” Owen supplied. “One in the leg. One in the side. One in the arm. Now one in the shoulder.”

  “Ah, variety,” Gabriel chimed. “The spice of life.”

  Samuel gave a choked laugh, paled, and grimaced. “No laughing. Will kill you.”

  “You can try later. Don’t want that fifth bullet so quick after the fourth, do you?”

  “Soon.” Samuel closed his eyes on a ragged sigh. “Kill you soon.”

  Esther took a hesitant step forward as Samuel slumped farther down the wall. “Samuel? Is he… He’s not…?”

  “No,” Gabriel assured her. “Fainted, that’s all. Always does. He’ll come to in a few minutes.”

  Owen edged Gabriel aside and took hold of the shirt against Samuel’s wound. “I have it. I want every room in this house lighted. No fires. Lamps near the windows.”

  “Understood.”

  Lottie didn’t understand, but she said nothing as Gabriel jumped to his feet and disappeared down the hall. Instead, she focused on the task at hand, methodically stripping lengths of fabric from her and Esther’s overskirts and petticoats to replace the linens as they became soaked with Samuel’s blood.

  “That should be sufficient,” Owen said after a time, measuring up the small stack of extra bandages. “The bleeding has nearly stopped.”

  Lottie let out a small breath of relief. The slow of blood was a good sign.

  The news that she would not be required to strip bare in the hall was also welcome. She’d already gone through several inches of skirts and undergarments.

  Samuel groaned and his eyes fluttered opened.

  “There you are.” Owen patted his friend’s face, then changed out another bandage. “Enjoy your lie down?”

  “Kill you too.”

  “You’ll have to stand first. Can you manage it?”

  “Aye.”

  Supporting Samuel’s uninjured side, Owen hauled the wounded man, grunting and swearing, to his feet.

  “Stop it.” Esther’s voice cut through Samuel’s cursing. “You’re hurting him. He needs a physician. And so
mething for the pain.”

  Samuel curled his lip. “Don’t want either.”

  “You’ll have both. Where are you taking him?”

  “The sitting room.” Owen jerked his chin at a nearby door just as Gabriel came down the hall at a brisk trot, carrying a small stack of linens. “We need light in there.”

  “Right.” Gabriel handed Esther the linens and Owen a clean shirt as he brushed past the group. “Right. Give me a minute.”

  They waited in the doorway until Gabriel had lighted every candle and lamp in the room and placed them all as close to the windows as possible without threatening to set the closed drapes ablaze.

  “Stay away from the lamps,” Owen ordered as he settled Samuel on a settee and Gabriel set off to light other rooms.

  Lottie studied the odd arrangement. Of course, she thought. The light made sense now. They couldn’t remain in the hall indefinitely, and they couldn’t stumble about rooms in the dark. But lighting only the rooms they used told the shooter where they were, as did walking in front of the lamps and candles, creating shadows.

  “He can’t tell where we are,” she murmured. From the outside, the whole house would be glowing and still. “That’s very clever.”

  “Well, this isn’t,” Esther protested, motioning at Samuel. “We can’t leave him here. Fetch the footmen, Renderwell. We’ll carry him upstairs.”

  “The devil you will,” Samuel growled. He turned angry eyes on Owen. “Make her stop.”

  “Make him listen,” Esther countered. “He needs a proper bed.”

  “I need a bloody whiskey. And some peace in which to drink it.”

  “You’ve no idea what you need.” Esther snatched up a linen and folded it into a new bandage. “Clearly.”

  Owen wisely backed away as he donned and buttoned his shirt. Far away, until he was standing next to Lottie by the door.

  “Will he be all right?” Lottie asked.

  She felt his hand, warm and strong, come to rest on her back. “He will. Gabriel was right—nothing vital was injured. It’s a flesh wound. We’ll keep it clean and keep him rested.” He moved his hand in a soothing circle as they watched Esther fuss over her snarling patient. “Your sister appears to have the job in hand. She makes a formidable nurse.”

  “She makes a formidable everything.”

  Owen winced when Esther thwarted Samuel’s attempt to sit up by delivering a quick thump of the fingers to his nose. “Indeed.”

  “Huh. Maybe it’s familial.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “The urge to thump irritating men on the nose.” She glanced over and saw his baffled expression. “Never mind. Is he always so recalcitrant when injured?”

  “No. He’s usually worse. But she’s a woman. He isn’t allowed to thump her back.” He considered this a second. “Wish I had thought to hire a woman to nurse him the last time.”

  “Did he thump you on the nose?”

  “He broke it.”

  Lottie looked at him with horror. “Good Lord.”

  “In Samuel’s defense,” Owen added quickly, “I was holding him down at the time, whilst a surgeon extracted a bullet from his leg.”

  “Oh,” she said, weakly. She’d not watched the surgeon pull the bullet from her father’s leg all those years ago, but she’d heard the screams, and she’d seen the state of her father’s bedroom after. She’d seen the bloodied tools and bandages, the ruined bed linens, and the bowls of rose-red water. It would have been much the same for Samuel, she thought, and she felt a little nauseated. “I see.”

  Owen’s hand moved against her back again. “Esther is safe, I assure you. Why don’t we leave her to her work for a moment?”

  She nodded in agreement but took a small step away from his supporting hand. She wasn’t a child, or a silly woman indulging in a fit of the vapors. She could walk out the door on her own two feet.

  Once in the hall, however, she did indulge in a long, steadying exhale as she leaned back against the wall. “Is he out there, do you think, watching the house?”

  What did it say about her, she wondered, that she found it easier to think about a murderer in her woods than a decades-old memory?

  “I very much doubt it.” Owen settled next to her so that their shoulders brushed. She found that small connection every bit as comforting as his hand against her back.

  “I thought he camped elsewhere at night.”

  “He does. Perhaps he lingered too long and became hemmed in by the dark.”

  “Or he could be growing brazen in his impatience.”

  Owen nodded and grew thoughtful. “We’ll stick to rooms at the front of the house and keep watch over the lawn and tree line. Gabriel will have taken care of that by now. Your Peter has a sharp eye. So does your footman George.”

  “But how can they see anything?”

  “They would see a flash from a muzzle,” he explained. “And he knows it. It’s why he didn’t risk a second shot and why he won’t risk another tonight. We’re safe.”

  She closed her eyes, exhausted now that the immediate danger had passed. “Safe for now.”

  “Now is what matters.” He shifted beside her. “Bearing up?”

  “Yes.” She opened her eyes and found him leaning close, studying her face. “You?”

  “I am. But I wasn’t the one…” Frowning, he tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I’d say it was a toss-up who looked paler when we first crawled into the hall, you or Samuel.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” For a moment, it had been a toss-up whether or not she’d follow Samuel into a faint. She managed a half smile. “You’ll not give me that gun now, will you?”

  “Depends. My offer still stands.”

  “Your offer,” she echoed. Tell him the story of why guns frightened her, and he would consider giving her a weapon. “It’s ridiculous. How would my telling a story prove I am a capable shot?”

  “It wouldn’t. I’m not asking for proof of your marksmanship. I am offering an exchange of trust.”

  “You’re offering a bribe,” she corrected and stepped away from the wall. “And not a very good one. I have my own guns. I don’t require yours nor your permission to use my own.”

  “This isn’t about the guns.”

  “No, it is about trust, but trust doesn’t work like that. It isn’t currency, Owen. You can earn it, yes, or offer it, but you can’t barter with it, or bribe someone with it, or owe it. You shouldn’t.” She shook her head. “It isn’t a game. I’ll not play games with you. There’s no trust in that, at all.”

  One dark brow winged up. “We play games all the time.”

  “Not when it matters,” she retorted and immediately knew that wasn’t true. “Or perhaps we do. But it isn’t what I want. Not anymore. Not with you.”

  The corners of his mouth curved up. He took a step toward her. “It isn’t what I want either.”

  “Then no more bribes,” she said softly. “No more games.”

  “It was not my intention to play a game with this. It isn’t—” He stopped mid-sentence, snapped his mouth shut, and grimaced. “But that’s exactly what I’ve done, isn’t it?” He dragged a hand down his face. “Damn it.”

  Wishing to end the matter altogether, Lottie shook her head again and offered them both a way out. “This is of little consequence, really. We should get back to Samuel.”

  The words sounded like a lie to her, and she didn’t know why. She didn’t mean them to be, and she didn’t understand why they should be. And yet the moment felt important somehow. Another crossroads, she thought. Only this time she wasn’t sure how she had arrived or where either path led.

  “Wait.” Owen held up a hand to stay her. “Please. Listen.” He took a step closer and then another. “Trust can be more than earned, or offered. It can be manufactured. A person can manipulat
e another into trust. I am accustomed to manipulating people. I’m good at it. Better than I want to be.”

  “That is not real trust.”

  “No, it is not. And it isn’t what I want with you. It isn’t what I meant to do. I’m sorry, Lottie. I am.”

  In some respects, Lottie thought, their worlds were not so different. Both were filled with lies and deceit, manipulation and mistrust. It was no easier for Owen to set aside the lessons of his world than it was for her to do the same.

  “Intentions count for quite a lot,” she replied. “So do apologies.”

  “You’re not angry?”

  “No. We do what we know, I suppose. And make amends when we get it wrong.”

  He reached for her hand and took it in both of his. “What I know is that I want your trust. I will be here when you are ready to offer it. I will… Wait, no.” He made a face. “That’s not right, either, is it?”

  “I thought it rather nice.” Not a bribe or a game or manipulation. Just an offer. Quite nice, indeed.

  “But it isn’t right. It isn’t…” He pulled her hand up to press a kiss against her palm. “I will be here, Lottie.”

  She waited for him to finish the thought, to add an “until,” or “when,” or “if.”

  He said nothing, and she realized then that he’d not made an offer, but a promise. One without qualifiers or caveats or ulterior motives. Just a single, simple promise to be there.

  Oh, yes, the offer had been nice, but this was so much better.

  She looked at their connected hands. Again, a simple thing that felt like so much more. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” He smiled at her. “That’s rather the point.”

  “You were right before,” she said suddenly, surprising herself. “Someone shot my father.”

  He shook his head and rubbed his thumb against her palm. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I know.” That’s what made the difference, she realized. That’s why she could. “I want to. It isn’t an exchange. I want to tell you.”