Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  Yes, the snappish, snarling Miss Kirtland was indeed unique.

  Would that she remained so, and didn't change her mind about this blasted mess. He would be as well pleased as the young lady if their paths never crossed again. The last thing he needed at the moment—besides a troublesome ward—was a troublesome female in his life. He had more than enough difficulties cope with as it was.

  Yet some odd stirring of his body refused to acknowledge the admonitions of his brain.

  Distracting himself from such disturbing thoughts, Marcus slanted a quick glance at Lucien. His anger had slowly been replaced by exasperation, and even a touch of sympathy. Perhaps he deserved some of the blame for what had happened. It could not have been easy for the young man to lose loving parents at a tender age, only to find them replaced by an aloof guardian. One who, admittedly, showed little interest in his very existence, much less his wellbeing.

  Damnation. The earl acknowledged his own shortcomings with a silent oath. He should have made more of an effort to get to know his ward and offer some counsel. After all, Lucien was his heir, and that alone should have demanded that he pay some attention to the young man's development.

  His lips compressed in a tight line. At least it appeared that his nephew was not a hardened scoundrel, despite the lack of any fatherly guidance. That the girl's condition had elicited such gut-wrenching remorse only confirmed that Lucien did indeed possess a conscience. And a rather tender one at that.

  The earl found himself chalking it up as a large mark in the young man's favor. Now, he supposed it was up to him to try to discover what other qualities—good or bad—Lucien possessed.

  But had the breach of disinterest and distrust between them become so gaping that it would be impossible to bridge?

  Marcus's brooding gaze followed the bumps and jags of the weathered stone fence that bordered the road. He could not help but wonder whether his harsh reaction had as much to do with his own past transgressions as those of his nephew. Perhaps the young man was an uncomfortable reminder of himself, and things he would much rather not be forced to recall.

  Drinking, seduction, deep play at cards. It had all been a game for him and his friends, seeing just how close to the edge they could push one another without falling into the chasm. He had been very, very good at it. More times than he cared to remember, he had drunk far more than Lucien ever had. Oh, he had never committed so blatant an offence as forcing his attentions on an innocent young lady. Even in his deepest cups, he had known not to break certain rules. He had simply mastered the art of bending them to his own purpose.

  There had seemed little harm in it. After all, it was only a game.

  Indeed, his friends, and the majority of the ton, had looked at him with something akin to awe for such ability. His exploits were legendary—in the gambling hells, in the daredevil escapades, and most especially in the boudoirs. Dubbed 'The Black Cat' for his sinuous skill in nocturnal prowlings, the moniker had stuck. Not only did he seem to bring bad luck to anyone who dared challenge him, but his penchant for escaping unscathed from tight spots made it appear that he possessed nine lives.

  For a brief moment, Marcus's hand strayed over his eyes, as if it could block out the disquieting memories.

  Perhaps if he had been able to pass on one of those lives to Fitzwilliam Burnley he would not find sleep so damn elusive at night. Most everyone held him blameless for what happened. A curricle race carried with it the risk of a crash. If the burden of guilt was to rest anywhere, it was squarely on the shoulders of anyone reckless enough to climb onto the perch.

  Marcus knew better. He should never have baited his friend into attempting the dangerous drive. Fitz was cow-handed to begin with, and after several bottles of brandy he had no business taking hold of the ribbons...

  The carriage finally passed through the iron gates and made the last turn to the stately manor house. As the earl stared at the towering elms lining the way, he felt his spirits lift somewhat. The ever-resilient cycle of nature never ceased to amaze him. It seemed so impossible that bare sticks could withstand the harsh elements and then spring to life at the first touch of warmth. Perhaps that was also why he found some measure of solace in his estate. With crops and livestock it was the same sort of satisfaction—one could see tangible results from hard work and careful nurturing.

  Next to him, Lucien stirred in his seat, the play of shadows throwing a pattern of light and dark across his mottled cheek. The earl repressed a harried sigh, wishing the intricacies of people—and the human heart—were half so easy to figure out.

  As the horses came to a halt, his nephew grabbed for the door latch, obviously eager to make his escape.

  "A moment, Lucien."

  "Sir?" The young man stiffened.

  Marcus nearly abandoned his plan as a lost cause, but then forced himself to go on. "I am riding out shortly to oversee the planting in the south fields. Perhaps you would care to accompany me."

  Lucien's expression betrayed surprise, then wariness. "Y-Y-you are inviting me to join you?"

  "Killingworth Manor may someday be yours. You should begin to learn something of its workings if you are to hold it in good stewardship for future generations."

  The young man looked as if to refuse, but after a moment he swallowed hard and nodded. "Very well, sir." Then the door swung open and he scrambled out.

  The earl slowly followed, hoping that the first seeds or reconciliation were not falling on totally barren ground.

  * * *

  Was that a one or a seven?

  Eliza squinted at the crumpled scrap of paper and tried to decipher the smudged scrawl. Surely seven pinches of willowbark would render the tisane far too potent.

  But perhaps not.

  With a resigned shrug, she decided to lay it aside until her sister returned from the herb garden. Meredith would know the right amount, for despite her youth, she already possessed a knowledge of the healing arts that left even the elderly village midwife shaking her head in admiration. Fever, coughs, chilblains, sprains—whatever the ailment, the locals had learned to come around to the Kirtland cottage for advice.

  Even as a child, Meredith had shown a remarkable aptitude for helping those in need. She had often accompanied their father on his rounds through the countryside, learning how to deal with all manner of illness or injury. Over the years, she had also compiled a vast collection of home remedies. As Eliza surveyed the growing stack of neatly transcribed recipes with some satisfaction, she reflected on what a wealth of information lay before her. Surely some publisher in London would recognize its value and consider putting its pages into print.

  She tucked the pen behind her ear and took a moment to polish her spectacles. Even if the finished manuscript were rejected out of hand, the challenge of putting together the compendium of healing recipes was well worth the effort. A sense of purpose had kept Meredith from dwelling too deeply in despair. Oh, there were still intermittent cries in the night, and several times she had spied a tear in her sister's eye when the younger lady had thought no one was looking. But barely a week had passed since the attack and Meredith had already begun to venture outside again, if only within the confines of their own walled gardens.

  So although her sister had yet to regain her usual sunny laugh or resume her daily foraging for wild plants, there was reason for feeling sanguine. Her passion, like that of any artist, seemed to have given her a certain inner strength with which to brave through adversity.

  The thought brought a ghost of a smile to Eliza's lips. Meredith was, indeed, as much an artist with her healing herbs as Wordsworth was with his lilting words or Gainsborough with his deft brush.

  While she, on the other hand, was merely the practical one, the useful one.

  Useful. Hardly an adjective that inspired admiration.

  A knock at the front door recalled her from such musings. Straightening her apron, she wondered who could be calling. Between planting and shearing, there was nary a neighbor who no
t occupied with some task until supper. Nor were they so far in arrears at the butcher that Mr. Withers would send his boy around with a request for payment.

  Edith, their aged housekeeper, ventured to poke her head into the parlor. "Begging your pardon, Miss Kirtland, but there is a gentleman who wants to see Miss Merry." From the purse of her lips, it was clear that she was undecided on what to make of the visitor. "I thought it best to bring him here to see you instead."

  Eliza nodded, growing even more mystified. There was more than one farm lad who would stop by on his way home from the fields to visit with her sister—usually on the pretext of procuring some remedy for a family member. But never at this hour. And with their homespun clothes and callused hands, none of them could ever be mistaken for a gentleman...

  The latch clicked.

  Dropping her spectacles, she yanked open the desk drawer and grabbed for the hidden pistol.

  The door had closed behind him so the young man had nowhere to retreat. He regarded the barrel pointing dead at his chest and swallowed hard.

  "I—"

  "You thought you might find her alone again?" The hammer drew back with a loud click. "There may only be females in this house, but rest assured, we are not as defenseless as you apparently think. As I told your uncle, I am accorded to be a good shot. And I would like nothing better than to put a bullet in your heart."

  Eliza paused, her eyes dropping a touch. "Or perhaps in some other part of your anatomy. Then we won't have to worry about you accosting innocent young girls ever again."

  Lucien hesitated, but after drawing a ragged breath, he ventured a step forward. "I—I brought these for your sister." He held out a bouquet of delicate wildflowers entwined with fronds of curling fiddlehead ferns.

  Eliza could only stare in disbelief.

  Awkward and embarrassed, he let it fall back to his side. "What I meant to say was, I wish to inquire how she is feeling..."

  "How she is feeling?" Eliza finally found her voice. "You beat and molest her, and then think to offer her a posy?" The smooth steel was cool and inviting against her fingers.

  One squeeze.

  Tempting though the thought was, she kept a grip on her anger. "Your devilish uncle must have introduced you to opium as well as brandy during your carousings in London. Only that would explain the madness that has seized hold of your brain."

  Lucien recoiled as if struck. "I am truly sorry for what happened. I don't understand how I could have turned violent!" A bit of greenery slipped from his fingers. "I shall never allow myself to become foxed again," he added softly. "Never!"

  "That is hardly of any solace to my sister," replied Eliza, but something in his voice stopped her from further sarcasm. The barrel of the pistol slowly angled away from his chest. "You are not welcome here, sir. Do you really think that any amount of money or silly fripperies can buy you forgiveness for your crime?"

  His eyes pressed closed. "No. Not forgiveness, but perhaps..."

  A sudden breeze stirred the forgotten flowers as the door to the garden came open. Meredith, her arms filled with a basket of cuttings, stopped on the threshold and drew in a breath. The bruising around her eye had faded considerably, but it still stood out against the ivory pallor of her skin. Like a dark cloud lingering at the horizon of a luminous sky.

  Lucien cleared his throat, but his voice came out as barely more than a whisper. "These are for you, Miss Meredith." He glanced down at the fragile blooms, then suddenly let them fall to the floor. "Good Lord, what a complete looby I must appear! Forgive me."

  He stepped back, fumbling for the door latch. "Forgive me." With that, he hurried from the room.

  Meredith continued to stare, first at the gaping door, then at the tangle of flowers. Slowly she set aside her basket to gather them up. "I should put these in water," she murmured, handling them with great care. "Else they will wither and die."

  "Let them," growled Eliza as she moved to return her weapon to the drawer.

  "No, I shall not punish them for a crime they did not commit." She put them carefully atop her cut herbs. "I think... perhaps Mr. Harkness truly regrets what he did."

  Eliza scowled. "You are much too kind and forgiving, Merry."

  A faint twinkle came to her sister's eye. "I'm sure Papa would have told us that is the proper Christian sentiment, would he not?"

  "Then I am a heathen," she muttered. "Or at least it is the Old Testament that is more to my taste. I confess, I was sorely tempted to pull the trigger while my weapon was aimed at his nether region. An eye for an eye—or in this case, some other part of the gentleman's anatomy."

  Meredith colored slightly, but couldn't repress a smile. "You do have a bit of the avenging prophet in you. Though in truth, it is more a classical Deity—like Diana the Huntress—that you remind me of." She sighed. "Poor Mr. Harkness did have the look of a creature being cornered by some relentless pursuer."

  "Beast is a more apt moniker."

  Her sister fingered a bud of larkspur. "Is it?" she asked in a soft voice. "On the few occasions that we chanced to meet during the past few weeks, he was always very courteous and, well, rather sweetly shy. It is hard to believe he is entirely evil. I mean, he does seem to be genuinely remorseful."

  "Because you yourself are so good, you find it hard to believe that anyone else is capable of deliberate cruelty. But you must take my word for it, there are such people. And many are pampered young gentlemen who are used to getting whatever they what."

  The drawer closed with a bang. "The world they live in is entirely different from ours. So it is best to stay as far away as possible from the likes of Lord Killingworth and his nephew."

  It was a warning meant as much for herself as for Meredith.

  Chapter 5

  The earl put down his pen and rubbed at his weary eyes. Lud, the figures were making his head ache far worse than any keg of spirits ever had. Try as he might, he found it impossible to make sense of the endless columns of estate expenditures, or to decide whether they were all necessary.

  Bloody hell. Somehow he would have to figure out which ones might be put off. Even though his proficiency in mathematics was rudimentary at best, it took only a simple schoolboy's skill to see the costs were far exceeding the income.

  His lips pursed. Was this endeavor to restore Killingworth Park to its former glory just as corkbrained as some of his past stunts? At least some of those other whims, like racing his yacht to the Orkney Islands, or wooing away the Duke of Derwitt's buxom mistress, had had some element of excitement to balance the danger. This current undertaking, however, offered nothing but a dull, unrelenting sense of being slowly sucked under by the morass of responsibilities.

  He supposed it should not have come as any great surprise that the estate was in such a sorry state. Successive generations of Killingworth earls—himself included—had contributed to its demise by frittering away its wealth rather than ploughing it back into the land. It was his grandfather who had first abandoned the rolling fields and rugged cliffs for the pleasures of Town. His father had also preferred the life of a boisterous bon vivant to that of a bucolic farmer. Marcus doubted the man had ever set foot in the once-elegant manor halls. Rather, he was content to spend its ever-dwindling profits at the faro tables without risking a thought as to how the estate was being managed. The rich farmland had slowly grown over with thistle and thorns. Only a few scattered sheep now grazed the hills—hills once alive with flocks of fat, black-faced merino ewes and rams that yielded some of the most prized wool in England.

  Marcus looked down once against at the sea of fiery red upon the page, each individual number seemingly a taunting rebuke to his casual neglect. He had shown no more care for the ancestral seat than his forbearers. The truth had hit home six months ago, during a meeting with his man of affairs in London. The fellow had informed him that the prudent plan of action was to put the vast estate up for sale since the Greeley coffers, while not exactly empty, were no longer in any shape to bear the bur
den of its losses.

  The news had forced him to take yet another sobering look at his life. In doing so, he realized that he didn't wish to be the one to let the land—a heritage that had been in his family's possession since the time of William the Conqueror—slip through his fingers.

  It had been humbling to face the fact that he had accomplished precious little to be proud of over the course of thirty years. His spirits, already blue-deviled for some time, had teetered on the brink of black despair until it suddenly seemed that he might make amends for a lifetime of wasted chances by taking on the challenge of Killingworth Manor. He had already given up his heavy drinking and carousing, so there was little reason not to abandon London as well.

  The decision made, he had closed up his townhouse in a matter of days and set off for the country, determined that this time his efforts would result in something more meaningful than a scribbled line in a betting book or a furtive coupling in a garden.

  Now, however, the earl couldn't help but wonder if his best efforts would be anywhere good enough.

  How in the devil had he been such a naive fool as to imagine he might have the knowledge or the experience to run a vast estate?

  Marcus glumly thumbed open yet another ledger. The sort of talents that had earned him such a high regard in London were of no matter here—who cared whether his cravat was tied in a perfect Waterfall or whether his box step was a picture of precise elegance? That he was a bruising rider and skilled with his fives might earn him marginally more respect, but on the whole, he felt utterly useless. Why, he didn't even know enough to judge whether his steward was halfway competent or whether the fellow was stealing him blind.

  His mouth set in a harried grimace, and after a cursory examination of yet another page of incomprehensible numbers, Marcus snapped the book shut. Setting it back atop the stack still waiting for his perusal, he pushed away from his desk and decided to quit the task for a while, before his mood became too black. After all, he reminded himself with a humorless smile, there would be plenty of time to continue later on, for it was not as if there was much other entertainment to choose from.