Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  He noted with some measure of satisfaction that his words had brought a tinge of color to her cheeks. "If I were not in agreement with you on that, I would not be here, sir," Eliza replied stiffly. "But you are right—since it seems we are going to forced into close proximity for a while, we should strive to be civil with one another."

  Noting the fire that was still smoldering in her eyes, he could well imagine how difficult a task that was going to prove for the young lady. As well as for himself. They seemed to rub together like flint and steel, setting off sparks at the slightest contact.

  "If you would be so kind as to send your carriage around in several hours, sir, I will have a trunk packed and my mother ready to be brought here," she added with scathing politeness.

  He gave an exaggerated bow.

  "I should really make haste to join Dr. Yount," murmured Meredith in gentle reminder as she, too, watched her sister stalk off in a swish of skirts.

  "Yes. Of course." Forcing his gaze away from Eliza, the earl stepped aside and gestured for her to enter the Manor. "I will have my housekeeper—assuming I still have one—show you up to the sickroom."

  The hawk-faced woman in charge of the staff was none too pleased at having to make preparations for three female houseguests, especially with the shortage of help. By the time Marcus had managed to sooth the ruffled feathers and retreat to the sanctuary of his library, it was he, and not some slatternly nurse, who was ready to steal into the supply of brandy.

  But despite the temptation to drown his growing frustration in a bottle of spirits, the earl reminded himself with a baleful grimace that he had better keep a clear head. The Lord only knew what other crisis might arise before the day was over—though how it could get any worse was difficult for him to imagine.

  Taking up a poker, he jabbed at the banked fire, fighting back a feeling of raw helplessness. He could strike back against an enemy who had a name and a face, but against a swirl of rumor and innuendo...

  A low oath mingled with the crackling coals. It appeared that the Black Cat's legendary luck had finally come to the end of its nine lives. His decision to remove to the quiet of the countryside had only resulted in one disaster after another. Perhaps the locals were right in seeing him as an omen of misfortune, he thought glumly as he ran his hand through his locks. Perhaps he brought nothing but grief to anyone whose path he crossed.

  Supper that night did very little to dispel his dark mood. Miss Kirtland's notion of civility seemed to be based on keeping her mouth firmly shut, save for a peckish nibble or two at her food. And as Meredith partook of only the first course before rushing back to the sickroom, the rest of the meal was passed in a gloomy silence, save for the scrape of silver on the heirloom china. He couldn't have been more relieved when the plates were finally taken away by the lone footman and the young lady had excused herself to tend to her ailing mother.

  Marcus sought refuge in his study, but after pouring a glass of brandy he suddenly felt the need to escape from the house and drink in a breath of fresh air. The night was damp with the lingering chill of passing shower, yet it was not nearly as oppressive as his own clouded thoughts.

  Bloody hell—what a muddle.

  Lighting a cheroot, he leaned up against the terrace railing and blew out a ring of smoke. It caught in a puff of wind and drifted out toward the gardens, only to melt into the mist in the blink of an eye.

  Life was just as ephemeral, he mused, thinking of Lucien hovering between this world and the next. As were hopes that went with it.

  And dreams.

  Had he ever had dreams? His jaw tightened. Or merely whims and desires?

  A light mizzle started again, but the earl ignored the moisture beading along the arch of his brows and pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. Would that it would drown out such disquieting questions. Had his own life really been as meaningless as he feared? All things considered, he could not in truth say that anything he had done so far was of any more substance than a fleeting breath of tobacco-warmed air.

  With a slight shudder he ground out the sodden stub beneath his boot and went back inside.

  * * *

  "How is he?" asked Eliza.

  "His pulse is still very weak, but as of yet, no fever has set in." Meredith looked up from folding a length of clean linen. In the flickering candlelight, the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes looked much the same as bruises that mottled her patient's face. "I managed to get several swallows of laudanum down his throat, so right now there is little more I can do but wait."

  "Get some rest. I'll sit with him for a time." Eliza removed the fabric from her sister's fumbling fingers and helped her rise. "You will be of no use to anyone if you are muzzy with fatigue."

  "But you have been tending to Mother all evening," protested Meredith.

  "As she has been sleeping soundly, I was able to lie down for a bit. The move does not appear to have upset her unduly. Indeed, the news of your... betrothal has, if anything, brought a pinch of color back to her cheeks."

  Eliza's words caused a dull flush to rise to her sister's face. "I hope she will not be too... disappointed when it is broken off."

  "Let us not worry about the future. There are quite enough problems in the present to keep us occupied."

  A tiny smile played briefly on Meredith's lips. "As you say, always the practical one. You are right, of course." She stood up and rubbed absently at the back of her neck. "Promise you will rouse me the moment there is any change. And—" A light kiss brushed Eliza's cheek. "—thank you. I know how much you disapprove of this, but I am grateful for your sacrifice."

  Sacrifice, repeated Eliza silently as her sister left the sickroom. She wished she might claim her presence was due to any such noble sentiment. But it wasn't. It was due to guilt—pure, simple and selfish. She was not here merely to help nurse the young man's grievous injuries but to salve her own conscience.

  Lucien stirred, a faint groan interrupting his ragged breathing. The blanket had fallen away and his profile lay in shadowed contrast to the white pillow. She stared for a moment. With his thick lashes fluttering against his pale cheek, he looked very young and very innocent. Hardly the face of a vicious criminal.

  But appearances could be deceiving, she reminded herself with a reluctant sigh. Especially as she had every reason as of late to question her own judgment.

  Guilt. Innocence. Would any of them involved in this sordid affair atone for their sins?

  She was not sorry to be distracted from such musings by the opening of the door. "Surely you cannot mean to return—"

  But it was the earl, not Meredith, who stepped into the room.

  "You need not worry," she added wryly, seeing his gaze move sharply from the glass in her hand to his nephew's lips. "It is not hemlock, but a soothing potion that my sister brewed. We must try to keep any fever from developing."

  His only answer was reach out and lay his hand lightly on Lucien's brow. Eliza noted with some surprise how lithe and strong his fingers appeared, and yet how gently they brushed at the young man's hair. "His forehead feels deucedly hot."

  "Yes." She dipped a piece of felt in the basin of cool water and wrung it out. "All we can do is bathe his face and try to get him to swallow the medicine. After that, I'm afraid nature will have to run its course."

  Marcus looked as if to say something, then remained silent as his touch trailed down to the bandaged cheek.

  "Rest assured that my sister and I will see to it that he is not left untended."

  "You think I will rest while he lies here in suffering?" he snapped. "Go to your own bed, Miss Kirtland. I will take my turn by the sickbed, if you will but show me what I must do."

  "But—"

  "But what?" His dark brows drew together in a formidable scowl, and as he leaned forward, Eliza was suddenly aware of the heat emanating from him as well. It was enough to bring two hot spots of color to her cheeks, though she wasn't quite sure why.

  "You think me devoid of all sensib
ility? Incapable of caring what happens to my nephew?"

  "N—not exactly," she stammered, taken aback by the raw edge in his voice. In truth, she had thought him coldly arrogant and unfeeling in his treatment of everyone, including Mr. Harkness. Now, however, she could see how wrong she was to imagine there was naught but ice water in his veins. His gaze held a simmering intensity that caused her breath to catch in her throat.

  "It's just that from what I observed, there did not seem to be much love lost between you and your nephew," she added.

  "Perhaps things are not always as they seem, Miss Kirtland."

  As the same thought had recently crossed her own mind, she made no retort. But still, at that moment she was sure there was no mistaking was she saw—among the emotions swirling in the depths of his hooded eyes was one that she recognized all too well.

  How strange.

  For what reason was the Earl of Killingworth feeling guilty?

  Too tired and confused to make any sense of it all, Eliza wrung out the strip of flannel. "Perhaps," she answered aloud.

  Without further comment, she showed the earl what to do, then rose and took up her candle. "You have only to ring the bell if you need assistance. My sister will relieve you in an hour or two."

  He waved her off, and Eliza stumbled toward her room, wishing that when she awoke in the morning, this would all turn out to be a bad dream.

  Chapter 8

  The magistrate shuffled his feet. "And no clues have been found around the area as to who might be responsible, not even a clear boot print," he continued. "Mayhap when Mr. Harkness regains consciousness, he will be able to tell us something of his attackers." His tone, however, did not indicate that he put a good deal of faith in such hopes.

  Marcus allowed his mouth to dip into a sardonic curl. "And of course no one saw anything out of the ordinary."

  "It is a deserted stretch of lane," replied the man defensively. "And a time of day when most people are at work in their fields. I will continue to make inquiries."

  "Please do," answered the earl with chilling politeness before letting the door fall shut with an audible thud. It was, perhaps, a childish thing to do, seeing as it came within a hair's breath of knocking the fellow flat on his arse. But no doubt planting the insincere little toad a facer—which he had been sorely tempted to do—would have been worse.

  Not that it mattered a whit whether he begged or ranted or threatened. The man might make a show of going through the motions of a real investigation, but it was a sham. Everyone, himself included, knew that no culprit was going to be charged in the beating.

  Still, he would have liked to wipe the smug surety from the fellow's expression, if only for an instant.

  He turned to stalk off toward his study, so caught up in muttering imprecations against the local authorities that he nearly collided with Meredith as she came down the stairs.

  "Has Lucien taken a turn for the worse?" he demanded sharply, noting the tautness around her mouth and the shadows under her eyes.

  "Oh, no, sir." She shrank back from him, her gaze dropping down to the basket of herbs in her hands. "He is much the same, though I am concerned about how restless his movements have become. I am going to the kitchen to make up another type of draught, in hopes that it may effect some relief." After a moment of hesitation, she continued past him, her cautious movements reminding him of the way a mouse would sneak past a lurking tabbie.

  Marcus turned and fell in step beside her. "Forgive me for snapping—my manners have been sadly lacking as of late."

  His lips pursed on realizing just how surly his moods must appear to her. No wonder she seemed to think him an ogre.

  Or worse.

  He cleared his throat and added, "Why, I have not yet even expressed the proper gratitude for your extraordinary kindness, especially given the circumstances..."

  "Please don't apologize, milord. You have every right to be upset over what has happened to Mr. Harkness. I am only doing what any responsible person should—"

  "Hmmph." The earl interrupted with a low snort. "Not one in a thousand people would exhibit your compassion. Or courage. You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Meredith."

  A crimson flush colored her face.

  Seeing that he had embarrassed her, he swore under his breath.

  Meredith backed away until her shoulders brushed up against the wainscoting. "I—I am really quite ordinary," she stammered. "And unlike Eliza, I am not at all brave."

  Realizing that his curses and scowl were only making him appear more intimidating, the earl gave a harried sigh. "Yes, I have no doubt that your redoubtable sister would charge through the gates of Hell if she felt it necessary. However, I wish to assure you that despite what you might have heard, I am not the Devil Incarnate." He took a step closer, trying to read her expression. "Come, Miss Meredith, I trust you are far too intelligent to be afraid of me. Contrary to local rumors, I do not breakfast on small children or ravage innocent girls—"

  His words cut off in a strangled choke. How in the name of Lucifer had he blurted out such a tactless remark. "Good Lord, I'm sorry. What a monstrous thing to say..."

  Her face finally tilted up towards him and the earl was amazed to see a wry smile flit across her features. "Lord Killingworth, contrary to what my sister—and you—seem to expect, I am not so fragile as to shatter into a thousand pieces at the mere mention of my... misfortune. Other people have suffered far worse tragedies. I shall survive."

  Her calm words made him feel even more as if he should be consigned to the hottest corner of Hell. If this mere slip of country girl could face adversity with such fortitude, what right had he to whine about his own trifling difficulties?

  "You put me to blush, Miss Meredith," he said quietly. "In light of your remarkable pluck and spirit, the rest of us appear too blinded by our own weaknesses to see the world so clearly." He clasped his hands behind his back. "A pity in every respect that my nephew did not make... wiser choices. He would have been a very fortunate young man if this sham announcement had any truth to it."

  Meredith's eyes widened slightly. "B-but Mr. Harkness can look to make a match in the highest circles of Society."

  "Having spent many years among such circles, I assure you that a title and fortune is often quite worthless in itself." The earl caught himself, hoping that the note of bitter regret in his voice did not cause the girl any more confusion than she must already be feeling. "Forgive my odd mood—no doubt I am frightening you." He stepped back. "I should not detain you any longer."

  She made no move to slip away. "I am not frightened by you, sir. Despite the rumors about your past, and the fact that you can appear quite a... formidable presence, I believe you to be a very kind and honorable gentleman at heart."

  He blinked in surprise.

  "Although," she added softly. "It would seem you don't wish for that to be known."

  Before he could think of any response, she had slipped past him and turned the corner of the kitchen hallway.

  * * *

  Eliza paused by the stairs and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Her mother looked to be resting comfortably, now that Meredith's medicine had eased the hacking cough. Mr. Harkness, too, appeared to have taken a slight turn for the better. As both patients were likely to sleep through the night, there looked to be no reason why she should not seek her own bed.

  Yet despite the lateness of the hour, she did not feel quite ready to retire. Despite the rigors of the sickroom, she found herself missing the challenges of her own daily routine—her books, her papers, her projects. On the morrow, she would have to see about having some of them brought over from the cottage. In the meantime, however, perhaps there was something of interest in the earl's library to serve as a bit of bedtime reading.

  Her lips pursed in a wry scrunch. After all, she knew from her previous nocturnal foray that the place did contain a large collection of books. Surely the earl would not begrudge her the loan of a volume or two.

&n
bsp; She hesitated, wondering whether to venture another visit to the Black Cat's private lair. The first one had been, in every respect, a rather embarrassing experience. But as a glance below showed nothing but darkness, she decided there was little likelihood of another midnight encounter.

  Especially if she were quick about it.

  The door library was already slightly ajar. Anxious to be done with the errand, Eliza shouldered it open, taking no notice of the faint glow of candlelight dappling the threshold.

  "Bloody Hell and damnation."

  The oath was hardly more than a whisper, but it stopped her dead in her tracks. "Oh!" she exclaimed in some dismay. "Forgive my intrusion. I had no idea—"

  Marcus looked up, a harried expression on his lean features. The gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose blurred the sharpness of his gaze, making him look far less forbidding than usual.

  "My words were not directed at you Miss Kirtland," he muttered. "Is something amiss?"

  "No, no. I was not yet sleepy, so I, er, I thought I might borrow a book. To read." To her annoyance, Eliza found herself stuttering like a schoolgirl. "That is," she added stiffly, "If you have no objection."

  He gave a curt wave at the shelves. "Take whatever you please." Without so much as another glance in her direction, his eyes dropped back to his blotter.

  Much as she wished to slink away, she didn't wish to give him the satisfaction of thinking her intimidated by his presence. Drawing in a deep breath, she marched on, but on passing his desk, she couldn't help but glance at what was causing his brows to furrow in such an odd manner.

  "You are doing sums?" she murmured on seeing the open ledger. "I wouldn't have thought such a task would have a gentleman like you burning the candles until dawn."