Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  "Actually," snapped the earl, his voice edged with sarcasm. "I am writing a manual on the seduction and deflowering of innocent maidens."

  She felt an uncomfortable heat spread over her cheeks. "So much for the notion of civility between us. I'll leave—"

  "No, wait." He rubbed at his forehead. "Forgive me. I did not mean to be rude." His mouth crooked in a rueful grimace. "It's just that these columns of numbers are proving to be a more formidable opponent than Napoleon's Imperial Guards."

  Did the man actually have a sense of humor?

  Her interest piqued, Eliza leaned in to have a closer look. "You have made a mistake," she murmured after a moment.

  His brows shot up. "Where?"

  "Here." She pointed it out. "Oh—and here." After studying the page a bit longer, she made a face. "Good Lord, you've really made a mull of it. Here, let me have a closer look." Without thinking, she reached for the ledger.

  Marcus leaned back without protest and allowed her to take it.

  Rather surprised at his willingness to relinquish the accounts to a female, she carried the heavy volume to a nearby chair and began thumbing through the most recent entries. It was quite some time before she finally looked up and called him over.

  A series of rapidfire questions followed, none of which the earl could answer with any certainty.

  "Hmmph." Eliza frowned she snapped the covers shut. "It doesn't make any sense. Your estate should be highly profitable. Have you considered switching to wheat in the south fields?"

  "Ahhh..."

  "And the price you are getting for wool," she went on. "Either your steward is a hopeless incompetent or..." The sentence trailed off, but there was no doubt as to where it was leading.

  Marcus's lips thinned. "I was beginning to wonder as much, despite my total lack of knowledge in these matters."

  Once again Eliza found herself amazed at his reaction. Most males of her acquaintance would rather swallow nails than admit to any weakness, especially in the face of a female. She cleared her throat. "Unlike you, sir, I have a good deal of experience with the business of farming. If you like, I could have a look at all the past records and see what other irregularities may turn up. I am accorded to have a very good knack with figures."

  The earl hesitated, and her faint smile hardened to a brittle scowl. No doubt his next words would be a snide comment concerning females and figures.

  "I would be quite grateful," he began, but on taking in her change of expression, words cut off in a harsh laugh. "Ah. It appears you didn't expect me to take you up on the offer. No doubt with all the other duties you have been forced to assume these past few days—"

  "It's not that. I—I was simply surprised that you don't mind asking for help from a female."

  "I'll take any help I can get. It is clear that males have no innate skill at this." The lopsided smile that tugged at his lips caused Eliza's fingers to go rather slack on the leather binding. "At least not this male."

  Hell's bells! Did he practice that boyish expression of vulnerability in front of the looking glass each morning, knowing what a devastating effect it would have on any female close by?

  Even an aging country spinster.

  Ignore the dratted man, she warned herself, forcing her gaze away from sensuous curves of his mouth and the twinkle of humor that softened the glitter of his eyes. He may be unskilled in practical subjects like mathematics, but the Earl of Killingworth obviously knew how to slather on the charm.

  Finally mastering her momentary confusion, Eliza muttered a tart reply. "Well, I suppose I shall have to credit you with some shred of natural intelligence. Precious few gentlemen are smart enough to realize they are not infallible, much less admit it aloud."

  This time, his low laugh held real amusement. "I am well aware of my faults, Miss Kirtland. And if I had, perchance, forgotten even a one, your cataloguing of them over the past few days would certainly have jogged my memory."

  Eliza flushed on recollecting all the accusations she had hurled in his face. She ducked her head, pretending to take one last look at the ruled pages. "If you leave these accounts out in the morning room, I shall give them a careful study after breakfast."

  With what she hoped was an expression of cool composure, she rose slowly and turned for the door, determined to make a dignified exit.

  "Did you forget something?"

  Her toe caught on the carpet, ruining the effect. With a silent oath, she looked around in consternation.

  "A book—I believe you wished to borrow a book." Marcus gestured at the expanse of shelves. "There are, as you can see, a great many to choose from."

  Was the earl really engaging in a bit of banter?

  Angry with herself for allowing his rich baritone drawl to send a flutter through her insides, she snapped a waspish retort. "Any suggestions? Or are you as unfamiliar with them as you are with your ledgers?"

  Ignoring the obvious sarcasm, Marcus steepled his fingers and appeared to be giving the barb serious consideration. "That would, of course, depend on your tastes, Miss Kirtland. If you favor the classics, there is a wide selection of Homer and the ancient philosophers in both Greek and English—though I'd not recommend the translation of The Iliad. It's rather dry in comparison with the original."

  There was a fraction of a pause. "Or perhaps the Bard is more to your liking. There is a lovely set of the complete tragedies and comedies." His mouth betrayed a twitch of amusement. "Including The Taming of the Shrew."

  "Hmmph." She turned on her heel, hoping her cheeks were not quite as burning as they felt. "On second thought, I find I have had enough entertainment for the evening. Good night, sir."

  "Good night, Miss Kirtland."

  As she drew the door closed, Eliza could have sworn she heard a very unlordly chuckle.

  * * *

  Meredith's brow furrowed as she sponged her patient's face. The fever had returned, bringing a sheen of sweat to Lucien's sunken cheeks and causing his sleep to become more and more fitful. Laying aside the damp flannel, she coaxed a swallow of willowbark tea down his throat, then sought to reorder the tangled bedding. Turning back the sheets, she smoothed out the rumples, but as she began to plump the pillows she noted that his thrashings had brought him perilously close to the edge of the bed.

  She hesitated, wondering whether she should summon someone to help lift the young man to a more comfortable position. To manage it herself, she would have to wrap her arms around him in a rather awkward—and intimate—embrace...

  A faint groan made her feel ashamed of such qualms.

  She slid her hands under Lucien's arms. Despite his slender build, he was a heavier burden than she imagined and it took a good deal of maneuvering to get his limbs straightened and his body shifted to a more settled position. In the process, however, his nightshirt was pulled off his shoulder, baring a good deal of chest.

  Meredith quickly reached out to tug it back in place. Well aware of the impropriety of the situation, she kept her eyes averted as much as possible. Still, she could not help but catch a glimpse of the tattoo emblazoned on his breast.

  A gasp caught in her throat. For an instant she could only stare in stunned silence at the distinctive design. Then, recovering from her initial shock, she quickly pulled the fabric up to cover his flesh.

  "Dear Lord." The words came out as a ragged whisper. Bowing her head, she pressed her palms to her brow.

  "Merry!" Eliza's voice was shrill with alarm as she hurried through the door. "What is it? What is wrong?"

  She turned, her face leached of all color.

  "Good Heavens! You look as if you have seen a ghost."

  "No, nothing like that—though the sight of it may haunt me for some time to come," she said rather shakily. "What I have seen is... the truth."

  Eliza quickly placed a hand upon sister's brow.

  "You needn't fear that I have turned feverish or am suffering from hallucinations. What I meant was, I've just discovered why Mr. Harkness does no
t remember anything about the night I was assaulted..."

  * * *

  Marcus listened in grim silence while Meredith repeated her explanation.

  "Are you absolutely positive about this?" he demanded. Asking her to relive the incident yet again was not something he wished to do, but one mistake, however honest, had already led to grievous consequences. If at all possible, he wanted to avoid making another, with all of its own unforeseen ramifications.

  "Given the circumstances," he added, "it would be quite understandable if some of the details had become confused in your mind."

  Meredith did not flinch under his piercing scrutiny. "I am not confused, sir. Not about this. My attacker had a tattoo on his left breast, not his right. So Mr. Harkness could not have been that man. He is innocent."

  The earl's fingers stilled their drumming. "A pity this conclusion was not reached a trifle earlier," he muttered, unable to keep the edge off his words. On seeing her face twist in remorse, he immediately regretted his sharpness. The rebuke was meant more for her older sister—and, if truth be told, for himself. If both of them had acted with reason rather than anger, then perhaps...

  Eliza had so far refrained from comment, but on hearing the implied reproach, she was quick to speak up in her sister's defense. "It is hardly fair to blame Meredith for what has happened. If you recall, sir, it was you who presented your nephew to us as the culprit."

  As if he needed to be reminded.

  "Although you seem to have difficulty in adding two and two," added Eliza. "I would have thought you could tell left from right."

  Damnation. Did the emerald-eyed tigress never sheath her claws? Despite the provocation, he reacted with only a touch of sarcasm. "Had I realized your sister's description was meant to be taken literally, Miss Kirtland, I would have subjected Lucien to a more thorough physical examination. I was aware that he bore a tattoo that matched the one she described, and the chances of two men in this vicinity having the same one seemed astronomically high."

  Taking up a pen, he said, "You see, I may not be able to add two and two, but I do have a great deal of experience in figuring out the odds. I would have been willing to bet my entire fortune that such a thing was impossible." His tone became even more mocking. "Apparently I would have lost my shirt. That is, assuming the cards were not fuzzed."

  The earl was gratified to see the pugnacious expression on Eliza's face turn to one of consternation.

  "Figuratively speaking, of course," he went on. "As what we are discussing is hardly a game."

  "Just what are you implying, sir?" she demanded.

  "You claim to have a great skill in mathematics. If you take a moment to calculate the probability of two men in this shire having identical tattoos—which is, by the by, the mark of a very exclusive gentlemen's club in London—I imagine you will figure it out."

  "Are you saying that someone deliberately set out to frame Mr. Harkness?" exclaimed Meredith. "How... how very monstrous."

  "Indeed." Marcus leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "But then, we already know we are dealing with a monster."

  "Someone must have a great deal of enmity for your nephew to go to such extremes to see him discredited," said Eliza.

  "Oh, come, Miss Kirtland. While you may think me a witless worm, I give you credit for a possessing a more than average intelligence. Lucien is hardly more than a boy, and one who has led a rather quiet life up until now. I think we both know it is not he who is the real target of these scurrilous rumors and innuendo."

  She didn't answer right away, but the earl noted that the color of her eyes had darkened to a near emerald hue. Emeralds. Tigers. What was there about the damn chit that kept bringing to mind thoughts of the exotic?

  "W—what do you mean, sir?" stammered Meredith.

  Marcus turned and gave her a chilly smile. "It would seem that your sister is not the only one dead set against the idea of me taking up residence in Sussex."

  Chapter 9

  Try as she might, Eliza was find it hard to focus on the scrawled columns. It seemed that the ink had taken on a mind of its own, refusing to stand at attention in an orderly row of numerals. Instead, the squiggles of black kept curling into the outline of an aquiline nose, a set of chiseled lips, a fringe of long sable lashes that no gentleman had a right to possess...

  With an exasperated oath, she snapped the ledger shut. Were her eyes equaled at fault when it came to looking at other things?

  She gave a slight shake of her head. Surely not. The Earl of Killingworth's transgressions were as well documented as the numbers on the lined pages.

  And yet...

  Eliza slowly thumbed back to the beginning of the section on wool production and spent the next half hour going over each entry very carefully. Then once again the covers fell closed in her lap. If her eyes—and her judgment—were so sharp, why was it that nothing was adding up right?

  Lips pursed in thought, she reached for a sheet of paper and a pen.

  A low cough interrupted her work. "Miss Kirtland, you needn't feel obliged to spend the whole day trying to make sense of those blasted accounts."

  She looked up. "That's the trouble, sir. It doesn't make sense. Look here—" The tip of her pen pointed to the top of her notes. "To begin with, the price your steward is claiming to have received for sheared wool is but half of the going rate. Now, look down this column."

  Marcus peered over her shoulder. After a moment or two, he muttered an oath. "So the sheep are not the only dim-witted creatures who are being fleeced."

  "Correct. And I'm afraid that is not all."

  He pulled over a chair and sat down. "It gets worse?"

  "Much." Eliza turned to the section on rye and oats. "The cheating becomes even more blatant here. And I've yet to analyze the expenses recorded for upkeep of the tenant cottages." She made a face. "That should prove a interesting list."

  Marcus rubbed at his jaw. "It would seem your low opinion of me is entirely justified."

  She was not so sure...

  "The devil take it. Such egregious neglect of my responsibilities is criminal."

  "You should be taken to task for ignoring such a prime estate as Killingworth Manor," agreed Eliza. "But it is your steward who is guilty of the true crime. I would guess from these numbers that he has been altering the accounts for some time."

  The earl grimaced and swore under his breath. "I shall file charges with the magistrate this afternoon—" Catching her frown, he paused in mid-sentence. "You do not advise such a course?"

  "It would be a long and drawn-out proceeding," replied Eliza. "And though the numbers do not lie, they can be made to tell more than one story if one is clever enough. I fear that your man is enough of a snake to be able to wiggle out of the accusations. No doubt he has a plausible explanation for each transaction." She forbore to add that a trial might prove to be highly embarrassing as well as inconclusive, but the earl seemed to read her mind.

  "Making me look even more the fool." A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, softening the angular planes of his countenance. For an instant, all Eliza could think of was that he looked far from foolish.

  "Well then," he continued, jarring her from such musings. "What would you suggest?"

  "Turn your present steward out this instant," she replied without hesitation. "And replace him with an experienced overseer. Someone who is both highly skilled and highly trustworthy."

  "The first part is easy enough, but as to the second..." His mouth thinned. "I would think such men would be scarce as hen's teeth."

  "Even scarcer."

  "That's awfully encouraging," he groused. A harried sigh echoed the rustle of the pages. "So, any idea where I might look?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do." Eliza folded her hands atop the ledger. "The candidate I have in mind is scrupulously honest and highly knowledgeable in all the latest advances in agriculture. Furthermore, when given free rein to run things, this person has quickly turned a profit fr
om even the most incompetently managed estate—and usually lowered expenditures in the process." She paused, not looking up. "You will, of course, wish additional references. I can provide you with a list of the local gentry who will corroborate my words."

  "If what you say is half true, these services will no doubt cost me a pretty penny," murmured the earl.

  She shook her head. "No more than the going rate."

  "Ah. A fellow who is noble in both spirit and deed." His dark brows arched in faint amusement. "And just who is this paragon of perfection?"

  Eliza allowed a tiny smile. "Me."

  * * *

  "You?" It took a moment for Marcus to realize that his jaw was nearly buried in the folds of his cravat.

  "Yes. Me," repeated Eliza calmly.

  "The devil take it," he exclaimed. "I would look worse than a fool if I hired a female to run Killingworth Manor—I would look like a Bedlamite!"

  "And why is that?"

  "Because... because... bloody hell, I think you know quite well the reasons why."

  "Yes, of course I have heard them. Ad nauseum, I might add," she answered, making no attempt to disguise the bitterness in her voice. "All the specious, self-serving arguments that men have used since the time of Adam!" The ledger dropped onto the sidetable with a pronounced thump. "It is I who belong in Bedlam for thinking that you might be open to reason."

  So much for strategy. Somehow, she had him on the defensive again.

  "Now, that is not quite fair, Miss Kirtland—"

  A snort of derision cut him off. "What isn't fair, sir, is that I am not given a chance to prove my ability, no matter that you are in dire need of help and I have a stack of recommendations attesting to the fact that I am very good at what I do."

  "I don't doubt that you are a highly capable young lady—" This time, the abrupt halt in mid-sentence was of his own doing. Good Lord, was he really mouthing such pompous platitudes? No wonder she was looking as if she would like to scratch his eyes out!