Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  With a small snort, Eliza booted yet another projectile through the air, this one ricocheting off the trunk of a gnarled oak. Oh, very well—perhaps she, too, had been a trifle guilty of rushing to judgment.

  "Have you taken a dislike to that particular tree? Or is it something else that is troubling you, Eliza?"

  Her head snapped up. Framed in one of the stiles was her neighbor, an expression of bemusement mingled with concern shading his features.

  "Though I fear I hardly need ask what has brought that dark look to your face, given what you have been forced to endure of late," continued Ned Laskin. Setting aside his pitchfork, he climbed over the rails. "Would that the cursed Black Cat would turn tail and slink back to London, leaving respectable folk like us to live here in peace and quiet."

  "He is not quite the devilish creature that you think," she replied tartly, somehow feeling compelled to defend the man.

  A furrow came to the farmer's brow. "Don't tell me that you, of all people, have been seduced by his—" The words stuck in his throat as he met her outraged stare. Turning near scarlet, he gave a choked cough. "That is, I did not mean to imply anything... improper. I just meant—"

  "I know what you meant, Ned," said Eliza. "And I think you are well enough acquainted with me to know I am not one to be swayed by superficial charm or insincere flattery."

  "Aye, you have always shown yourself to possess a great deal of sense." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and cleared his throat with a cough. "Still, I cannot like the idea of you, or the rest of your family, continuing to stay under that blackguard's roof."

  "There is nothing untoward in our visit," she said evenly, though she couldn't quite meet his eye. "Meredith and Mr. Harkness have, as you well know, announced their engagement."

  A low oath slipped from his lips. "Forgive me, Eliza, I may be a rough farmer, but I have a grain of sense too. Enough to know a complete bouncer when I hear one."

  He fell in step with her. "Why in the name of Heaven are you circulating such a story? I don't understand why you would want to lift a finger to help the earl and his nephew. Especially," he added while slanting her a meaningful look, "in light of recent events."

  "I don't need you to remind me of my responsibilities to my family, Ned," she replied tartly. "Nor do I feel obliged to justify my actions. I have my reasons, but that is all I will say at the moment. If you cannot accept that, so be it."

  A war of emotions skirmished across his face. Contrition, however, quickly vanquished pique. He came to a halt and took hold of her arm, "Eliza, please. I do not wish to quarrel. If I offended you, it was only out of concern, not malice. I don't mean to question your judgment—"

  "Then don't," she said, her voice growing considerably more gentle. Smiling, she reached out and patted his cheek. "I appreciate your concern, but let us say no more on the matter."

  "Very well." Reluctance was evident in his tone, but he forced a brisk nod. "Cry friends?"

  "Of course. That is, if you will see me home to Rose Cottage." Eliza slipped her arm through his and they continued on along the path. "Tell me, is the change in feed having any effect on how much milk your cows are producing?"

  "Aye, your idea proved right..."

  The two of them were so engrossed in their discussion of animal husbandry that they didn't notice the approaching rider until he had come abreast of them and reined his mount to a walk.

  "Lord Killingworth!" Surprised by his unexpected appearance, Eliza couldn't help but exclaim, "W—what are you doing here?"

  The earl gave a curt tip of his beaver hat. "I, too, wished a breath of fresh air, and since I was riding out, I thought I might offer to carry back the books you were fetching from your cottage." His mouth curled into a faint smirk. "However, it appears you have no dearth of knight errants."

  Suddenly aware of her arm entwined with Ned's, she stiffened and drew free. "Allow me to introduce my neighbor, Mr. Laskin. We were discussing his... cows." Furious with the earl for making her feel like a foolish schoolgirl, she turned back to her friend and said through gritted teeth, "Ned, allow me to introduce Lord Killingworth."

  With the farmer making scant attempt to hide his disapproval, and the earl responding with poisonous politeness, the exchange between the two men was decidedly chill.

  "Well, don't let me interrupt your little tete a tete," said Marcus with a mocking smile. "I am stopping in the village on my way back to the Manor. Is there anything I might pick up for you, Miss Kirtland?" He cocked a brow. "A fresh supply of hairpins, perhaps?"

  She glared at him.

  "No? Well then, good day." With the barest of nods in Ned's direction, he spurred his stallion into an easy canter,

  "What in Hades did he mean by that?" growled the farmer as he watched the earl ride away.

  "Oh, pay it no heed," answered Eliza through gritted teeth. "He has a peculiar sense of humor, that is all."

  "Hmmph."

  However, a quelling look from her forestalled further comment, and the conversation returned back to milking methods. It continued in that vein until they reached the ivied gate of Rose Cottage.

  "You are sure you do not wish for me to wait and escort you back to the Manor," asked Ned, his eyes narrowing as if he has spotted some feral cur prowling among the rhododendrons.

  "Don't be silly. I've kept you long enough from your labors, and besides, we are in Chertwell, not the wilds of Egypt or India," she replied, in an attempt to tease the scowl from his face. "So there is really very little danger from lions or tigers."

  His expression only darkened. "It's no joking matter, Eliza. Some predator is out there. And I have no doubt he just biding his time before he pounces again." He tugged at the latch and swung the gate open.

  "I am quite sure that neither Lord Killingworth nor his nephew are any threat to this shire," said Eliza softly.

  Ned looked at her rather strangely before dropping his gaze to his muddied boots. "I pray you are right." But his face betrayed just how unlikely he thought that was. "You told me a wise old saying from one of your father's books not long ago. Well, I, too, know several proverbs, including this one."

  The hinges made a scratchy growl.

  "A leopard does not change his spots."

  With those parting words, he hunched his shoulders and turned away.

  * * *

  "Shall I stop? You look as though you are growing fatigued."

  "No, no, I'm enjoying it immensely." Lucien forced his eyes open. "Really I am. But perhaps you are tired of reading."

  Meredith turned a page. "Not at all. What say you we continue on to the end of the chapter? Then I must insist that you get some sleep. Ample rest and nourishment are very important if you are to gain your strength back."

  Lucien's grin looked almost normal, she noted with satisfaction. The herbal compresses she had applied had brought down the swelling of his lips considerably, and the bruises had faded to dull smudges. "Good Lord, if Cook keeps stuffing me with egg custards and cream porridges, what I shall gain is so much weight that my legs will likely snap from the strain. Do you think I might be allowed a simple slice of beefsteak or a mutton chop?"

  "Perhaps a bit of boiled fowl." She smiled at the look of distaste that puckered his features. "Then, in a day or two, if your condition keeps improving at such a rapid pace, we will see whether you are able to rise for a short spell. I am a firm believer in the idea that getting the limbs up and moving helps speed a patient's recovery. Once you can manage that, you may have whatever you like from the kitchen."

  "Mmmm. Rashers of bacon, slabs of ham, wedges of hot apple pie," murmured Lucien. "Topped off with a hunk of Stilton."

  "Savoring the thought of Stilton? Then it sounds as if you are well on the road to recovery, Mr. Harkness."

  "Yes. Thanks to you." His fingers fumbled with the cuff of his nightshirt. "I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am for all your kindness. Yet I'm sorry that you have been put to all the trouble of caring for me.
"

  "You have nothing to be sorry for."

  He drew in a ragged breath. "Thank you for that as well. Your assurances were more balm for my spirit than I can say. I-I am not sure I could have lived with myself, thinking I had caused you such pain."

  "Actually, it is we who should be begging your forgiveness. If I had been clearer in my description... if my sister had been a trifle less headstrong... and if Lord Killingworth had been a bit more circumspect in his anger, this attack on you might have been prevented."

  "I doubt it." Lucien pulled a face. "If this dastard had planned all along to use me as a means of getting at Uncle Marcus, he would have found some other way to manage it." There was a pause as he watched Meredith lay the book aside and reach for the tray of medicines. "And as for your sister, she can hardly be blamed for reacting as she did."

  "Perhaps not." Meredith took her time in measuring out a mixture. "Still, Eliza tends to have a bit of a temper."

  That prompted a wry chuckle. "So I have noticed. But no more than Uncle Marcus." The twitch of his mouth stilled. "I must say, their first meeting was rather like seeing flint and steel rub together, wasn't it? I hope the sparks are not flying too thick downstairs."

  "The atmosphere is not quite as hot as one might expect. They seem to have come to some sort of... agreement. At least, that is how it appears." She handed him the draught. "In any case, both of them have been rather too busy to quarrel of late. The earl has been holed up in his library, while my sister has occupied herself with poring over a mountain of papers and ledgers."

  Her lips crooked in a fond smile. "Eliza has a very good head for practical matters. She is extremely clever with numbers and analyzing expenses and that sort of thing."

  "Well, Uncle Marcus is most definitely not." Realizing that his comment might sound a trifle disloyal, Lucien quickly added, "That is by his own admission, in case you are wondering."

  He paused for a moment. "Yet he is much more learned than most people realize. His knowledge of literature and history is really quite impressive. However, when it comes to mathematics and logistics of the actual running of his estate, he claims he is overmatched. Indeed, judging by all the curses and grimaces that accompany an attempt at balancing the accounts, one would think he was fighting the Battle of Badajoz single-handedly."

  "He is not alone," said Meredith. "A number of the local gentlemen come to Eliza for her advice on business. Though, I might add, they are loath to admit it."

  Lucien looked thoughtful. "Your sister sounds quite remarkable. I wish I might have a chance to further the acquaintance. But it's clear she wants nothing to do with me."

  "Eliza can be quick to anger and quick to leap into action, but she is also quick to admit when she is wrong."

  * * *

  Had she made the right decision?

  Eliza shoved the last of the books into her reticule, somehow managing to twist the cords into knots. No doubt they would prove difficult to undo once she returned to Killingworth Manor.

  But no more so than her own tangled thoughts.

  She could not keep the question from echoing once again in her head. Had she made the right decision in joining forces with the earl? Until lately, she had considered herself quite adept at summing up a situation and arriving at the correct course of action. But now, a nagging little inner voice was reminding her that she had been rather precipitous in her calculations, coming up with the wrong answer in regard to young Mr. Harkness.

  And, if truth be told, in regard to Lord Killingworth as well.

  Neither man was the beast she had thought him to be.

  In the case of the earl, her tally on him had been off on a number of accounts. To begin with, she had thought that a rakehell would lack any vestige of honor. Yet, whether she agreed with it or not, his demand that his nephew offer marriage to Meredith was motivated by commitment to a strict code of honor.

  She had also imagined him to be a shallow, stupid man, interested only in pursuits of the flesh. His intellect, however, had proven to be surprisingly sharp. Not only was he well-read and insightful, but he also appeared willing—even eager—to expand the boundaries of his knowledge. How else to explain his determination to learn the running of his estate, no matter that it meant the hiring a female to teach him?

  Oh, to be sure he had his faults. Probably quite a few. But in her first attempt at adding up the pluses and minuses of his character, Eliza had to admit she had gotten the equation all wrong.

  And so she asked herself again—was she making another mistake this time?

  Eliza bit her lip as she took a long moment to survey her snug study, with its familiar faded chintzes, well-worn books and waxed pine. Had Ned's comment contained more truth than she wished to acknowledge? Was she allowing herself to be seduced by the earl? Not physically, of course, but by the chance to expand her own little world, to take on the sort of challenge she had always dreamed about.

  An exasperated sigh stole forth. She made precious few errors when it came to dealing with numbers. If only the same could be said for her dealings with people.

  Her gaze lingered on a basket of dried herbs. She stood for several moments, breathing in the subtle scents of lavender, thyme and chamomile, and felt the scrunch of her features begin to ease somewhat. Despite her youth and lack of worldly experience, Meredith was not only a skilled healer, but also an excellent judge of people. And not only was her sister unintimidated by the Earl of Killingworth's growls and snarls, for some odd reason, she actually seemed to like him.

  Eliza wasn't quite sure why.

  But still, such a realization helped banish her misgivings, at least for the moment.

  After adding a roll of pamphlets to the pocket of her pelisse, she reordered the stacks of books on her desk before quitting the cottage and set off at a brisk pace for Killingworth Manor. The die was cast, she told herself, wryly choosing an analogy in keeping with one of the earl's favorite pastimes. If it was a losing proposition, she could always gather up her vowels and leave the table.

  In the meantime, she meant to profit from both the salary and the experience the earl was offering. And trifling annoyances such as lordly sarcasm or teasing would not deter her from her goal. She would do whatever it took to get the job done.

  She would be tough. She would be patient. She would be hardworking. She would be innovative...

  Hell's Bells.

  She would even try to be nice to the dratted man, if that was what was necessary.

  Chapter 11

  "Rethatch Wicker's cottage... a dozen ewes to be added to the north meadows... switch from mangel wurtzel to..." muttered the earl, his writing reduced to a hurried scrawl as he tried to keep pace with Eliza's orders.

  "And if you and your new steward are riding out in the direction of the mill, ask Mr. Fleming if the new stone has arrived," finished Eliza. "That is, if Mr. Whitney has no objection to my suggestions."

  Marcus laid aside his pen. "Sarcasm is not necessary to remind me of how little you like the arrangement, Miss Kirtland—there is precious little chance I shall ever forget it." On seeing the jut of her chin, he had to repress a smile. "However, even you have to admit that things are progressing rather well."

  "Hmmph." With an exaggerated shrug, she went back to consulting her notes. "The young man does not appear unwilling to listen," she allowed. "Nor does he seem adverse to hard work."

  Young man? He coughed to hide a chuckle. The fellow was at least a half dozen years her senior. "Well, he does come highly recommended."

  "Ha, but by whom?" she said under her breath. Shuffling the pages, she added in a louder voice," It is too early to judge, sir. But I suppose I could be saddled with worse."

  High praise indeed, thought the earl. He should hope so, given the amount of effort it had taken to search out the right man for the job. Not only was the candidate required to be diligent, trustworthy and sharp-witted, but also liberal-minded enough to agree to some radical management notions—including a fe
male as his nominal boss.

  The earl's inquiries had turned up the name of Jock Whitney, whose father had worked for decades as the bailiff of a vast estate near Exeter. Having served a lengthy apprenticeship under his parent, the younger Whitney was eager for a chance to strike out on his own. Enough so that he was willing to agree to the rather peculiar terms of the contract.

  To his credit, the fellow had not sought to change the conditions once he had been hired. There were, mused Marcus, all manner of subtle ways in which a new steward might have tried to discredit Miss Kirtland. Instead, he seemed to hold her and her ideas in genuine regard.

  In turn, the young lady's barbs were becoming less and less pointed, as reflected by her last comment.

  "Speaking of Whitney," continued the earl when she finally looked up. "He wished me to ask whether you thought the acreage near the millpond might be better used for millet rather than rye."

  "An interesting question." Eliza began to chew on the end of her pen. "I suppose he has read Remington's essay on soil nutrients."

  "Possibly," murmured the earl, hoping she wouldn't inquire whether he had done the same. He had burning the candles into the wee hours of the night studying on sheep and cows, but he drew the line at dirt.

  "I shall have to think on it for a day." Turning from the table she had commandeered as her work space, she moved to the windows. "Why is he not here? There are a number of other matters I should have liked to discuss in person."

  "A section of fencing by the cliffs was washed out by last night's heavy rain. He wished to oversee the repairs himself, to make sure they were done right."

  "Hmmph." A nod, however, indicated her grudging approval. "In that case, they, too, can wait until the morrow." Eliza's gaze lingered a bit longer on the distant pastureland, as if her thoughts had momentarily wandered far afield. Then, gathering her the ends of her shawl, she stepped back from the leaded panes.