Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  "Milord!"

  "Whitney!" he answered. "Ring the alarm. Open the rest of these stalls, then gather what help you can and see if you can prevent the fire from spreading to the other wing."

  "But sir—"

  Marcus had already disappeared into the spark and flames.

  * * *

  "More water there!" Whitney paused long enough in his labors at the well to point to a smoking beam. The buckets passed hand to hand down the line of servants, and the threat was quickly extinguished.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he yielded his place to a fresh man and went to inspect the damage. Smoke still wafted up from charred wood, puddles sloshed underfoot and an eerie hissing stirred through the wet embers, but by some miracle the fire had been contained to one small wing of the massive stables.

  "Is everyone accounted for?" demanded the steward, as he peered into the rubble.

  "Aye, Mr. Whitney. And it appears all the animals be safe as well," answered the grizzled gamekeeper, who had been one of the first to arrive on the scene.

  "Well done," he sighed, directing a nod of thanks to the exhausted group of servants and nearby tenants who had answered the alarm bell. His look of relief suddenly faded to one of distress. "His Lordship—Dear God, has anyone seen the earl?"

  There was a dead silence before one of the women pointed to a mass of fallen timbers blocking the way to the hayloft. "He 'eard a noise, and went back. Up there."

  "The devil take it." Whitney grabbed an axe, but before he could begin cutting through the rubble, a shape appeared from the darkness.

  Marcus resembled nothing so much as his namesake—two glittering feline eyes peered out from a face near black as midnight from its coating of soot. As his shirt was in tatters, the rest of his flesh was in a similar state. Whitney blinked in disbelief, but the sigh—and soft mewing emanating from the vicinity of the earl's chest—was no figments of his imagination.

  Cradled in Marcus's arms were three tiny kittens, woefully bedraggled and covered in ash, but otherwise unharmed.

  "Here, let me take them, sir." Eliza shouldered past the astonished steward and reached for the balls of fluff.

  The earl stared at her chafed palms, rubbed raw from helping with the buckets of water. "Hell's teeth, Miss Kirtland, go back to the house and have your sister attend to those injuries," he growled. "Have you no more sense than to risk life and limb out here?"

  "Apparently no more sense than you," she replied, removing the kittens from his grasp. She passed them on to a fumbling Whitney, then took firm hold of Marcus's wrist. "Come with me. It is you who need medical attention. Those look to be some rather nasty scrapes and burns on your arms."

  "Mere scratches," he grumbled. Though he fully intended to take her to task for such high-handed measures, he suddenly felt rather unsteady on his feet. "No reason to fuss over them."

  Paying no attention to his protest, Eliza tightened her grip and marched off. Too exhausted to put up further resistance, the earl allowed himself to be led outside, to a spot by the paddock where Meredith was already treating several of the farmers for minor injuries.

  "Sit here," ordered Eliza, forcing him down on a bale of hay. "And don't move." She was back in a moment with a bowl of hot water, a crock of ointment and a length of linen bandage.

  "Just what do you intend to do with those?" he asked, giving the items a dubious look.

  "I should think it would be obvious."

  "But—" The sponge touched his shoulders. "OUCH!"

  "Do stop yowling. That can't possibly hurt."

  "Miss Kirtland, I—"

  It was now her hands upon his bare flesh, massaging the fragrant balm into the scraped and knotted muscles. Feeling for some unaccountable reason as if the cat had got his tongue, Marcus fell silent as her touch glided down the curve of his biceps.

  "You what?" she asked softly.

  "I—that is, if I had wished to be smacked and pummeled to death, I would have stayed among the falling timbers."

  There was a ripping sound as Eliza readied a length of linen. "Speaking of which, what possessed you to go into the blaze alone? You should have waited for help before doing anything so foolhardy."

  Marcus gave what was meant as an indifferent shrug, though it ended in a wince as she tied off the bandage with a sharp tug.

  She matched his show of nonchalance. "Well, I feel I must warn you, sir—as soon as word spreads of what happened tonight, you may be in danger of losing your reputation."

  His head jerked up, the devil-may-care expression slipping from his features. "What in the name of Lucifer is that supposed to mean?"

  "The Black Cat..." She paused to tear off another piece of cloth.

  "Confound it, Miss Kirtland! If you are going to suggest that I was in any way responsible for—"

  "...and his kittens." Eliza shook her head in mock dismay. "Really, sir, it is going to be rather difficult to maintain the image of a cold, ruthless predator if you insist on doing things like risking your own skin to rescue helpless animals."

  "Er... ah," He gave a gruff cough. "I wasn't thinking very clearly."

  An exaggerated arch of her brow was her only reply. Eliza worked on in silence for a few minutes longer before knotting off the last bandage.

  "There." She leaned back and dusted her hands. "That should do it." From somewhere in the shadows she produced a blanket and draped it over his shoulders. "Now, you had better return to the Manor and get some hot tea and some sleep."

  "Not at all tired. Don't need any rest," he muttered. "Need to help Whitney." Unfortunately the assertion was belied by the fact that he nearly fell flat on his face on trying to rise.

  "Mr. Whitney and the men have things well under control. There's little more to be done, save for settling the horses and putting out the few remaining pockets of embers."

  "But—"

  "Enough heroics for one night, Lord Killingworth," she said firmly, her hand steadying his swaying step. "Stop arguing and let us be off."

  Heroics?

  Suddenly speechless, Marcus abandoned any thoughts of further protest and followed meekly at her side.

  * * *

  "Rags and oil, you say?"

  "Yes, milord. I took it upon myself to make a thorough inspection at first light. There are signs of a forced latch on the tack room door, and the remnants of oil-soaked rags are still lying about." He crossed his arms. "And Jem found signs of footprints in the stand of beech nearby. There is no question in my mind—the fire was deliberately set."

  Marcus flexed his scraped knuckles and turned to stare at the glowing hearth.

  From her seat near the fire, Eliza was unable to read his expression. "It would seem that someone is hellbent on seeing you driven out of the area, sir," she murmured. "Have you any idea who it might be?"

  He looked back and slowly shook his head.

  "No enemies you can think of?" she persisted.

  His lips curved into a sardonic smile. "I can think of a good many I have made over the years, Miss Kirtland. But they are all in London, not here in South Dorset Downs."

  "On the contrary, Lord Killingworth. I think it quite likely that at least one of them has strayed from Town."

  "It could be that someone had a grudge against one of the grooms. Or was simply bent on mischief—"

  Her derisive snort cut him off. "Fustian, sir! Given the other incidents, there isn't a snowball's chance in Hell that this latest attack is mere coincidence."

  Whitney cleared his throat. "Er, I would have to agree with Miss Kirtland's assessment, sir." Though clearly uncomfortable raising the subject, he nonetheless went on. "I know of what happened to Mr. Harkness. And I have heard the recent rumors regarding... other attacks, sir. There is no denying something havey-cavey is afoot here."

  "But why?" The earl appeared to be speaking more to himself than the others. "There was certainly ample opportunity for foul play in London. Why wait until now to—"

  His musings were cut off
by a sharp knock on the door. Before he could respond, it flew open and his nephew hobbled in, closely attended by Meredith. Taking in the pallor of the young man's features and the hobbling shuffle of his movements, Marcus quirked a grimace, first at Lucien, then his companion. "I wonder that you have been allowed to leave your bed and exert yourself in such a manner. It does not seem wise."

  "To the devil with my bed. If you are to have a council of war, Uncle Marcus, I wish to be a part of it."

  "It is merely a—"

  Lucien's jaw tightened. "Don't fob me off as if I were naught but a grubby schoolboy, sir. Despite what you think, I'm not a complete idiot. Nor a sniveling coward."

  "I think you neither, Lucien, but—"

  "Then no 'buts' about it," replied his nephew.

  "But..." Sunk by his own logic, the earl cast a baleful look at the others, as if fishing for some help.

  "Perhaps I may even surprise you and have a useful idea or two," added Lucien with a self-deprecating shrug.

  Inwardly applauding the young man's show of spirit, Eliza hid a smile by regarding the tips of her slippers. It was obvious the earl was unaccustomed to having his wishes opposed, especially when he employed that tone of voice. Whitney, too, seemed to be finding the situation diverting. To cover a twitch of amusement, his gaze was now riveted on the ceiling molding.

  Seeing he could expect no show of support from either of his advisors, Marcus threw up his hands in surrender. "Very well. I suppose you might as well take a seat."

  Meredith moved quickly, choosing to interpret the grudging invitation as including her as well.

  "By all means, you too," grumbled the earl. "Shall I ring for tea and make it a proper social gathering?"

  "Perhaps refreshments would not be a bad idea, as someone appears to be rather peckish this morning," replied Eliza. Ignoring the earl's dark look, she opened a small notebook and turned to a fresh page. "In any case, Mr. Harkness is quite right. The more minds that are put to the task, the quicker we will be able to figure out what is going on here."

  "Hmmph." Marcus did, however, refrain from further sarcasm.

  "Mr. Whitney was just informing us of his early morning investigations," explained Eliza, and then proceeded to recount the steward's discoveries.

  "As you can see, the evidence all indicates it was arson rather than an accident. Hardly a surprise, I might add, unless one is a greater believer in coincidence than I am." Taking the ensuing bit of silence as encouragement to go on, Eliza tapped her pen against the blank paper. "The question we were just beginning to address is, why does someone seem intent on ruining the earl—either in name or in fact?"

  "Some sort of personal grudge?" ventured Meredith.

  "A, er, significant monetary loss at the gaming tables?" murmured Lucien.

  All eyes turned toward Marcus. "Both are possible," he conceded. "Though not from the recent past. So it strikes me as peculiar that my unknown adversary would choose here and now. Or that he would pick Lucien as one of his targets. Anyone who knows me must be aware that the two of us have never had a particularly... cordial relationship."

  "An eye for an eye—revenge has been a powerful motive since Biblical days," murmured Whitney. "Is there some individual who might feel compelled to avenge a... physical injury, whether to himself or someone close to him?" The words were chosen with care, but it was clear that the steward had heard rumors of the earl's involvement in several duels. "That may explain such a violent attack on a family member."

  The earl leaned back in his chair. "Though you are all much too polite to be so blunt, what you really mean to ask is what sort of acts on my part could provoke such animosity? Have I bedded another man's wife? Have I been lucky enough at cards to leave another man's fortune and future in ruin? Have I left another man lying in his own blood on the dueling grounds?"

  Beneath the thin veneer of cynicism was the note of another, much deeper layer of emotion. As Eliza watched the play of shadows flicker over his face, she couldn't help but wonder at the stark contrasts it presented. Light and dark. And yet nothing about the earl was black and white, she decided, but rather infinite shades of grey.

  "The answer is yes," continued Marcus. "To all of the above."

  A log snapped in the fire, sending up a crackle of sparks.

  "You are painting a blacker picture of yourself than is fair, sir," protested Lucien with some heat of his own.

  "Am I?"

  "Yes. The incidents you describe are..." The young man shot an apologetic look at the two ladies. "...unfortunately part of accepted behavior within the highest circles of the ton. You are no less honorable than most titled gentlemen in living by Society's rules. Indeed, you are better than most. Your integrity is unquestioned—why, even those who do not like you admit you are a man of principle. There has never been so much as a whisper to imply that any of your successes were achieved by underhanded methods, so do not speak as if you have committed some smarmy deed, deserving of retribution." Lucien drew in a deep breath. "I know you have not."

  A look of genuine surprise ghosted across the earl's features on hearing his nephew's impassioned defense of his character. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his more usual expression of sardonic bemusement. "I would have expected you to be among the most vocal in condemning me as harsh and unfair."

  "As I said, Uncle Marcus, perhaps there are a number of things about me that you will find unexpected."

  There was a lengthy silence as the earl rose and added another log to the fire. Turning abruptly from the flare of the flames, he addressed the others. "Judge me as you will, my only real concern is my unknown adversary. It appears he will stop at nothing to ruin me, no matter how many innocent people he harms in the process. I mean, of course, to hunt him down. But it may prove dangerous to anyone associated with me. You have all seen the violence of which he is capable."

  His brows drew together, putting Eliza in mind of a hawk homing in on its prey. He then straightened and squared his broad shoulders, only heightening the predatory image. If she were wont to wagering, she decided, her money would certainly not be bet against the earl when he came face to face with his enemy.

  His hooded eyes, now nearly dark as midnight, turned to fix on Whitney. "Perhaps you wish to reconsider your employment, as the terms of the contract appear to have changed. I would understand it if you choose to return to Exeter, at least until this is over."

  The young man did not twitch a hair under the intense scrutiny. "We have already put a great deal of work into Killingworth Manor, milord. If you don't mind, I would prefer to stay and fight to make sure it has not been all for naught."

  A glimmer of approval lightened the earl's brooding countenance. He gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Whitney. No doubt we will have our work cut out for us. But the sooner we put an end to this nasty business, the better for everyone."

  Eliza was not surprised by the young man's decision. She had, over the past fortnight, been favorably impressed with his demeanor. Quick-witted and tough-minded, he would prove a valuable ally in hunting down their adversary.

  "To begin with," continued Marcus. "I shall have you removed without delay to London, Lucien, where you should be safe from further attack. And the Kirtlands will leave immediately for—"

  There was a bark of outrage from his nephew. "My limp has done nothing to slow my wits, Uncle Marcus. I'll not be packed off like a helpless fema—" He bit off the last word and glanced in embarrassment at two sisters. "Er, that is, like a helpless fool. I'm not going anywhere and that's flat."

  "Count me in as well, sir," said Meredith, her resolve evident despite the softness of her voice. "I may not be able to throw a punch or fire a pistol, but I know there must be some way I can help."

  "Miss Kirtland!" The bellow was somewhere between an accusation and an appeal. "Can't you drum some sense into these young people?"

  "They seem perfectly sensible to me, sir," replied Eliza calmly.

  His jaw dropped. "Surely you
don't mean to suggest—"

  "Suggest that they are right in demanding to be part of the action?" Her pen moved over the page of her notebook as if jotting down some relevant point. In truth, she was doodling a sketch. Of a very large and very angry cat, ears flattened, claws bared.

  After a quick glance up, she added a set of fangs.

  "Yes, of course I am. You don't actually think that I am going anywhere either, do you? We have a contract, Lord Killingworth, and I mean to hold you to it."

  He frowned slightly. "If it is a matter of salary, Miss Kirtland, be assured you will receive what I—"

  "It's not about money, sir. It's about principle." Forestalling the reply she saw forming on his lips, she quickly added, "I dislike being threatened or bullied. And I have as strong a grudge against this dastard as you do."

  The earl's fingers drummed upon the mantel. "Will no one in this room show any common sense?"

  Silence answered the appeal.

  "Hmmph."

  Eliza sensed that the slowing beat signaled surrender.

  "Oh very well," he muttered. "Seeing as we are to join forces, I think it is high time for us to go on the offensive against our enemy, rather than sit back and let him make another attack."

  "Right you are, sir. As a first move, why don't Robbie and I make a few inquiries around the village," suggested Whitney. "The efforts and funds that you have ploughed into the Manor of late have yielded a change of heart in most of the local people. From what I gather, they would be sorry to see you pack up and leave. So let us see what information or leads we might uncover with a discreet question or two."

  "Very discreet," cautioned Lucien. "Let us not tip our hand that we suspect a connection between all the various attacks. If we go about our usual routine, we have a better chance of luring him into making another move. And when he does, we shall be ready to spring a trap."

  "That is a very sound strategy," allowed the earl.

  "From an ancient Chinese philosopher whose work I read at Oxford, sir," murmured his nephew. "The Art of War."

  Eliza observed the exchange of smiles between the two men with a curve of her own lips. She had a feeling that one of the alliances forged tonight would last far after the battle was over. For some reason, that pleased her.