Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  She pressed a tentative touch to her lower lip. He had kissed her, to be sure, but that did not signify overly much. She was wise enough in the ways of the world to know that men had primal urges—and the earl embodied the very essence of masculinity. For him, their intimate interlude had most likely been merely a passing fancy. While she might savor the lingering traces of sea salt and spiced smoke, he was no doubt grateful that his nephew's knock had extricated him from an awkward position.

  Eliza had seen it in his eyes—the odd flicker in his eyes as he pulled away. It could only have been embarrassment.

  Even odder was the fact that she felt no shame, just an ache of regret. As it wasn't likely that she would ever again experience a man's passionate kisses, she had wanted more.

  Of what?

  Of Marcus. Of his strength, his smile, his passion, his intelligence. No matter that she knew it was absurd to indulge in schoolgirl fantasy.

  Giving up all pretense of reading a stick-in-the-mud passage on digging dirt, Eliza put the book aside and began to pace the perimeter of her bedchamber. Just as unsettling as the earl's kisses was the look in his eyes on hearing Lucien's revelation. She was sure he meant to set himself up as his former steward's next target. A prickling chill coursed down her spine, as if cold steel had touched bare flesh. Marcus was, by all accounts, a crack pugilist and a deadly shot. But he was also a gentleman, bound by a strict code of honor, and would fight fairly.

  Hastings most definitely would not.

  A thoroughly dirty dish, the man would have no compunction about chopping his own mother into mincemeat if he could see any profit from it.

  Warning the earl would do little good. He was as damnably stubborn as she was about certain principles. Picking up her pace, Eliza started another circle of the room. It wasn't until she had passed the cheval glass for the third time that an angled reflection of her own scowl gave her pause for thought.

  Unlike the earl, she was more of an even match for the former steward. She didn't fight fair either. Coming from the same world, Eliza understood his breed of men all too well. She was intimately acquainted with bullying creditors and intimidating tactics of petty tyrants who wished to keep her in her place. Like Hastings, she had no compunction about doing whatever it took to survive and keep her family from harm.

  So, Eliza decided, it was up to her to see that Hastings was caught.

  She owed it to the earl for her part in what had happened to Lucien. And for thinking the worst of him.

  As for what she felt now...

  Her heart gave a tiny lurch. It was best not to think of that, or the future. Triumph would be bittersweet—once the threat was over, her family would return to Rose Cottage and their old routine as if nothing had changed.

  Except that everything had changed.

  She had laughed at the idea of falling head over heels in love.

  Love.

  How ironic that the joke was on her.

  She would, of course, take great pains to see that the earl never guessed the truth. Any further contact with him would be purely professional. The straitlaced steward had learned her lesson. She would take care never to let down her hair again.

  It took another few turns of the room before Eliza distanced herself from disappointment and set to work devising a strategy. Her work with the area estates had made her familiar with much of the surrounding lands. If the former steward was indeed the culprit, she had a good idea of where he had gone to ground.

  A surreptitious visit to his hiding place might turn up enough incriminating evidence to charge him with the previous crimes. Even if she were to encounter him, her walking through the woods would raise little suspicions. The Kirtland sisters were well-known for their foraging forays.

  And if, on account of her association with Marcus, he sought to make her his next victim?

  Her chin came up a fraction.

  She would be ready to meet fire with fire. The earl had a very fine pistol in his desk drawer—the latest model from Manton's, according to his nephew. From the study it would be easy to slip unnoticed across the back terrace and out through the gardens.

  * * *

  "What do you mean she is missing?" Setting aside a twinge of alarm, Marcus put down the set of drawings and stepped away from the men laboring over the new barn beams. "Miss Kirtland is with Whitney."

  "I asked him, sir," replied Lucien. "Their meeting is scheduled for the morrow."

  "Eliza is not in her bed chamber or the sick room, or the library," added Meredith.

  "Or your study." His nephew's grim expression confirmed his growing fears. "I took the liberty of checking your desk drawer and your pistol is gone as well."

  The earl swore. "Jem, saddle my horse," he called to the young groom. "And check if any of the other mounts are missing."

  "I asked Whitney to make a search of the south fields, then report back here," said Lucien.

  "Good thinking."

  "Forgive me if I am acting skittish, sir." Meredith drew in a deep breath. "There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for her absence. She may have needed to fetch one of her own books or another shawl from home."

  In which case, thought the earl, she would hardly need to lug along one of London's most deadly dueling weapons.

  Damn the plaguey female and her fondness for firearms. He would take a birch to her backside if she had dared strike out on her own.

  "I'll ride to Rose Cottage and see if she's there," volunteered Lucien.

  "I'll go along, too," cried Meredith. "While you follow the lane, I can check along the shortcut—"

  "No, damn it! All of you are to stay inside the Manor until I return." The earl flung himself into the saddle. "See that you keep her there, Lucien. Lock her in her room if need be."

  "Yes, sir." His nephew's voice had the same taut grimness as his own.

  "And show Whitney to the gun room when he arrives. Have him help you load and prime three of the hunting rifles. I want him and Robbie ready to ride out when I return."

  Not waiting for an answer, he spurred his stallion into a gallop.

  Chapter 14

  There was no sign of life in the abandoned gamekeeper's cottage. Nestled in a small clearing near the ocean cliffs, the small structure had not been used for years. Still, Eliza knew it to be in good repair, and despite its isolated position within the wooded grove, the place afforded quick access to the main footpaths running along the coast. A man could move about easily without attracting any notice.

  After checking again for any telltale wisp of smoke, Eliza rearranged the folded cloth atop her basket and continued on down the sloping trail. The sleek butt and smooth trigger of the earl's weapon hidden within the wicker offered added reassurance that she was well prepared for any contingency. After all, she thought with a rueful quirk, she had not quailed at invading the earl's residence with naught but an ancient pistol whose aim was a touch erratic. She could manage a quick look around a single room without any trouble.

  As she approached the door, footprints in the soft earth seemed to indicate she was on the right track. It was shut, and though a glance through the grimy panes of windowglass showed no movement inside, she took the precaution of knocking.

  Once, twice... On hearing no response, Eliza jiggled the latch. It was unlocked and cracked open at the nudge of her shoulder. She looked around, then ducked inside.

  Someone was definitely in residence. Thought the light was dim, and she dared not light a candle, she could make out the blankets lying on the bedstead, the cheese and bread in the open larder and the crockery on the makeshift table. Edging a step closer, she saw there was also a jumble of papers on the rough pine. A closer look showed the top one to be nothing more than an overdue accounting from a Portsmouth wine seller. But the next one proved a good deal more interesting.

  Lamp oil—enough to light the tiny cottage for a year—a coil of rope, an ax. The bill proved nothing in itself, yet Eliza felt her pulse begin to quicken as she hurri
ed through the rest of the pile. Hastings had made a careless mistake by leaving the papers lying about.

  Perhaps he had made two by keeping an even more revealing document among them.

  Hell's bells. As the last one fell from her fingers, she drew in a deep breath and slowly put the papers back in order. It was, she reminded herself, unreasonable to feel a stab of disappointment. The information on the lamp oil, while not outright proof, should be enough to convince the authorities to pursue an investigation of Hastings and his recent activities.

  A cursory search of the lone cupboard turned up nothing else. Retracing her steps, Eliza reached out for the latch. But after a fraction of a pause, her hand suddenly veered for the coat hanging from the peg. No doubt the pockets would yield naught but lint, however it was worth a try.

  Sure enough, she came away empty. Pulling a face, she was about to let the garment fall away when a faint crackle from near the collar drew her attention. Chiding herself for overlooking the breast pocket, she reached inside and withdrew a twist of string and a crumpled scrap of foolscap.

  The sketch was crude, but unmistakable—the head of a wolf, jaws agape, teeth bared.

  Eliza's first impulse was to tuck the incriminating evidence in her skirts and race back to the earl. But on recalling Lucien's mention of logic, she hesitated. Rushing off half-cocked was not always the wisest move—a lesson that ought to have been hammered home by now.

  She forced herself to think rationally. If she took the paper with her, the authorities would have only her word of where it came from. On the other hand, if she left it...

  Her fingers tightened, then she thrust it back into the coat and quickly stepped back out outside.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the slanting sunlight. Still, she hurried blindly ahead, anxious to distance herself from the leering beast and all it stood for. In her haste, she stumbled on the stones.

  But a grip on her arm kept her from falling.

  "Why, fancy running into you here, Miss Kirtland."

  * * *

  Marcus slammed the parlor door shut. Like the upstairs rooms of Rose Cottage, it was deserted and Eliza's desk appeared undisturbed. He would make a quick check of the back garden, but he doubted it would turn up any trace of her.

  Bloody hell. He should have anticipated trouble. His hand balled in a fist. Lud, if he lost her—

  "What are you doing here? And where is Eliza?"

  He whirled around to find Ned Laskin blocking the entranceway. The farmer was carrying an ax and looked ready to use it. "That is what I am trying to determine," he replied through gritted teeth.

  The other man made no move to let him pass. "The devil take it, if you have harmed her in any way, I swear, I—I shall call you out!"

  "Pitchforks at dawn?" Worry gave Marcus's voice an extra edge of sarcasm. Seeing Laskin go scarlet with anger, he raised a hand. "Look, I am not the devil you think, but I will be happy to meet you on the field of honor whenever you like—but not until Miss Kirtland is found. She has gone missing from the Manor, and if you wish to chop someone in half, I suggest you take that blade and help me search for Joseph Hastings."

  "Hastings?" The farmer looked wary. "Why would he have any grudge against Eliza?"

  Marcus ignored the question. "Any idea where he may be holed up?"

  "Why Eliza?" demanded Ned.

  The cursed fellow was as proving as stubborn as one of his oxen. "Because she has taken it into her head to go after the man who is behind the spate of violence in the area."

  "Hastings?" Laskin looked undecided on whether to believe him. But after a long moment, he growled, "One of the men in the village might know."

  "Bloody hell, man! Then what in the name of Lucifer are you waiting for? Even a slowtop must be able to work that out that she is in grave danger!"

  His explosion of temper finally seemed to spark a grudging acceptance of the story. "Damnation," said Ned. "He has a vicious temper when crossed, and Eliza is not wont to back down—"

  "Then we had best move quickly. Gather what men you can in the village and scour through the area east of the Manor. I will take charge of the west."

  Once he was back in the saddle, the earl followed a shortcut through the fields, the thud of his heart matching the pounding pace of his lathered mount. He didn't need the farmer's warning to remind him of just how dangerous a man his former steward was. To Hastings, Eliza was merely a pawn in a game. He would sacrifice her to achieve his own goals with the same casual flick he would use to remove a piece of carved ivory from a checkered chessboard.

  The reins grew slippery with sweat. The earl was all too familiar with men obsessed with winning. A certain madness took hold of them. With each successive loss it grew worse. As he urged his stallion over a stone fence, Marcus searched his mind for how he might signal surrender. He realized he would give anything to get her back.

  Whitney and his foreman were waiting with Lucien and Meredith in the stable yard. Seeing his face as he reined to a halt, they did not bother to ask whether he had had any luck.

  Brushing his wind-tangled locks from his brow, the earl looked to Meredith. "You are familiar with the woods and cliffs to the west. Where might Hastings be hiding?"

  Meredith quickly named off several likely spots. "But I'll have to come along and show you. Their exact location is not easy to describe."

  He gave a grim nod. "We can't chance a mistake."

  "I am coming, too." Lucien handed him a rifle, and before the earl could argue, added, "If I cannot keep up, go ahead and leave me in the dust. But I'll not stay here while Eliza is in peril."

  "Get your horses." Marcus had only one fight in mind. "And let us be off."

  * * *

  "How kind of you to pay a visit to my humble abode." The earl's former steward gave a mocking wave at the dilapidated structure. "Not quite the Manor House, as you have no doubt remarked, but then, not all of us are in His Lordship's good graces these days."

  "I—I was just checking that no thief had broken into the cottage. Forgive me for trespassing. I will be on my way."

  "What's the rush?" His lips curled, revealing a flash of teeth. "Now that you are here, won't you join me for a cup of tea."

  "Thank you, but I am really rather late as it is." Eliza made a show of shifting her basket, hoping to free her arm. "I promised Dr. Laskins a fresh batch of ground willowbark for one of his patients."

  Hastings did not loosen his hold. "Let him wait."

  Fear squeezed at her chest. She couldn't quite reach the pistol. "Very well," she replied, forcing herself to stay calm. "I suppose it will do no harm to stay a little longer."

  His bark of laughter was mirthless. "No—no harm at all."

  He led her back inside. In the gloomy light, the place looked even more primitive than before. Eliza ventured a sidelong glance and saw that her captor's face was just as stripped of any civilizing veneer. She bit her lip. Her chances of escape were fast slipping away. She would have to make a move, and soon.

  If only the earl were here to steady her trembling knees. If only it was his hands upon her, rather than the cold, reptilian touch of her captor. But if ever she wished to feel the warmth of his arms again—even it was only to have him shake her from here to Hades for being such a fool—she was going to have to keep her wits alert.

  The sooty shadows did not quite dim the malevolent glint in his eye as Hastings indicated the only chair. "Have a seat. A pity I cannot offer you all the fine comforts of Killingworth's house. It is easy to grow used to the trappings of luxury, is it not Miss Kirtland? The fine china, the rich damasks, the aged brandy—" A nasty leer stretched across his mouth—"The carved four poster bed."

  "I am merely a guest under His Lordship's roof for a short time, Mr. Hastings." Eliza sought to allay his bitter suspicions. "And will soon return to my modest cottage."

  "On the contrary." The former steward gave her another little push. "I think you have other plans."

  His
grip slipped slightly, and she seized the moment to twist away, at the same time reaching for the hidden pistol. The trigger was cool and solid against her finger. Steadying her nerve, she raised the barrel and swung it around.

  She had moved quickly, but so had Hastings. His arm shot out, knocking the barrel's aim up to the ceiling. A shot rang out and a bullet splintered one of the beams.

  "She-bitch." He punched her, the snap of the blow sending her reeling into the table.

  Stunned, Eliza fell back on the rough planking. Before she could gather her wits, he was upon her, wrenching her hands behind her back. He was much stronger than she had imagined, his crude power so very different from the Marcus's firm measure of control.

  She blinked back tears. Indeed, there was no comparison between the two men. At the Black Cat's first touch, she had known he had not an ounce of evil in him, while this beast...

  Reminding herself of what he had done to Meredith and Lucien, she determined not to give in to despair. Not when there was still a breath left in her body to fight for seeing the miscreant brought to justice.

  Hastings gave a last, painful tug to the rope he had knotted around her wrists, and shoved her down in the chair. "You and your righteous meddling in things no female ought to poke her nose in. Always stirring up trouble with your newfangled ideas and damnable ledgers."

  "I never intended any ill—"

  A slap silenced her. "You think me a fool? You come to Killingworth Manor and suddenly I am turned out of a lucrative position!" Grabbing a handful of her hair, he yanked back her head. "You should have minded your own business, Miss Kirtland. Now you are going to pay for interfering with me."

  "It doesn't matter what you do to me. The earl knows you are the one responsible for all these crimes."

  "He may suspect it, but he can't prove it." Hastings flashed a wolfish smile. "I've been too clever to leave any evidence."

  "You have been clever," she conceded. The words nearly stuck in her throat, but perhaps she might turn his own vanity against him. So far, she admitted, it seemed his only weakness. "Exceedingly so. I take it your original plan was to take advantage of the earl's rakish reputation to stir up suspicions that he—or someone in his household—was preying on local girls. You hoped the hue and cry might drive him back to London, leaving you to enjoy the bounty of his estate, as you had been doing for some time."