by Cara Elliott
A signal from the head ghillie indicated that the hunt was about to start.
“We’ll shoot in order, from left to right, as the birds take flight,” called McClellan. “The prince will go first.”
Cocking his fowling gun, Devlin set his stance and readied himself to take aim when his turn came.
The beaters began to thrash the bushes with their sticks, and in a matter of moments the whir of wings sounded as a startled grouse rose up from the heather.
BANG!
The bird kept on flying—it was Prince Gunther who fell to the ground like a sack of stones.
Dropping his weapon, Devlin sprinted to where the prince lay writhing in pain. McClellan was already kneeling beside him, wrapping a handkerchief around the injured man’s bleeding hand.
“The gun misfired and the cartridge exploded inside the barrel, shattering the stock,” he explained. “The fellow is lucky. The wound isn’t too serious.” His glance went to the twisted metal and needle-sharp slivers of wood. “It could easily have been a good deal worse.”
“It’s just a scratch,” said the prince gamely, though his face was pale as a puff of gunsmoke. “If you will help me up…”
His three friends were already there, lifting him to his feet. A sling was fashioned, and with his good arm draped over Count Rupert’s shoulder, Prince Gunther was led to the path for the trek down to where the horses were waiting.
McClellan sent one of the beaters ahead to fetch a carriage from the castle, then began gathering the extra cartridge bag and the prince’s rucksack as the other hunters began to file off after the Germans.
Crouching down, Devlin made a closer examination of the wrecked fowling gun. “Birdshot does not normally have enough gunpowder to cause such an explosion.” As he spoke, he slanted a sidelong look at the baron, carefully watching to see what reaction his deliberately chosen words might provoke.
McClellan looked up slowly. It might have been naught but the shifting mist, but for a moment, it seemed that a spasm of emotion tightened his features. “I thought your expertise was in gambling and drinking, not ballistics.”
“In my innocent youth, I did a fair amount of shooting on my family’s estate.” Devlin tapped a finger to the bent trigger. “Enough to know that the cartridge had the wrong charge of powder.”
“Are you implying my cousin’s gunkeepers are incompetent?” asked McClellan sharply.
“I am merely making an observation based on my experience.”
A shrug. “In my experience, accidents like this one are not uncommon in hunting. My guess is that the cartridge simply jammed.”
“Perhaps.” But as a seasoned gamester, Devlin was not willing to wager any money on it.
“Have you heard?” said Caro, as Anna and their mother came into the drawing room. “Prince Gunther has been injured in a shooting accident.”
“Oh, dear, I hope it isn’t serious,” exclaimed the baroness. She angled a concerned look at Anna. “What a pity it would be if he had to withdraw from the party, just when he is showing a marked interest in you, my dear.”
“He is simply enjoying sharing his interest in books with me, Mama,” she replied. “You ought not read anything more meaningful into it.”
“That,” announced Lady Trumbull with a note of triumph, “is exactly what Olivia said about Wrexham. And see where turning those pages led.”
Anna knew the futility of arguing with their mother. Instead, she turned to her sister. “Have you any idea what happened?”
“Apparently his fowling gun misfired and the barrel exploded,” explained Caro. “I heard Lord McClellan tell Lady Dunbar that he could have been killed.”
“Oh, what a scandal that would have been for poor Miriam,” murmured the baroness.
Anna thought she detected a tiny tinge of regret. But perhaps it was only because her nerves were a little on edge from lack of sleep.
“It would have had far more serious repercussions for our government,” she pointed out. “With the all squabbling between our allies, the political situation in Eastern Europe is like a powder keg waiting to explode. The prince’s death could be just the spark to ignite terrible trouble in the region.”
“My dear, you really mustn’t voice your thoughts about politics,” chided their mother. “Men do not like ladies to have an opinion on such matters.”
“Indeed. We prefer them to been seen and not heard.” There was no danger of McClellan’s overloud voice going unnoticed. “Especially when they are a lovely ornament to the room, like one of the pretty little Staffordshire figurines that my cousin collects.”
“You think a lady should be as brainless as a lump of baked clay?” challenged Caro.
Lady Trumbull made a low warning sound in her throat.
“I think, milord, that you are deliberately trying to goad us into reacting to your words,” interjected Anna. “However, we are much too intelligent to dignify such a silly statement with any arguments.”
Caro had opened her mouth as if to say more, but then quickly curled a scornful sneer that spoke even more eloquently than words.
You Are An Idiot.
Only a complete bumblewit would have failed to comprehend the message. And the baron, although sadly remiss in his manners, was not lacking in brains. His jaw tightened and a tiny muscle up near his ear began to twitch. “You—” he began, only to be interrupted as another voice joined the conversation.
“Have cleverly silenced any further disparagements of the female intellect,” said Devlin. “Kudos, Miss Sloane,” he added after inclining an exaggerated bow. “A man had better sharpen his steel if he wishes to cross swords with you.”
“We weren’t engaging in mortal combat, Lord Davenport,” replied Anna lightly. What, she wondered, had kindled such a strangely martial fire in his eyes? “Merely a bit of friendly banter.”
“It seemed to me,” muttered Caro, “that Lord McClellan was deadly serious.”
The baron threw her a daggered look.
“Girls, girls.” Their mother huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Let us move on to more ladylike subjects.”
“Like how to roast a man’s liver with turnips and onions?” suggested Devlin.
Anna bit back a snort of laughter. She couldn’t help responding to his scathingly wicked sense of humor, even though it appeared that his cleverness concealed a far darker side of his character.
Perhaps Polite Society was right to have labeled him the Devil. Lucifer was capable of great charm, but at heart he had chosen Evil over Good.
Looking up, she found him regarding her with a strangely intense look. It seemed to be both accusing and questioning.
As if that made any sense.
Lady Trumbull broke the momentary silence. “Really, sir, you ought not confuse young ladies with such shockingly inappropriate comments. It’s gentlemen like you who give them the wrong idea of what is, and is not, the correct way to behave with propriety.”
“Oh, have no fear, Lady Trumbull. I am not nearly as pernicious an influence on your daughters as you seem to think. They are far too strong in their own views to be colored by mine.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” McClellan’s flash of teeth was clearly not meant to be a smile. “That is what I call being damned with faint praise.”
“You, sir, are no better,” hissed the baroness. “Swearing in the presence of ladies is…is…”
“Unconscionably rude?” suggested Caro.
“We must be more forgiving of the poor fellow,” murmured Devlin. “He likely has few conversational companions save for Highland sheep.”
“And they, sir, are far better company than you Sassenach peacocks,” retorted McClellan.
“Peacocks preen and take pride in their gaudy plumage. While I, alas, am considered a very dull bird in terms of dress. I don’t find fashion terribly interesting compared to other things.” Devlin looked down his well-shaped nose. “Nor, it would appear, do you.”
Both men, observed Anna, appeared to b
e walking on a razor’s edge tonight, and Devlin seemed intent on being even more provoking than usual. She wondered why. He usually knew just how far he could go without losing his balance.
“Whatever feathers you flaunt, they don’t disguise the fact that you are an insolent arse,” growled McClellan.
“On the contrary,” piped up Caro. “Lord Davenport is amusing, not mean-spirited.”
Lady Trumbull hitched in a horrified breath at hearing her youngest daughter give a tongue lashing to a titled lord…even though the barony was only a Scottish one.
Oh, bloody hell.
On several occasions in the past, her mother had fainted for dramatic effect. But in this case, decided Anna, a swoon might not be feigned. She had better intervene in the next moment, before the situation sunk into farce. With her guest of honor lying half dead upstairs, poor Lady Dunbar had suffered enough shocks for one day.
“Caro, kindly escort Mama to the punch table and find her a glass of sherry. A cough seems to be lodged in her throat.” Removing her sister from the fray might keep the gentlemen from going for each other’s jugular.
But before Caro could react, McClellan unclenched his jaw just enough to respond to her comment.
Anna prepared herself for the worst. Smelling salts—I had better signal a footman to bring smelling salts. And a cudgel to bash both men on the head.
She was, however, pleasantly surprised by the measured tone of his voice.
“You think it mean-spirited that I resent English lords and their oppressive treatment of my country?” he asked.
Caro appeared taken aback by the reasonableness of the question. “I…no, actually I think you have any number of legitimate grievances, sir. But you would do your cause better service to express them more thoughtfully, rather than indulge in childish pique.”
The baron regarded her with an inscrutable stare. “In poetry, perhaps?” Strangely enough it was said more in humor than in anger.
“The Scots have a rich and distinguished heritage of expressing themselves in verse,” replied her sister. “But if rhyming couplets are not to your taste, prose, or simply rational discourse, would be equally effective.”
Devlin opened his mouth to speak, but on catching Anna’s quelling look, he shut it again.
“Sherry,” said their mother faintly as she fanned her face. “I do feel in need of a reviving sip.”
“Caro…” murmured Anna, before the temporary truce could be broken.
Her sister dutifully offered an arm to their mother.
After watching them move off, McClellan excused himself with a brusque nod. “I had better go upstairs and see if my cousin requires some liquid fortitude.” For a brief instant his steely eyes seemed to wink with a less martial glint. “Though I daresay she might prefer something stronger than sherry.”
“It seems you have helped avert a second explosion of the day,” said Devlin, once they were alone.
“No thanks to you.” Anna let out her breath, suddenly aware of the tension coiled inside her. “You seemed intent on seeing blood spilled.”
He shifted slightly, setting off a soft rustle of wool, and silent rippling of muscle as his body hardened along with his gaze. “Oddly enough, I find myself wondering whether to think the same thought about you.”
Had he been drinking heavily? His words weren’t slurred, and yet they weren’t making any sense.
“I have no idea what you mean, sir.”
“Don’t you?”
Her head was beginning to ache, despite having had no more than a sip of champagne. “No. None whatsoever.”
A flicker of uncertainty was quickly hidden beneath his dark lashes. “Your words say one thing and your actions quite another.”
Had he spotted her foray to the Gun Room? Anna fought back a guilty grimace, reminding herself that his own behavior was rather questionable.
“That may be,” she replied coolly. “But I don’t answer to you for my words or my deeds.”
“Oh, quite right,” he said, lowering his voice to a chilling softness. “The question is, to whom do you answer?”
If he was trying to frighten her, he was doing a damnably good job of it. Though why was even more confusing than the menacing slant of his brows.
“At the moment, it is to my stomach,” said Anna, with a laugh that belied the lump of ice in her throat. “Which is demanding some of those delectable lobster patties that the footman has just brought to the refreshment table. So if you will excuse me—”
“Not so fast.” Devlin shifted again, trapping her between the marble pedestal and his unyielding-as-granite body. “I, too, am hungry, Miss Sloane…to know what it is you are hiding.”
“Ye gods, were you standing near the prince when his fowling gun exploded? For it seems to me that the force of the blast must have addled your wits. Do you truly imagine there is some dark, depraved secret…” A horrible thought suddenly flashed through her mind. Gun. Gun Room. Good heavens, surely he couldn’t think for a moment that she had some irrational grudge against the prince.
“Go on,” he said slowly.
It was so absurd as to be laughable. And yet her mouth was too frozen to form a smile.
“You are mad,” she managed to whisper.
The peal of a brass hand bell prevented Devlin from replying.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have some lovely news to announce,” said Lady Dunbar, after following her butler into the drawing room. “Prince Gunther is resting quite comfortably.”
Glasses clinked as the guests joined Count Rupert in raising a toast to a quick recovery.
“Indeed, he wished to join us tonight,” continued the countess. “However the doctor insisted that he be prudent and remain abed until morning.”
“A wise decision,” said her husband, who was standing with the German contingent by the hearth.
“But what with the dismal hunting weather and the unfortunate accident, I think that the prince—and all of us—deserve a special celebration on the morrow to brighten our spirits,” she continued. “So I have arranged for a visit to Craigielochen Castle, a splendidly romantic fifteenth-century ruin situated on the ocean cliffs just up the coast. Mary, Queen of Scots, is said to have visited there.”
Lady Dunbar paused to smile. “And so shall we, though I daresay in far more comfortable style. There are wonderful grounds and gardens to explore, and the servants will set up a sumptuous midday picnic repast. However, you have no need to fear wind or rain. The old banquet hall is intact, and we shall dine there in case of inclement weather. The men may enjoy fishing for trout in the river, and the ladies will find all sorts of lovely vistas for sketching.”
A murmur of polite approval made its way around the room.
“The carriages will be waiting to transport us there after an early breakfast,” she added. “Our head gardener is predicting lovely weather, and as he is rarely wrong, we should have a very enjoyable day.”
“Assuming there are no further accidents,” said Devlin, just loudly enough for Anna to hear. “I would advise the prince not to walk too close to the cliff’s edge.”
“Just one last thing,” said the countess. “To start off a festive mood early, we shall have some dancing instead of cards after supper—just an informal interlude of country reels and gavottes.” A discreet wave signaled the footmen to pop open more champagne. “Though our local musicians do know how to play a waltz.”
To Anna’s relief, she and Devlin were joined by Colonel Polianov. At the present moment, even his austere features and sour expression were a welcome sight.
The Russian surprised her by essaying a smile. “Are you pleased by the prospect of an outing, Miss Sloane? I have been told that all English ladies have a great fondness for the outdoors.”
“Yes, fresh air and some exercise will be very welcome. I am looking forward to a leisurely stroll through the gardens,” answered Anna, though her mind was already planning how to evade the outing without drawing undue notice to he
r absence.
“Perhaps I may be permitted to escort you,” said the colonel.
For an instant, Anna thought that she must have misheard him. However, Devlin’s sarcastic laugh dispelled any doubts.
“There are no wild wolves or bears here in Scotland, Polianov. And if there were, Miss Sloane would likely be quite capable of defending herself.” He paused. “If a pistol or rifle weren’t within reach, I daresay she would slay the beast with her bare hands.”
Polianov’s cheeks turned a mottled red as he looked to her. “Forgive me,” he said stiffly, “but I fail to understand the very peculiar sense of humor you English have. Have I made some error in etiquette?”
“Lord Davenport’s sense of humor is entirely his own,” she assured him. “Please pay him no heed. You have been quite correct in your deportment.” Unlike some other men.
Looking somewhat mollified, the colonel smoothed at the sleeve of his gold braided tunic. “Then might I also request the pleasure of a dance—”
“My, my, it appears you have been polishing your manners along with your medals, Colonel.” Devlin’s sneer had turned even more offensive. “I hadn’t realized that you had taken such a sudden interest in the young lady. Dancing, long walks through the roses, private meanderings behind the bushes—just think of all the interesting opportunities.”
The colonel began to sputter. “What are you suggesting, sir?
“Simply that you’ll have a great deal of time for private conversation.”
“That’s hardly a crime,” snapped Anna, then immediately rued her choice of words when she saw the look that came to his eyes.
Polianov chose to ignore Devlin’s last provocation. “Until later, Miss Sloane,” he said, bowing as he stepped back several paces and turned to rejoin the group of men by the far hearth.
His departure gave Anna an opening for escape. Slipping past the pedestal, she nearly collided with Lady de Blois, who had been standing half hidden by the bouquet of flowers conversing with her brother-in-law.
“Pardon,” she muttered in French, brushing by the pair without slowing her step. She was in no mood for lingering near the widow, whose air of self-important superiority was beginning to grate on her nerves.
