A cloud settled over his features. “Your father is not the reason for every—”
“Do you hear that?” Lottie spun about at the sound of hoofbeats and rumbling wheels turning onto the drive. “Oh, they’re home!” Excited, she pulled Owen back the way they’d come. “I thought it would take longer for the road to dry out.”
“The storm was more a wash than a soak. And Samuel is a fair hand at the reins.” They veered around a muddy patch of ground, then continued down the path at a brisk pace.
“I’ll need a private word with him,” Owen said after a few moments. “And Gabriel.”
“About the intruder?” Frowning, she stopped and looked at him and discovered she was still gripping his arm. Embarrassed, she pulled her hand away. But not too quickly. The only thing worse than being embarrassed was being obvious about it. “It isn’t a secret.”
“Nevertheless.”
She waited for him to add something meaningful to that statement. And waited. And waited.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” she finally huffed. “I’ll keep Esther and Peter in the house. You may use the stable for your little assignation.”
He laughed, bent down to give her a sweet but all too chaste kiss on the cheek, then took off for the stables.
Lottie changed course again and headed for the house. She made it no more than a few steps down the path before a sharp blast rent the air. A half-dozen yards away, a small decorative maple shook violently, its delicate trunk splintered.
Gunshot.
She threw her hands up over her head out of instinct, but when those same instincts demanded she drop to the ground, she shoved them aside.
Owen. She had to help Owen.
Crouching low, she spun around, pushing off the ball of her foot. She’d not made it halfway through the turn before Owen’s voice boomed out like a cannon.
“Down!”
She dropped to the dirt. There was no hesitation, only relief as she covered her head with her hands and made herself as small a target as possible. If Owen knew it was safest on the ground, then he would be on the ground too. He wasn’t an idiot.
Except that he was, apparently. She heard his pounding footsteps before she saw him, tearing up the path.
“Idiot!” Terror bloomed as another shot rang out, clipping a holly bush a mere six feet behind Owen. “Get down! Get—!”
He got down. Mostly on top of her, his weight shoving the air out of her lungs.
He pushed an arm under her shoulders, threw another around her waist, and then they were rolling. Once, twice, three times… Her back slammed against something big and hard. Dizzy, it took a moment to orient herself. The reflection pond. Her back was pressed against the stone edge of the pond, and Owen was pressed against her front.
He was moving, reaching for something under his coat.
“Are you hurt?” she demanded. She struggled against him, trying to maneuver so she might see properly. “Are you hurt?”
“He missed. Keep your head down, darling.”
It was his tone rather than the words that stilled her. It was shockingly calm, almost conversational. Shifting slightly, she angled her head for a look at his face.
Had she the air, she would have gasped. She’d never seen Owen like this. She’d never seen that brutally cold, utterly detached look in his eyes. How could someone sound so calm, seem so controlled, and still look so fierce?
His hands were steady, his movements methodical and precise as he retrieved a double barreled pistol and cocked it.
She felt Owen’s hand and the weight of the gun settle on her hip. Fear and the horror of old memories washed over her, threatening to overwhelm her. She shoved the encroaching panic aside. If she was going to die in her garden then, by God, she was going to die with some dignity, not whimpering like a trapped animal.
“Owen?”
“Shh.”
“Do you have another?” She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and wished she could will away the trembling of her limbs. “Give me a gun. Let me help.”
“It’s all right. Just lie still.”
He wasn’t listening to her, she realized. Pulling away from her slightly, he studied the damaged maple behind him, then the holly bush. He moved back, cocked his head slightly, and aimed over the edge of the reflection pond without looking.
He was judging the angle and distance from the shots to the shooter, she realized.
That couldn’t possibly work. “You won’t hit him. You can’t—”
“Don’t need to hit him. Just need him to move a little.”
“What if he already moved—?”
Before she could finish, Owen adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger.
She felt the recoil pass through him and reverberate through her. Her ears rang from the blast, a high-pitched whining that made her jaw clench. Her nostrils filled with the heavy scent of spent gunpowder, and her tremors grew as the memory of her father came flooding back once more. Squeezing her eyes shut, she struggled to keep calm. She had to do something, anything.
“I need a gun,” she whispered. “Give me a gun.”
She felt him shake his head a moment before a second shot fired from the direction of the house. The vision of her father was instantly replaced with the image of Owen with a bullet in his back.
“Behind you. Move.” She shoved against him, tried to leverage herself over him with the vague—and she would admit later, fairly ridiculous—idea she could protect him from the other side. “You have to move. He’s behind you.”
“It’s Gabriel. It’s done.” His free arm slid under her, and he rose, pulling her to her feet.
“No! What are you doing? Get down. For God’s sake—”
“Lottie, it’s over.” With his arm still wrapped around her waist, he pulled her close, holding her tight. “It’s all right. He’s gone. It’s done.”
“You can’t know that. How can you know that?”
“Because.” His lips brushed her hair. “Gabriel took his shot.”
And therefore hit his mark? The audacity of that statement wasn’t sufficient to push aside her fear, but it did add a fine layer of incredulity. “You can’t possibly believe—”
“He’s not shooting now, is he? No one is. It’s over. I swear it.” Another kiss, brushing gently next to her ear. “Do you think I would risk it? Risk you?”
Maybe not, she conceded, but she noticed he placed himself between her and the woods, and he kept his gun at the ready.
Gabriel’s voice boomed from the front of the garden. “Renderwell! Miss Bales!”
“Here!” Owen pulled back, and his gaze traveled over her as the sound of rushing footsteps drew near. “All right, are you?”
“I… Yes.” She took a full, proper breath as the fear began to subside. “Yes. You?”
He nodded once and gave an absent “hmm,” as his men rushed up to meet them.
“Hit him?” he asked Gabriel.
“He missed,” Samuel offered with a smirk.
“I didn’t miss. He was too far away.”
“Or a little too far to the right,” Samuel countered.
“I didn’t miss.” Gabriel gave Lottie a smile that managed to be both charming and menacing. “I don’t miss.”
She had nothing to say to that.
Samuel glanced at Lottie, then shared a look with Owen. “Damned poachers.”
Lottie shook her head. Who in their right mind poached in a garden? “I think it—”
“Lottie!” Esther’s frantic yell blended with Peter’s as the pair flew from the carriage.
Gabriel swore softly. “Had the devil’s own time keeping them in the carriage.”
“Peter is quite protective.”
“Not Peter,” Samuel corrected on a grumble. “Your sister. The woman is a menace.”
* * *
As the Walker siblings raced toward the garden, Owen took hold of Lottie by the arm. Wordlessly, Samuel moved to flank her and Gabriel took up the rear. Together they headed toward Esther and Peter at a near run.
“Keep them in the house,” Owen ordered Lottie. “Lock the doors and close the drapes. Keep everyone inside.”
It was a costly and likely unnecessary delay, taking her back to the house, but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t send her across the lawn alone.
Lottie pulled on his arm. “I’ve a stable boy and grooms and—”
“I’ll see to them. All of them. Go.” He ignored the barrage of questions and exclamations from Peter and Esther, pushed the group toward the house, then shoved them up the terrace steps. “Get inside. Now. And stay there.”
The second the front door closed, he spun about and faced his men.
“Wasn’t a poacher,” Gabriel stated with conviction.
“No. We had an intruder in the house last night.” He looked to Samuel. “What did you see?”
“The back of him. He was already in retreat by the time we spotted him. Dark coat, black hair cropped above the ears, no hat, stout build, five feet, seven to nine inches. Liver chestnut mount, maybe fifteen hands. Matching tail. White socks…” He frowned a little at the ground. “No. Fetlocks. White fetlocks in the rear.”
Owen nodded. No one remembered details like Samuel. “You’ve three hours.” He jerked his chin toward the trees. “Track him.”
Samuel grunted once in assent and took off for the woods.
Owen took Gabriel’s rifle. “See what you can charm out of the villagers.”
“Charm or coerce?”
He preferred charm, but it had been of little benefit that morning. “I’ll leave it to you.”
“Excellent.” Gabriel’s smile was grim as he headed for the stables.
“Three hours!” Owen called out to his back.
He didn’t wait for a response before heading into the house. Though he would have preferred to follow Samuel into the woods for the hunt, the safety of Willowbend and its occupants took precedence.
Ten
It required the better part of those three hours for Owen to make certain the orders he’d given Lottie were followed, then turn the horses out to pasture, haul in sufficient firewood, bring in the staff, and otherwise see Willowbend secured.
By the time he dragged himself into the front parlor to speak with Lottie, he felt as if he’d fought a war, swam the English Channel, traversed the Alps, and aged several decades.
Physically, the work had been easy. The coordination of men and tasks was a simple business. Ideally, it should have taken no more than an hour, one and a half at the most.
But there had been talking. Dear God, the talking.
Every order—every damned one of them—had to be discussed by the staff and explained and commented upon and, on two occasions, enforced by threat of violence and/or dismissal.
Was his lordship absolutely certain everyone need move into the house? Was it really necessary to close all the drapes? Would his lordship consider putting the mares in the far pasture, instead? Wouldn’t it be wise to send for the constable? Had Miss Bales agreed to this? Or that? Or that other thing? One could not imagine she had agreed to that other thing. That other thing would need to be discussed.
On and on it went. It was maddening.
And on top of all the questions and arguments had been the theories.
Everyone had an opinion on who the shooter might be, what he wanted, where he could be found now, and what was to be done with him upon his capture. And everyone had to make their opinion known.
“It was not a poacher.”
Owen stopped three feet inside the front parlor and looked at Lottie standing in front of the glow of a lamp. He opened his mouth. Shut it again. Lottie’s opinion was welcome. “No, it was not.”
“And the intruder last night was not after a few baubles to pawn.”
“It might be a coincidence,” he allowed and crossed the room to lower himself into a wing chair, manfully swallowing a grateful moan. “But it is unlikely.”
“Is he after you or the Walkers?”
“I don’t know.” He grimaced and swore. He bloody well did know, and the knowledge sat like lead in his gut. “Me. Or Samuel or Gabriel. Damn it.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Have you had trouble before this?”
She shook her head and took the chair next to his.
“Then it is unlikely to be you. He’s after me or maybe the letters I brought—”
Esther voice’s, unusually apprehensive, interrupted from the doorway. “I think perhaps not.”
“I thought you were with Peter,” Lottie said, half rising. “Where is he?”
Owen gestured for her to keep her seat. “Mrs. Lewis put him to work clearing out a room for the grooms. What do you know, Esther?”
“Very little, I’m afraid.” Pale blue eyes darted to Lottie. “But I saw someone at the inn last night.”
Someone who clearly frightened her. Owen rose and ushered Esther to the settee. “Sit down. Tell us everything.”
“We were taking dinner. It was early; there was some light yet. I saw him crossing the yard.” Her fingers bunched in the rose taffeta of her skirts. “He saw me too. He recognized me. I’m sure of it.”
“Who?” Lottie asked.
“An acquaintance of father’s.”
Every drop of color drained from Lottie’s cheeks. “Are you certain? Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes. I met him. I was very young at the time, eight perhaps, or nine, but I do remember meeting him.”
“His name?” Owen inquired. Too restless now to sit, he took up position next to Lottie’s chair.
“I don’t know. Father rarely used names. Never ours. But he called him”—Esther scrunched her face up in annoyed concentration—“oh, something unflattering. The man didn’t like it. I don’t remember.”
“Maybe I would,” Lottie said.
“No. I don’t recall you being there. Father and I were alone, walking somewhere, and we ran into the man on the street.”
* * *
“When? What street? Where were you going?”
Lottie didn’t mean to fling all three questions at once—they simply rolled off her tongue in quick succession. It was so odd that Esther and their father should have been on an outing alone. Their father rarely took Esther anywhere. If he had need of a daughter, he took Lottie. Every time. It had been a constant source of hurt and humiliation for Esther, to consistently come second to the favored older sister. Initially, Lottie had been too young to know how to bridge the emotional gap between Esther and their father. Later, she’d know better than to try. Esther had been too needy, and Will Walker too selfish before his work with Owen. He might have loved his younger daughter, but that love wouldn’t have stopped him from using her in his work.
Esther threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know. It was years ago. I was a child.”
“Old enough to remember meeting him,” Owen replied.
“He frightened me. That’s why I remember him. I didn’t like his eyes.” She wiggled her hand in front of her face. “They were black and beady—” She broke off suddenly and snapped her fingers. “Ferret. That’s what father called him. The Ferret. Because of the beady eyes and pointed face.”
“Do you recall anything else?” Owen asked. “Build? Voice?”
Esther’s expression turned apologetic. “Average build. Dark hair? That’s all I remember. He wore an overcoat last night. And it happened so quickly. I only noticed his face, really. Lottie told me of the intruder last night. Was it him, do you think? And in the garden, as well?”
“It could be,” he muttered bitterly. “Bastard might have
followed or tracked us from London. We might as well have come by railway.”
Lottie nodded. It would have been easier to determine their destination had the men come by train, but even on horseback, the men would have gone through several villages, stopped to change or rest the horses, passed other travelers on the road. It wasn’t terribly difficult to follow someone if you knew the road they’d started on and knew how to ask the right questions of the right people. “How could he have known you were headed here?”
“I don’t know. No one knew where we were going.”
“Your men knew,” Esther pointed out.
Owen sent her a stern look. “My men have known where to find you for eight years.”
“I did not intend to disparage their loyalty or honor, Renderwell. I was merely questioning their discretion.”
Lottie knew that, in Owen’s eyes, they were one and the same. She shook her head at Esther, but her sister ignored the warning.
Esther continued, “If they were in their cups, or—”
“They don’t talk.”
“People make mistakes.”
“My men do not talk.”
Lottie could see Owen’s temper rising in the face of Esther’s persistence. He was still, his stance relaxed, but his clipped tone was taking on a sharp edge.
“I would have a word with my sister,” Lottie said quickly.
The last thing she needed now was an all-out row between Owen and Esther, and that’s exactly where they were headed.
When Owen hesitated, she laid a hand on his arm. “Owen, please.”
The muscles beneath her fingers bunched once, then released a second before he drew away. “Very well.”
Esther watched his departure before turning to face Lottie with raised brows. “Owen now, is it?”
“It is. I’ll explain later.” She had no qualms about telling Esther of her reconciliation with Owen, but now wasn’t the time. Owen wouldn’t stay away for long. “He is right, Esther. If Owen was followed here, it wasn’t due to the carelessness of his men.”
“You don’t know that.”
A Talent for Trickery Page 13