Not Proper Enough (A Reforming the Scoundrels Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  The man who’d tried to call Lane back started for his friend. Too late. Much too late.

  An infuriated Lane struck Martine. Fenris roared while Eugenia flew to Martine’s side. Lane’s eyes widened with recognition. “Lady Eugenia?”

  She took Martine’s arm. Her maid kept her other hand pressed to her cheek. “Did he injure you?”

  “No, milady.” But when Eugenia pried Martine’s hand from her cheek, she could see the beginnings of a bruise.

  She whirled on Lane. “How dare you? How dare you, sir? Have you no decency?”

  Lane ignored her. He stared at Fenris, openmouthed. “My God, man, Lady Eugenia? The bitch who threw you over for Robert Bryant?”

  The silence that followed chilled Eugenia’s blood. Even Lane’s companions understood the gravity of that awful quiet. Martine plucked at her arm and pulled her away from Fenris and the others.

  Fenris cocked his head in that way he had. The corner of his mouth twitched and then his expression was blank. “You are mistaken in every regard, Lane.” He sketched an elaborate bow. In the dim light, it was hard to tell, but she had the impression Lane had gone ashen. His friends remained uncharacteristically silent. “I’ll bid you good night. For now.” He put his back to Lane and the others. “Mrs. Bryant, I’ll see you home.”

  His voice frightened her, and she didn’t understand why. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Fenris took her arm and headed them in the general direction of Spring Street. She stayed silent, afraid to speak lest he reply in that awful tone he’d used with Dinwitty Lane. They covered the distance between St. James’s and Number 6 Spring Street without a single word exchanged.

  He went inside with her, and though he left the door to the street open, he took off his hat. “Martine. I need a word in private with Lady Eugenia. Go upstairs. I’ll send her to you shortly. If she’s not with you in twenty minutes, by all means come fetch her.”

  Martine curtseyed and left. For a bit, they listened to the sound of her retreating footsteps.

  “I suppose,” Fenris said, “there’s no talking you out of these walks.”

  “Nothing else helps.”

  “Have you a pistol? More to the point, if you do, do you know how to shoot?”

  “Martine does.”

  “What kind?”

  “What kind? I don’t know. About this big.” She held her hands some four inches apart.

  “Your maid is a frightening woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt you pay her enough.” His amusement faded, and it was as if it had never been there. He was again the way he had been with Mr. Lane in those moments of deadly quiet. Cold. Frighteningly remote. “Has she ever fired the weapon? And if she has, did she hit what she was aiming at?”

  She waited half a heartbeat then said, “The hole in my dressing table is hardly noticeable. I keep a box of hairpins over it.”

  Alas, he was not amused. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth before he replied. “I’ll pick you up at sunrise.”

  “Sunrise. Why?”

  “I’m going to teach you how to shoot a pistol.”

  “I don’t want to get up that early.”

  “Will you agree to send for me before you go haring off on one of these walks of yours?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll meet me at sunrise.”

  “Pistols at dawn?” She was shaking inside, and she did not understand why. She only knew she was filled with dread on his behalf. “How droll.”

  He froze her blood with an icy stare. “If you don’t, I will write to your brother and tell him you’ve been endangering your life.” She believed him. Every word he said. “I will tell him, in no uncertain terms, that you cannot be trusted in London without him or your brother Nigel to look after you.”

  “Can I shoot you?”

  “No.”

  “Pity.”

  “Sunrise, Ginny.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  FOX ARRIVED AT EUGENIA’S TOWN HOUSE AT TEN PAST six in the morning. Sunrise wasn’t for another twenty minutes, so the street remained dark. He’d brought the closed carriage, for obvious reasons, and one without a coat of arms that would identify him to any curious observer.

  No lights shone from the street-facing town house windows. He thought it unlikely she intended to accompany him on this venture. She hadn’t believed he was serious about any of it, and at any rate, she had the right to change her mind about such a reckless endeavor. He himself had had second thoughts, but how could he be the one to back down?

  His coachman remained in the driver’s seat. Though the hour was early, the street was no longer silent. The carriage itself made soft noises, leather creaking, the springs reacting to shifts in weight, the horses, the groom and coachmen moving in their respective places. The lead horse lifted a shod foot and brought it down on the cobbles with a sharp clap. His groom dismounted; the faint thud of his shoes on the street carried all the way to him inside the carriage.

  Fox leaned forward and pulled aside the curtain to signal the man that he wished to stay inside for now.

  He’d be turned away at the door. Though he’d feel a fool for being ignored, he was damn well serious about writing to her brother if she refused. If she hated him the rest of his life, he’d still write the letter. While he stewed on his many unpleasant alternatives, he rubbed a finger over the surface of the medallion she’d given him. The motion was soothing. How long should he wait before he pushed the issue or gave up? She might still be sleeping, seeing as she’d not been home long. But that was her fault, wasn’t it? Not his.

  At half past six, he sent his groom to the door of Mountjoy’s town house. The windows remained dark. He actually heard his heart pounding in his ears as he watched from the carriage window, fully expecting the man would return without Eugenia. At the door, his servant hunched his shoulders against the morning chill. The door opened sooner than he expected. A hopeful sign? Or proof that her butler was a light sleeper?

  His groom conveyed his reason for disturbing the household at this hour. The man half turned as he swept an arm in the direction of the carriage. And then—

  Eugenia appeared in the doorway. Her maid, the redoubtable pistol-carrying, umbrella-wielding Martine, was behind her. He caught a flash of Eugenia’s bright blond hair before she flicked up the hood of her cloak and followed his groom down the steps.

  Before she reached the street, Fox opened the carriage door and stepped down, hand extended to assist her. She did not greet him. Inside, Fox took the rear-facing seat. Silence fell while his groom secured the door and Martine climbed to a seat on the top of the carriage.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Bryant.”

  She grunted a response.

  He tapped a finger on the lid of the box that contained a set of dueling pistols. “I have observed in the course of my life that certain individuals are constitutionally unable to greet the morning with any degree of charity.”

  She glared at him.

  “I presume you are one of those women.”

  “Mmph.”

  He raised a hand, palm out. “I won’t expect you to speak, then.” He stretched out one leg. She was here. With him. He would not have to compose an unpleasant letter to her brother. “You were seventeen when I first saw you.”

  “Nineteen.”

  “You looked seventeen to me. At any rate, you were young, and new to London and society.”

  “Must you really?”

  “You are at my mercy.” He grinned. “I enjoy mornings.”

  She glared at him again.

  “Naturally, you were the object of much masculine interest being, at one and the same time, the sister of a duke who seemed to have taken control of his estate in formidable fashion, and a young woman of considerable good looks.”

  “I cannot bear to be lied to.” She put a hand to the side of her head. “Particularly before the sun is properly up.”

  “In the years since, you’ve settle
d into yourself and your position in society. Gone is the innocence that marked you at your debut.”

  “Must you?”

  He ignored her tone. “I find you even more desirable now than you were then.”

  “Stop.”

  “I only tell you now because you are in no condition to argue with me. By the time you are, it will be too late. I have spoken truth to you.”

  She leveled him with a glare. “You’re blathering on now because if you waited until later, I’d shoot you.”

  He laughed and thought it a success when she summoned a sneer.

  “It’s rude to be so cheerful at this hour. You can’t have got any more sleep than I.”

  “I’ll not utter another word.”

  “Thank you.”

  The carriage continued on to Marylebone, past the demolitions and construction of new streets to the remaining open fields. By then, with dawn giving way to morning, Eugenia seemed marginally more alert and, he hoped, less inclined to her previous poor mood. They left the carriage and walked to an area where they would have a clear enough view that she’d not shoot man or beast except by misfortune or pure luck. Martine followed, in step with his groom. The two servants stopped several feet away.

  He intended to see this through exactly as he’d said he would. Since she was determined to continue her late-night walks through Mayfair, she needed to know her way around a weapon. She’d not be the only woman of gentle birth to arm herself.

  “We’ll begin with a discussion of firearms and safety.”

  “Sensible.” She nodded.

  He took out one of the pistols and demonstrated the parts. “Barrel, trigger, pan, grasp, butt. Never aim a weapon at someone you do not intend to shoot, for you never know if the one to handle the weapon before you, or even you yourself, was careless. Or whether you, for a multitude of reasons, do not recollect the state in which you left it.”

  “Understood.”

  “Excellent.”

  She pointed at the pistols. “Those are dueling pistols. Mountjoy gave Nigel a pair when he came of age.”

  “They are. We’ll make do with these until I’ve had the chance to purchase something suitable for you to carry.”

  “I’ll buy my own, thank you.”

  “You may do whatever you like. I’d prefer that you defer to my expertise, though. If you don’t like what I choose for you, by all means buy another weapon more to your tastes. I hope to God you’ll at least consult the gunsmith before you do.” Lord, but he sounded an ass. He stopped the words that would have followed and made him sound an even bigger prig than he had already. He took a breath and waited until he was confident he could speak in a manner that wouldn’t get her back up. “Allow me to restate. If you’ll permit me to purchase something for you, I will be easier in my mind, knowing you’ve a quality firearm that suits you. You may reimburse me for the expense if you like.”

  “Send me the bill.”

  “I shall. Now, I’ll demonstrate.” He went through the steps to load the pistol slowly enough for her to see what he was doing. “You’ll load the other later. In the meantime, a few rules to keep us all safe. Muzzle pointing upward at all times.” He demonstrated. “Do not cock the weapon until you’re ready to fire. If at a shooting match you hold the pistol any way but muzzle up while someone, such as my groom there is doing, sets up or marks a target, you’ll be disqualified. Moreover, God will send you to hell for endangering life and limb. It is an inviolate rule. Is that clear, Ginny?”

  “Do not call me that. Only my intimates may call me Ginny. And you, sir, are not an intimate.”

  “I beg to differ. Any woman who’s made me come is an intimate. You were very good at it, by the way.”

  She gaped at him, cheeks deliciously pink, and he pretended not to notice. But he did. He surely did. He managed, though only just, not to laugh. Plainly, morning was not the time to trust to her good humor.

  The targets were set now, a thin square of wood on a post with a paper target on the front. Without speaking or assisting, he watched her load the other pistol. She did well, with only a hesitation or two about how to proceed, and one pause for a question to him. When she was done, she pointed the pistol muzzle skyward.

  “Unload.”

  She did so.

  “Now load again.” This time she performed the steps without questions and with fewer hesitations. He had her load and unload twice more and ended quite satisfied with her progress. With her beside him, holding the pistol in the prescribed manner, he confirmed that Martine and his groom were well away from the area and that no animals or other people had wandered into range. “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  “When dueling you’ll wish to turn your torso like so.” He stood sideways, his left arm at his side, his right holding the pistol muzzle to the sky. “So as to minimize the target you present.” He leveled his forearm and sited the target. “Any of several instinctive reactions will spoil your shot. Closing one or both eyes is one. Don’t laugh. Most beginners do. Another is jerking or recoiling of the head or upper body. That will pull your shot wide. Consider the pistol an extension of yourself.” He relaxed. “Deliberate and cool. Cock the trigger.” He stopped talking so she would hear the sound. “Use your right eye. Site your target down the barrel thus. There will be noise and recoil. Depress the trigger. Like so.”

  He fired and hit his target dead center.

  “It’s very loud.”

  “Yes.” Fox put down the pistol while his groom trotted out with a set of paper plugs and a pencil to mark the shots on the reverse of the target. Only when the servant was out of range did Fenris hand her the other pistol. “Check its condition. Is it loaded?”

  She did, with little hesitation. “No, sir.”

  “Aim, as I showed you. I brought the smallest dueling pistols I have, but you’d do better with something smaller and lighter yet. The Manton brothers will have something more suitable for you than these.” He stood to one side of her and adjusted her grip on the pistol, then stepped back. “Fire.”

  “It isn’t loaded.”

  “Fire so that you understand what pressure to apply to the trigger. The recoil will be different when you shoot in earnest, of course. Imagining the gun is merely an additional length of your arm.”

  She lifted her chin and did as he’d demonstrated. She pressed the trigger and the barrel of the pistol twitched. “Ah. Yes, I see what you mean.”

  “Again.”

  She’d already reset her feet. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her. He liked her determination, the way she concentrated and even took a moment to settle her breathing. She sited and dry fired several more times in succession.

  “I believe you’re ready for a live shot. You’ll need a great deal of practice at this. It’s critical that you perform every step precisely, and for God’s sake, remember that a loaded weapon is designed to kill. It does that very well.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s so.” She spoke quite genuinely. Dare he think her morning mood was fading? “I do thank you for the reminder.”

  He collected the various parts from her as she completed the process. Soon enough he stood behind her, watching as she held the pistol muzzle upward and confirmed the area was clear. She set her feet, aimed, then reset. The muzzle wavered, and she reset her position again. Then, just as he’d shown her, she fired.

  Off to the side, Martine applauded. With the muzzle of the pistol pointed to the sky, Eugenia stared at the target. “Not a bull’s-eye.”

  “No.”

  “You had a bull’s-eye.”

  “I was not firing a weapon for the first time. You did very well for a virgin.”

  Her shoulders shook with her laughter. “Have you no shame, sir?”

  “None at all. Do you think you can do that again?”

  She made a face at the target. His groom was already halfway there with the paper and pencil. “Do you mean miss the center?”

  “Your first shot hit the target
inside the outer circle. Most people firing a gun for the first time are fortunate to hit the target at all.”

  She squared her shoulders, so obviously insulted that he could not help a smile. “You think it was a fluke.”

  “For you to make a more than decent shot your first time is something to be proud of. I doubt your maid hit the target the first time she fired a pistol.”

  “It wasn’t a fluke.”

  “Madam.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You have fired a pistol precisely once in your life. That is hardly a sufficient number of shots to give you status as a markswoman.”

  “I’ll have you know I aimed carefully.” She eyed the target. “Exactly as you instructed. Deliberately and coolly.”

  “We’ll soon know if it’s a repeatable event.” As soon as his groom was off their makeshift range, he picked up the other pistol, loaded it, and took his shot. The report disturbed a flock of crows. The birds launched into the air, cawing.

  She eyed the target. “A bull’s-eye.”

  “Breaks your heart, does it?” The crows, still calling to one another, resettled.

  “Never.”

  He pulled the muzzle up while the groom went out to mark his shot. “I’ve fired this pistol more than once.”

  “Are you considered a marksman?”

  “With all humility, I am considered one of the finest shooters in London.”

  “One of.” She looked at him thoughtfully. He was tempted to lean down and kiss her, but he didn’t dare. Not with Martine watching and quite likely armed. “Who’s a better shot than you?”

  He shrugged. “With a pistol like this? Or just shooting in general?”

  “Like this.”

  “One or two men, perhaps.”

  “Is Dinwitty Lane one of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought he might be.”

  “A step back, Ginny. You’re over the line.”

  She looked down, saw that she was, and repositioned herself. She set her feet, sited, and fired. He was not astonished when she hit the target again. “Better,” she said. “But not a bull’s-eye.”