Something Like a Lady

by Kay Springsteen

  The butler blanched. “Oh, heavens.”

  Jon stood still and waited for her to see him through her blind rage.

  Hair unbound the way he loved it, she stood in the doorway without benefit of shoes. At least she’d managed to change into a day dress, though he was well aware she’d slept in the gown she’d worn to dinner the evening before. She’d barely stirred when he had pulled the blanket over her shoulders and brushed her silky hair from her face. It had taken everything in him to walk away, so drawn to her had he been.

  “You’re looking lovely this morning, Lady Seabrook.”

  She whirled to face him, her gaze wildly darting until she focused on him. “You! You ill-mannered, unbearable, arrogant a—”

  “Has something upset you, my dear?” Jon smiled as his world righted itself. His wife had returned in glorious demonic splendor.

  Annabella’s chest heaved. “Eternal fire and brimstone are too good for you.” Annabella picked up the milky white vase of purple larkspur that had been left on the buffet and hurled it at him.

  Thankfully, her aim was as foul as her mood. The unfortunate vase veered several feet to his right and shattered across the mahogany tabletop.

  Feigning innocence, Jon directed his attention to Annabella and raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what can be troubling you this morning, Lady Seabrook.”

  Annabella grimaced at his subtle emphasis on the name and began casting her gaze wildly about the room, obviously looking for more things to throw. The footmen had been quick and efficient in their removal of potential missiles. He’d see to a rise in their salary later.

  Annabella froze, and a peculiar gleam entered her emerald eyes. Jon followed the direction of her stare toward the sideboard beneath the oil painting of the First Duke of Blackmoor. Harsh morning light slanted through the window to the left and flashed off a bit of gleaming silver just peeking from beneath a folded napkin. A knife? No! The polished butt of Gran’s Scottish flintlock pistol!

  Alarm shot through him. Annabella was far closer to the weapon than he was. He didn’t have a prayer of reaching it before she did. His only hope would lie in distraction.

  “Won’t you sit down and take some breakfast, darling?”

  “I am not your darling,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Jon ignored her and continued speaking in the even tone that always worked to calm Gran. “I’ve sent for a pot of chocolate to go with the pastries here.” He slid a quick glance to the doorway where Samuel hovered.

  The butler made a quick motion to a footman, who in turn scampered in the direction of the kitchen.

  Annabella paused, frowning. “Oh, you’d ruddy well like that, wouldn’t you? Think you can ply me with food and drink and I’ll bow before the Great Lord Seabrook, do you?”

  “Not at all, lady fair.” Jon edged forward, a tactic with which he was becoming all too familiar of late. “I am merely—”

  Annabella jumped sideways and snatched up the pistol, holding it in two hands and pointing it at his chest. “Don’t move another inch!”

  Jon rooted himself to the floor. The gaping hole of the flintlock’s barrel stared at him, a giant black eye as big around as his thumb. The ball that emerged from the barrel would kill at such close range.

  A grin of pure evil spread across Annabella’s face as she changed her intended target to a location somewhat lower and, oddly, far more uncomfortable than the thought of outright death.

  He fought the instinct to cover himself with his hands. “Now, Annabella, be reasonable.” His mind raced. Had Gran managed to load the blasted thing the night before? Why had the blasted thing not been returned to its cabinet? Was it possible to dive out of the shot’s path? Would it kill him instantly or would he die a slow death?

  “Reasonable? You think I should be reasonable? Reason with this, you black-hearted scoundrel!” She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  Jon flinched. The sharp click echoed through the dining hall. He eased out a cautious breath of relief. Misfire.

  He stepped forward with his hand extended. “That will be quite enough, Lady Seabrook. Hand that over before you hurt yourself.” Or someone else. Me.

  From the corner of his eye, Jon caught movement in the doorway. Gran, red-faced, eyes narrowed, and dressed for a day spent out of doors, stepped into the room, apparently summoned by one of the servants.

  “What is all this shrieking?” She directed a glower at Jon. “What the devil is going on?”

  Annabella half growled and half cried in frustration. With a stomp of her foot, she hurled the gun at Jon. The flintlock tumbled end over end as it flew through the air. Jon lunged forward, arms outstretched. If the gun hit the—

  The flintlock landed with the heart-shaped butt nestled in the plush carpet, against the leg of one of the dining chairs. In a hissing puff of smoke and an explosion of flame, the shot burst from the barrel and stuck an iron wall sconce on the far side of the dining table with a loud clang. It then pelted across the room and embedded itself in the right upper corner of the First Duke of Blackmoor’s portrait.

  “Gracious!” exclaimed Gran, racing across the room. “Have we been attacked, then?” She halted abruptly, staring at the footman who was busy stomping on the smoldering rug. “That is my pistol — my favorite pistol — that you are treating with such disregard. That is no way to use a gun, tossing it across the floor. Has no one taught you better?” Shaking her head, she made a tsking sound. “No, of course not. You like the French.”

  Jon stole a glance at his wife. She stood pressed against the sideboard, her hands covering her ears, and a ghastly expression on her white face.

  “I-I-I’m s-sorry.” Her voice shook with the tremors wracking her body. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I-I’d no idea it would d-do that.”

  Jon let out a long sigh.

  “Hrmph.” Gran held out her hand to the frightened footman who possessed her pistol. His hands shook as he handed it to her. “One must never handle firearms unless one knows what one is doing.” She pushed past Annabella and grabbed another ball from the case on the sideboard.

  “Gran.” Jon leapt forward, pushing Annabella safely out of the way behind him. “Grandmother, it was an accident.”

  “An accident of breeding, if you ask me,” she muttered, wrapping the ball in some patch and pushing it down the barrel. She added fresh powder to the flash pan and swung around, pistol in hand. “Now, my dear, allow me to demonstrate the proper use of a firearm.”

  Annabella shrank against Jon’s back.

  “Gran, you’ve managed to quite frighten my bride,” he said calmly, keeping his eyes on the pistol.

  His grandmother shook her head and released a sigh of frustration. Then she raised the pistol, took aim, and fired. The shot exploded from the barrel and lodged directly between the eyes of the First Duke of Blackmoor.

  Gran gave a satisfied nod and laid the pistol on the sideboard again. “Insufferable man by all accounts. I shan’t miss having him grace our dining hall.” Then she angled a look over Jon’s shoulder at Annabella. “I suggest you put on some boots and make yourself otherwise presentable. You may meet me down here in half an hour.”

  Annabella scrambled across the carpet and disappeared through the door without uttering a word, leaving Jon to wonder if she’d return as Gran had instructed or pack her bags and demand to leave Blackmoor.

  Gran took a seat at the table and placed a scone on her plate then doused it with Devonshire cream and blackberry preserves. “Where are my cats? They need to be fed.”

  Samuel nodded at two footmen near the door and they hurried from the room.

  “Might I suggest removing all the firearms and sharp objects from the residence, my lord,” murmured the butler in Jon’s ear.

  Jon sighed. “Samuel, I couldn’t agree more.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Come along. The morning waits for no man.” The dowager marched through the salon, followed by her assortment of cats. Ann
abella counted eight haughty tails swishing as they walked. Heavens! That put the count at three more than had attended dinner the previous evening. Were there even more hiding somewhere? A shudder rippled through her. I hate cats. Hate. Them.

  Having no choice but to follow, she fell in line behind the dowager, curiosity and a bit of unease replacing some of the fury she felt. Where could the woman be taking her? The hallway they traversed led to the kitchen, but going outside seemed to be the dowager’s intention, given she had on a bonnet. Or rather, a very unusual squat, flat-top straw hat with a short brim. The elegant red velvet band looked out of place on the tattered hat. Annabella had never seen anything quite like it before.

  Wherever they were heading, it obviously didn’t entail leaving the estate. At least Annabella couldn’t imagine a woman of nobility being seen in public in such attire and with several cats in attendance. While the dowager duchess wore her linen dress in a pleasing shade of cream with the regal air of a queen, it had certainly seen better days. As had the dark leather belt, which had some sort of cylinder attached to the right side. The container was several inches long and about four inches wide at the top, tapering down to about half that size at the bottom. And what the devil was sticking out the top of it? Arrows?

  As they entered the kitchen, a young boy of about ten hurried toward them with a bow cradled in his arms, his unkempt wavy brown hair fluttering. He stopped in front of the dowager and handed her the bow.

  “Thank you, Ernest. Now go fetch my smallest bow, another quiver with arrows, and my black shooting glove. You may bring them to the range.”

  “Right away, your grace.” The young boy ran up the back stairs.

  Bow? Arrows? Shooting glove? Annabella furrowed her brow. What trouble has your temper gotten you into this time? Perhaps Seabrook’s grandmother intends to use you as a target.

  The dowager glanced over her shoulder. “Come along, then.”

  How wise was it to follow the woman she had deliberately provoked at dinner the previous evening? Did the dowager intend to now exact her revenge? Annabella sighed and headed out the door after her. Best not to irritate her further.

  The sun shined high in the sky, bathing her in warmth. A gentle breeze fluttered through her hair and tickled her skin. She loved the feel of her hair waving in the wind, free of ties and combs and without a hat pressing into her head and heating her scalp.

  Once down the path and away from the house, the dowager began to speak, her words as crisp and precise as her steps on the dirt path. “You simply cannot throw a tantrum unless you intend to do it properly. Flinging things willy-nilly, yelling so the rosebuds close up… By my word, whatever possessed my grandson to marry such a simpering female is beyond me.”

  Annabella stiffened. “Funny. I was just thinking my judgment was poorly lacking when I married him.”

  The dowager stopped and stared at Annabella, eyebrows raised. After a beat of silence, she let out a hoot of laughter and clapped Annabella on the back. “Well said, my dear. Well said. Now that’s how you spar with someone. There might be hope for you yet. But we simply must improve your skill with weapons.”

  She started walking again, and Annabella followed, surprised that she had to lengthen her stride to keep up.

  “Weap— I beg your pardon? Weapons?”

  The dowager offered an indulgent smile and patted the cylinder strapped to her hip. “Weapons.”

  The garden path opened up into a clearing. Directly ahead stood three easels holding some sort of straw mats. From the back, it was impossible to know what, for certain. But as they drew closer, Annabella could make out three more easels across the field and a red circle was evident in the center of each coiled straw mat. Targets.

  The young boy hurried up to them with the equipment the dowager had requested.

  “Thank you, Ernest.”

  The dowager slid the bow she was carrying over her head and then settled it over her right shoulder, letting the string fall across her chest and the bow rest against her back. She then took the black glove from the boy, slipped it over Annabella’s right hand, and laced it up.

  It covered her palm almost to her elbow, leaving her fingers exposed. She noticed that the dowager already had a similar piece of leather affixed to her hand. Once the glove was secured, the dowager took the bow and cylinder form Ernest and handed it to Annabella. She then pulled the bow back over her head and moved to stand directly between two of the targets.

  “Idle threats are no way to get what you want.” The arrow barely scraped against the side of case on the dowager’s hip as she slid it out. “But when a man knows you’re capable of causing him bodily harm—” She held the arrow in front of her and sighted along the edge and then placed it on the bow and pulled back, letting go. The arrow flew through the air in a perfect arc and hit the target across the field square in the center. The dowager smiled. “—he will be completely at your mercy.”

  Bodily harm? At my mercy? Annabella didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed. Surely the dowager wasn’t implying that she shoot Seabrook with an arrow! Throwing a vase or a candelabra at him was one thing. But she didn’t truly want to do him harm. She’d even been glad the gun hadn’t gone off when she pulled the trigger. Mostly.

  She froze, her breath caught in her throat. Where had that thought come from?

  “Ernest, be a dear and move these three targets in…” The dowager took several steps forward, moving about halfway between the targets on the other side. “…to about right here.”

  The young boy got to work taking the straw mats off the bases.

  “Well don’t just stand there, Frenchie. Bring yourself over here.”

  “You don’t have to—” Annabella sighed. —be insulting about it. Yes… she did, given the way she’d been provoked.

  Frowning, Annabella joined the dowager, careful not to step on one of the cats weaving around her skirt. The marmalade striped male, who had apparently taken a fancy to her, leaned against her leg and rubbed with his round face. Get away. Annabella furtively pushed at him with her foot, but he wouldn’t budge. She glared at the cat, but he paid no attention.

  The dowager cleared her throat.

  Annabella shifted and forced a tight smile as she stared at the lethal appearing arrows in the case. Mother would never have approved of such an activity. Excitement surprised Annabella, creeping along her forearms with tiny quivers as she considered the prospect of learning to shoot a bow and arrow.

  The dowager slipped the bow back over her head, pulled another arrow from the container at her side, and then stepped behind Annabella. She repositioned Annabella’s hand on the bow. “Straighten your arm and keep it as high as your shoulder. That’s it. Now take this arrow. See that little crease on the end? Slide the bowstring right in there.” The dowager helped guide Annabella’s hand. “Well done! Hold your fingers just like that. Now keep your bow arm straight and pull back the arrow. Let go!”

  Annabella jumped and released both hands, letting the bow and arrow fall to the ground, but not before the string snapped on her fingers. “Oh!” She rubbed her hand.

  Felines leapt and scattered and then collectively scurried back along the path. The little marmalade sent her narrow-eyed glance over his shoulder.

  Annabella suppressed a smug smile. At least I scared those annoying cats away. She glanced at the dowager. “Sorry.”

  The dowager put her hands on her hips. “I have my work cut out for me. Pick up your weapon.”

  Hurrying to obey the command, Annabella scooped up the bow and arrow. “Perhaps I’m not quite suited for archery.”

  “Nonsense. If you can throw a gun, you can shoot an arrow.”

  Annabella’s face went up in flames at the reminder of how she’d behaved. Her mother would be mortified, would have lectured her for hours over such unladylike behavior. She stole a glance at the dowager. Apparently not Jon’s gran.

  Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to please the dowager. She
positioned the arrow and, with guidance from the older woman’s steady hands, pulled back on the string.

  “Steady, steady. This time only release the arrow.”

  Annabella did as instructed. The arrow sailed straight up in the air, made a small arch, and landed on the ground quite a distance from the target. Her heart sank with it. How she’d wanted the dowager to be pleased.

  The dowager patted her hand. “Don’t fret, my dear. You have a good strong arm. You’ll be hitting the target in no time. Now, collect another arrow and try it again. This time, don’t just shoot willy-nilly.” She again guided Annabella’s arms and hands with her own. “Bring the bow up and position the arrow so you can let your eye follow it out until you see the target in line with the head. Make sure you see the target before you release.”

  Annabella squinted into the distance. The red circle floated in and out of her vision. Holding her breath, she squinted harder.

  The dowager tapped her on the shoulder. “Open your eyes! How do you expect to see what you’re shooting if you squint like that?”

  Startled, Annabella opened her eyes wide. Instantly, the target filled her vision. She let go. The arrow spiraled toward the target, hitting it at the top and to the left before bouncing back to the ground.

  “I hit it! I hit the target!” A surge of excitement and surprise had her body tingling. The thrill brought on a squeal of delight.

  The dowager seemed to stand taller and her dark eyes glittered as she offered a smile. “Indeed you did, Frenchie. Indeed you did. Now, this time pull back harder to give the arrow a bit more oomph so that it penetrates the target and doesn’t just hit it.”

  With newfound enthusiasm, Annabella shot another arrow. Then another. More of the arrows landed in front of the target or several feet beyond it than actually sank into the straw. But several of them at least struck the target and then landed on the ground. The last arrow did stick in the very top of the target for a second. But then it, too, fell.

  She stomped her foot. “Devil’s fire!”