by Joanna Shupe
“Well, my sister is ever so grateful your ladyship stepped in and found the real culprit. To think, one of the grooms sneaking in the house and pilfering the forks and knives.”
Sophie snickered. “One would have assumed him smart enough to wipe the liniment off his hands first.”
“As we’ve seen, your ladyship, most criminals are not at all bright.”
“And thank heavens for that.”
Chapter Three
Quint put his hands on his hips and stared down at the perfectly matched set of ivory-handled Manton dueling pistols. Should he give her these or the newer tube-lock pistols he’d purchased in January?
Pistols.
A duel.
Antimony, why would a woman of such intelligence and wit participate in this primitive ritual? The levelheaded thing to do would be to parley with the aggrieved party, discuss the slight, and come to some sort of resolution satisfactory to both sides. To risk one’s life over something so trivial was absurd, in Quint’s opinion.
Reservations and common sense aside, however, he’d asked Taylor to retrieve the pistols. Quint planned to have them wrapped and delivered to her. If he could not teach her himself, at least she would be well armed. God knew he’d never need the deuced things again.
All day, he’d considered writing to the Marquess of Ardington. The marquess was a powerful man, involved at the highest levels of government, and Quint actually liked him quite well. Shouldn’t the marquess be warned of the danger his daughter faced? At best, her reputation would be shredded in a duel. At worst, she could be killed. Each time he’d picked up a pen to dash off a note, however, he’d set the pen back in the tray. He couldn’t do it. With anyone else, he would wash his hands of the whole business. But Sophie . . .
Though he was loath to admit it, there was another reason he hadn’t written to her father. After more than three years, he still had a soft spot for her—which merely proved his idiocy. After all that had happened between them, he could not deliberately hurt her.
His entire life, Quint had been considered odd. Different from other men in his pursuits and interests. From the first moment he’d met Sophie, however, he’d felt a deeper understanding in her sharp gaze, that she was a woman unlike any other. Another misfit. And he had hoped.
They’d begun a casual flirtation at events over many months, and she had seemed to enjoy teasing him. He’d often found her staring at him from under her long brown lashes, an occurrence guaranteed to send a bolt of lust to his groin. During one particularly dull ball, he’d wandered away, as he frequently did, to the host’s library, knowing the books would be far more interesting than the small talk, and Sophie, surprisingly, had followed.
A noise behind him caught his attention. Sophie stood there, breathtakingly beautiful in a cream-colored gown that shimmered as she moved. She shut the door, locked it, and Quint’s pulse leapt. “You should be in the ballroom, Sophie.”
The edge of her mouth kicked up as she drew near. “Are you ever going to kiss me, Quint?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I followed you in here, did I not?”
“You answered a question with another question, Sophie.”
“As did you.”
He smiled, unable to resist her, and stepped forward. Without asking permission, he placed one hand on her hip and another around her neck, thinking she’d back away. Instead, she leaned in to his touch, welcoming it, her skin soft and warm. Her chestnut eyes grew dark, fathomless pools of invitation, and he was lost. “Yes, then. I should very much like to kiss you,” he admitted. “But I should not.”
“Life would hardly be worth living if we were to obey all the rules.” Her hands reached up to tangle in his hair as he bent and sealed his mouth to hers.
That one kiss had been monumental. Life altering. She’d been willing and pliant, and he’d lost all sense of himself, forgetting they were mere yards away from a crowded soirée. And he’d been so sure, so certain at the time, that his feelings were reciprocated.
Only, he’d miscalculated. With the subtlety of a sledgehammer, she’d broken his heart into millions of molecules and scattered them like pebbles. He would be unwelcome as a suitor, she’d said, the encounter nothing but a momentary fancy.
Under normal circumstances, serving as a beautiful woman’s “momentary fancy” would not be a hardship. But with Sophie . . . it had mattered. A lot.
Ended up a fortunate turn of events for her, however. Quint would not wish himself on any woman, considering what his future held in store.
As a boy, he had witnessed his father’s mental decline and the toll it had taken on his mother. She had cried all the time, hardly eaten, and had consulted with countless apothecaries, physicians, and scientists about a potential cure. All for naught. She had exhausted herself and ignored her son, and the viscount had never recovered.
Quint had vowed never to let that happen to him. He would never succumb to the madness that had overtaken his father. He would be smarter. Sharper. Work harder at his focus, memory, and stamina. No matter the cost, he’d avoid his father’s fate.
And it had worked until a bullet had grazed his neck last February, nearly robbing him of his life.
A brisk knock on his study door interrupted his thoughts. Taylor appeared, a cloaked figure behind him. “My lord, a visitor.”
Every cell in Quint’s body came to attention. He recognized that shrouded form. Why had she returned? “See that we’re not disturbed, Taylor.” His butler started to turn away and Quint added, “And remind me to review my visitation policy with you later.”
Taylor nodded and left, after which Sophie drew down the hood of her cloak. She wore no bonnet or cap, her brown hair twisted in a simple knot at her nape. The yellow glint of candlelight reflected in her dark eyes. Her mouth quirked. “Do not blame Taylor. I was already in the house, coming up the servants’ stairs, when he found me. He couldn’t very well kick me out then.”
“Why have you come back, Sophie?”
“What have you there?” She came closer and peered at the box on his desk. “Are those pistols?”
He sighed. May as well deal with her now. Then he could get back to his cipher. “Yes. This pair was crafted by Manton, who produces the best dueling pistols in the world.”
“What makes them superior?”
He tried not to notice her nearness, how shifting an inch or two would bring their shoulders together. He cleared his throat. “Manton discovered weighting the barrel allowed for a steadier shot. Less recoil in the forearm when the charge is fired. They are remarkably accurate at the right distance. I have others, but this is likely the easier set for you to use.”
“Hmm.” Her fingertip slid down the ivory handle. “Why did you have them out, if you do not plan to help me?”
“Because it is important to have the very best equipment for whatever task you undertake. Since I had no way of knowing what pistols you intended to use, I planned to send these to you. I will not need them.”
“Have they been loaded?”
“Absolutely not. The barrels are empty.” Less chance of someone—him, most likely—getting shot.
“But how can I practice if they are empty?”
“You need to build up your arm strength in order to hold them steady for a prolonged period of time. Women have a lower percentage of muscle mass in their upper body and torso, so you need more practice than pulling the trigger if you want an accurate shot.”
“See, that is exceedingly helpful. I cannot trust anyone else to tell me these things.”
A sharp and unexpected sense of satisfaction coursed through him, followed quickly by resentment. She was clever, using flattery to get what she wanted. He preferred facts, however. “You are aware, of course, that duels are illegal. And that most result in death or serious injury.”
She tilted her head up to find his eyes. “Some, but not most. And I question the validity of such a statement. No actual data can be gathered as most duels
are private and unreported, especially those with no injuries.”
Heat suffused his body. Christ, when she used words such as “validity” and “data,” Quint wanted to do unspeakably improper things to her. Dragging a hand through his hair, he put some distance between them. “There’s little use in debating the point. In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve asked for my assistance and I have refused it.”
“Which I refuse to accept. Not only are you the most clever man I know, you’re a friend. Who else is in a better position to help me than you?”
Now he would appear churlish to refuse. Smart.
He flexed his fingers, thinking. While he did not appreciate being manipulated, he did not want to see her hurt. And if he showed her how to operate the damn things, would she go away and leave him in peace?
“If I give you your hour, do you promise not to return?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly, enthusiasm lighting up her face.
“And what if you show no aptitude for firearms? Will you abandon this silliness?”
“Of course. I do not have a desire to die.” She removed her cloak and threw the heavy garment over a chair. “I’ll suggest swords instead.”
“If that is your idea of a jest, I am not laughing.”
Sophie bit her lip. No, Quint’s face did not show any hint of amusement. With his eyes narrowed and mouth curved into a frown, he looked quite dour—even for a man who tended toward the serious. All the more reason she sensed something was off with him.
She forced herself back to the conversation. “Of course I am jesting.” Not in the least. “Now, let us begin. I need to return before daybreak.”
That did not appear to make him any happier. “Just how did you escape, by the way? And how did you sneak into my house without any of my staff stopping you?”
She dared not tell him of her abilities. Only Alice had an inkling of the talents Sophie possessed, and no one else need know. “My maid is covering for me. She’s entirely trustworthy and discreet. And your kitchen door was unlocked. I assume your cook forgot to lock it on her way to bed.”
He pulled at his full bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger, clearly contemplating something. The action brought attention to his mouth, and her skin began to tingle with the memory of what it had felt like to have those lips on hers. He was a remarkable kisser, with a single-minded focus and thoroughness to make a courtesan blush.
That was the thing about Quint: Whatever he chose to do, he did well. His viscountess would be a lucky lady, indeed.
Too bad it would not be Sophie.
She glanced away and took a deep breath. These reactions to him would not do, not if she planned on paying attention.
“Let’s examine the weapons,” he said, dropping his arm. “Pick one up, if you please.”
Sophie reached into the velvet-lined box and lifted one of the pistols. The ivory handle was cool against her palm. “It’s heavier than I assumed.”
“That is why you need to practice holding it, as I said, to build up your arm strength. The steadier you keep it, the more accurate your shot. And if you cannot hold it steady, then do not go through with a duel.”
“Understood.” She peered down the barrel, pointed it at the floor. “Will you show me how to load it?”
“No. The seconds oversee the loading of the pistols. All you need to be concerned with is not dying.”
“But how shall I practice properly if I cannot load it?”
She expected him to argue, but he surprised her by sticking to the practicalities. “You are aware you’ll need to drive out into the country in order to shoot, I hope.”
“You needn’t treat me like a child, Quint. I plan to spend a few days in Sussex. I daresay there’s enough space on Papa’s estate to discharge a cannon and not be overheard.”
He held up his hands. “Fine.” Reaching into the case, he withdrew various bits and pieces, which he lined up on the desk. His thorough explanation covered both the construction of the pistol and firing mechanism, as well as the function of the other items originally contained in the box. He showed her the paper cartridges, how they were used. In all his diligence, however, he never touched the pistol once.
She began to shift impatiently, ready to actually do something.
“Are you listening to me?” he asked sharply. When she nodded, he lifted a skeptical brow. “What can cause the pistol to misfire, then?”
“A dull flint, soft frizzen, weak springs, over-primed pan, clogged touch-hole,” she recited none too smugly. “Anything else?”
“Let’s see you load it,” he said by way of answer.
She did so quickly, efficiently, and then looked to him for confirmation. He nodded in approval and she grinned, inordinately pleased with herself. “Are we finally ready to practice?” she asked.
“Anxious, are you?”
“Well, I must return home before someone notices I’m missing. Otherwise, you’ll be putting these pistols to use when my father requests your presence at dawn.”
“Fair enough. Switch yours for the empty one.” He strode to the center of the room.
She didn’t bother switching pistols. It wasn’t as if she would shoot him. “Wait. Should you not take one as well?”
“No. I’ll pretend,” he said, flexing his fingers. She’d noticed him doing that motion a few times, especially since she’d started handling the guns. A nervous habit?
“Your challenger decides the distance,” he explained. “Ten paces is common, though I’ve heard of six or eight. The seconds will mark it off. Take your position.”
She stepped off ten paces then turned to face him. “Here?”
“Good. Once you’re both ready, you’ll be given a signal after which you’ll have three seconds to fire.”
“And I should aim for . . . ?”
“The extremities. Shoulder. Arm. You do not want a death on your hands or your conscience.”
Hard to argue there. “What happens if both parties miss?”
“Then your challenger must decide if his honor is satisfied or not.”
She examined the pistol in her hand. It really was quite pretty, with its gold accents and pearl handle. The wood was smooth and polished. “Have you ever engaged in a duel?”
He made a sound. “Absolutely not. It’s barbarism. I bought those to examine how they work, to see how Manton improved upon the design.”
“But you’ve attended a duel, surely?”
“Two. Both Colton’s, when he was still too young and stubborn to see reason. Sort of like someone else I know.”
She ignored that. “What room is directly below us?”
Quint’s brow lowered as he considered the question. “The wine cellar, as I recall. But—”
Sophie squeezed the trigger as he’d taught her, the barrel pointed at the floor. The flint swung down, struck the frizzen, sparked, and the pistol went off with a loud crack. A puff of acrid smoke encircled her and she wobbled from the surprising kick of the shot. Exhilaration coursed through her, a heady mix of relief, power, and awe. “Gads, that was fun!”
Using her free hand, she batted the smoke. “May I—Quint, whatever is wrong?”
He stood frozen, his pallor gone the color of fresh snow. His chest heaved as he stared at the pistol in her hand. “Quint?” She came closer and noticed his hands were shaking. “I apologize for firing. I could not resist—”
“Get out.”
She blinked. Had he said—?
“Now, Sophie. Get out of my house and do not come back. Go!” The last word was nearly a roar, a shocking tenor of voice from a normally soft-spoken man.
Stunned into obeying, she hurriedly replaced the pistol in its case and found her cloak. He now faced the wall, away from her, his head clasped tightly in his hands as if he was in pain. She started to apologize once more, but thought better of agitating him further.
“Leave!” he rasped, and she bolted into the corridor, closing the door softly behind her.
Instead of leaving, however, curiosity and concern had her pressing her ear to the wood. A fast, rhythmic huffing sounded from inside the study. Was he wheezing? Heavens, perhaps he was ill. After ensuring no servants hovered nearby, she ever so slowly turned the latch and cracked the door.
He hadn’t moved, except to reach out and brace himself on a chair back. She could only see his profile, but his lids were screwed shut, and it appeared he could not draw enough breath into his lungs. He gasped again and again, weaving on his feet, and her stomach clenched at the sight of his misery. What was happening? Was his heart giving out?
Mesmerized, she debated whether to rush in and offer assistance or stay in the corridor. If he was anything like her father and younger brother, he would not appreciate a witness to his weakness. Men were remarkably prickly about illness. But what if Quint was in grave danger?
“My lady.”
Sophie straightened and leapt away from the door. The butler’s expression etched with disapproval, he marched forward and quietly closed the partition to the study.
“Is he ill?” she whispered.
“I really could not say, my lady. However, perhaps it is best if your ladyship returned to your own home.”
“But should we not call a physician? Or at least wait to ensure he recovers?”
“His lordship has asked that no physician be admitted to the house. Ever. And I do not believe he would appreciate one being sprung on him.” The butler did not seem overly concerned about the health of his employer. Was this not the first time Quint had fallen ill?
He gestured toward the front door. “Now, I must insist, your ladyship, as I’d like to retain my post.”
She clenched her fists, anxious to check on Quint but not wanting to get the staff in trouble. “I’d best go out the service door, Taylor.” With the cloak on her shoulders, she pulled the hood low over her face. They traveled silently through the house and down to the kitchens.