Restless, Marcus prowled through the empty corridors, passing by a number of rooms that were still gloomy with dust and Holland covers. On the stone terrace off the music room, he stopped to light up a cheroot and watch the sun set. But rather than take any real pleasure in the subtle play of pinks and mauves against deepening blue of the evening sky, he found himself making a mental note to ask the housekeeper the cost of hiring another maid. And whether such an addition would have any noticeable effect on daunting amount of cleaning yet to be done.
Tossing the half-finished cheroot aside, he moved on to the library, thinking perhaps a glass of brandy and a book of poetry might help to keep the feeling of overwhelming bleakness at bay. A fire had been lit and the soft flicker of the flames made the leather spines and gold-leaf titles glow with a mellow warmth. His spirits brightened a bit as he approached the carved oak shelves. Tracing a hand along several rows of books, he took his time in choosing a slim volume wedged between two tomes on the natural history of the Americas.
It was not until he crossed to the sideboard that the earl realized he was not alone.
"Sorry, sir." The high back armchair scraped over the carpet as Lucien shifted uncomfortably and lay down his own book. "I had thought you were busy in your study. I'll go upstairs—"
Marcus motioned for his nephew to stay where he was, suddenly finding that the prospect of dialogue with someone other than the demons in his own head was not entirely unwelcome. "No need for that." He poured himself a splash of brandy. "Care to join me?"
The young man blanched and shook his head.
The earl set aside the decanter and took some time to settle himself in the facing chair before speaking again. "Do you mean to give it up? I must warn you, many men find such a resolve impossible, no matter how hard they try."
"In truth, I rarely care to imbibe more than a glass," answered Lucien softly. "I have little taste for it, sir." A ragged sigh followed. "And my senses even less tolerance, it would seem."
The earl's brows rose in surprise. "Yet you rode out each night to get jug bitten with your friends?"
Lucien bit at his lip. "I—I had thought perhaps you might like me better if I was more like you."
Bloody hell. Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. Yet another careless sin for which he bore blame. It had never occurred to him that the young man might consider him a hero of sorts and try to emulate his less than exemplary behavior.
"Is that why you chose to join the Wolf's Head Club?" A small and exclusive society of gentlemen, its members included some of the wildest blades of the ton. Marcus did not consider himself easy to shock, yet even he found some of their activities went beyond the pale.
"I was invited because of my connection to you, sir, and I hoped to prove I was not a man milliner," admitted Lucien. After a small swallow, he went on in a tone of near awe. "Your exploits are near legendary. And though I could never hope to match your prowess in—"
"Hell's teeth, don't remind me of all the idiotic things I have done," exclaimed the earl, more roughly than he intended.
His nephew flinched.
"I am not angry with you, Lucien," he added quietly. "It is my own self with whom I am sorely disappointed."
"But..." The young man looked thoroughly perplexed. "I don't understand."
Marcus raised his glass to dancing flames of the fire and slowly swirled the amber spirits. The light refracted off the cut crystal and churning brandy, sending a kaleidoscope of patterns across the dark paneling.
"No, I don't imagine you do," he murmured.
"It is hard to fathom what you might find lacking in yourself, sir. While I..." Lucien let out a harsh laugh. "I have no need to plumb any great depths to find my own faults."
"We all make mistakes—"
"None so grievous as mine," cried his nephew with some bitterness.
"Yours was serious, but as long as you truly regret the transgression and do your best to make amends, that is all you can ask of yourself."
"I do regret it!" The young leaned forward to bury his head in his hands. "I still have trouble believing I could act in such a violent way, no matter how foxed I was."
The earl pursed his lips. "I have seen spirits spark even the most mild of men into a flaming temper. Do you know exactly what it was that set you off?"
"No! That's the devil of it. I can't remember a thing." Lucien looked up, his face taut with self-loathing. "You would think I should recall something of ravishing a young lady."
"Unfortunately there are times when the amount of drink renders you completely insensible to what you are doing. I was lucky enough to escape such lapses of judgment without paying any more of a penalty than a bilious stomach and an aching head."
"Yes, I have heard much of The Black Cat's luck," murmured Lucien, with his first hint of a smile.
Marcus gave a wry grimace. "Much exaggerated, as indeed are most of the stories."
"Nonetheless, I should like to hear some of them," said his nephew shyly. "That is, if you wouldn't find it too much of a bore to spend time with me."
"I suppose there are one or two that would bear repeating sometime." He rose to put another log on the fire, surprised to find he had no urge to return to the solitude of his study. As he stirred the coals to flame, Lucien stood up abruptly and began to pace before the hearth.
"This afternoon I rode over to see... her."
"Did you?" Finishing the task, Marcus leaned back against the mantel and regarded the shadowed planes of the young man's profile. "Hmmm. You have more courage than most, to risk facing the elder sister. I'm amazed you returned unscathed."
Lucien pulled a face. "Well, she did pull a pistol—"
A bark of laughter cut off his words. "She seems rather fond of that damn thing. And you managed to avoid a bullet in the breast?"
"Actually, the threat was aimed a bit lower on my person."
The earl had to stifle another deep chuckle. "Sorry," he said, his lips still twitching with amusement. "Having served as her target myself, I know it is not quite so humorous to be facing those molten green eyes."
"Green, sir? It is you who showed courage, sir, if you were able to remark on the color of Miss Kirtland's eyes. I'm afraid my attention was wholly occupied with the steel-gray orb of the weapon."
Marcus grinned in answer, then his expression became serious. "It is rather our adversary who exhibited a steady nerve. And trigger finger. For that, I suppose, we should be grateful, else neither of us would be in any condition to make light of the experience." He paused to watch the log suddenly catch fire. "A singular female, indeed. Though not one I wish to encounter again anytime soon."
That was not entirely true, Marcus was forced to admit as he watched the sinuous sway of the flames. Although it ran counter to all reason, there was something about the heated intensity of the lady's gaze that intrigued him. And not simply because she had taken it into her head to undress him on their first meeting.
He felt a slight tightening of his body on recalling the scene—well, maybe that had added a certain spark to things. As did the memory of her willowy curves pressed up against his bare chest. Despite the unladylike language and actions there had been no doubt that the figure beneath the thick wool cloak was very much a female.
Grimacing, the earl sought his chair and pushed it back from the heat of the hearth. No doubt he was entertained such absurd fantasies because it had been so long since he had enjoyed any intimacy with a woman. He would soon have to consider a visit to Town, for he had no intention of giving the local tabbies—and the tigress—any reason to embellish the rumors of his amatory exploits.
"Aye, sir, Miss Kirtland has a real fire about her," mused Lucien, as if he had been reading the earl's thoughts. "Yet one can hardly blame her for reacting in such a way. I, for one, can't help but admire such spirit, even though she would just as soon see me boiled in oil. She obviously... cares very much for her family and would do anything to protect them from harm."
P
erhaps it was his imagination, but Marcus thought he detected a note of wistfulness in his nephew's voice. "Loyalty is indeed a noble sentiment," he murmured.
His nephew sighed. "Well, after this afternoon, she not only thinks me a veritable monster but a complete idiot as well."
The earl arched his brows in question.
"I... I brought flowers to Miss Meredith." The young man colored slightly. "That was terribly stupid of me, wasn't it?"
"Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really wish my opinion?"
"Oh, I should like very much to know what you think, sir," answered Lucien.
The look that lit his nephew's face caused Marcus to feel as if a fist had been planted in his gut.
Hell's Teeth, it was just another painful reminder of how blind he had been. No, he corrected himself. Blind implied that he was not able to see. What he had been was self-centered, not blind. And damnably selfish to boot.
He took a long sip of his brandy to hide his unsettled feelings. Suddenly, he felt woefully unqualified to offer advice of any sort, but at the same time he realized that silence would only be worse.
"Sometimes a simple gesture is more eloquent than any carefully planned speech," he answered.
Lucien appeared to be considering the words from all angles as his head tilted slowly from side to side. "I hadn't thought of it like that," he finally said. "But what you say makes a great deal of sense." He added a shy smile. "Thank you, sir."
The young man's grateful expression did much to assuage the dull ache in the pit of his stomach.
"With your reputation of nerve and daring," he went on haltingly, "I don't imagine you ever made a cake of yourself."
Marcus thought about the stack of ledgers on his desk and decided they could wait. What was happening here was worth infinitely more than any of the pounds and pence contained within their covers.
He settled down more comfortably into soft leather of the armchair and stretched his legs out toward the fire. "Oh, as to that..."
* * *
The visitor carefully scraped the mud and chaff from his boots before stepping into the freshly swept entrance hall. "Is Mrs. Kirtland feeling any better today, Eliza?" he inquired, remembering at the last minute to remove his wool cap.
"Yes, she appears a good deal stronger, though my sister is still a bit concerned about the inflammation in her lungs." Eliza brushed a limp curl from her cheek and forced a smile. "It is kind of you to stop and ask, Ned."
"Well, I doubt that there is a fancy medical man in all of London who would be better able to care for her than Meredith," replied her neighbor.
By the momentary flicker of his gaze, Eliza saw that her pinched features and subdued tone did not escape his notice. However, when he cleared his throat, it was only to offer her s small burlap sack. "I brought you an extra dozen eggs and a pint of fresh milk in case you might like Mrs. Derwood to fix a custard for your mother's supper."
"How thoughtful." Eliza took the package without further comment, hoping to discourage him from lingering at their door. She had no wish for company, especially his. Despite his roughcut appearance, her neighbor had proven himself to be a sharp, observant man.
At the moment, however, he appeared oblivious to her hint. Instead of taking his leave, he merely shuffled his weight from foot to foot. Short of being suspiciously rude, she had little choice but to answer his hospitality. With an inward sigh, she gestured toward the little parlor. "Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?"
"Aye, that would be right nice."
"Why don't you have a seat? I shall just be a minute in taking these back to the kitchen."
When she returned, her neighbor was perched precariously on one of the ladderback chairs, which looked in danger of collapsing from the weight of his solid bulk. A wisp of a smile crossed her lips. "I think that you might be a touch more comfortable on the sofa, Ned."
The farmer gave a baleful glance at his wrinkled trousers and worn jacket, the evidence of a day spent plowing the fields still clinging to the homespun cloth. "Oh, but Eliza, I wouldn't want to go sitting on your proper furniture in such a state."
Her smile became more pronounced as she surveyed the faded chintz and lopsided frame. "I think it has survived far worse than any assault by your person. Do move, else I shan't have a moment's peace wondering whether I shall have to summon Meredith to treat a broken leg. And I mean yours, not the chair's."
He got up reluctantly and settled himself on the edge of the sofa cushions while she took a seat in the facing chair. His massive hands, which looked more like those of a pugilist than a farmer, twisted at his cap as he fixed her with a probing gaze.
"If you don't mind me saying so, you are looking quite peaked, Eliza, which isn't at all like you."
Eliza did mind. But instead of making any retort, she dropped her eyes to her apron and began to smooth at the creases. "My mother's illness has naturally been of great concern to me of late."
"Naturally." There was an awkward pause as he shifted his position. "I have missed seeing Meredith out on her usual walks to collect plants. I hope she isn't feeling poorly as well?"
There was a veiled urgency to his question that caused her own hands to fist in her lap. "You know Merry is never ill," she replied lightly, trying to appear unconcerned.
The arrival of the housekeeper with the tea tray gave her an excuse for saying no more than that. Trying hard to disguise her sense of relief, she thanked the woman and began to busy herself with pouring the brew and cutting a generous wedge of the warm apple cake.
Ned Laskin, however, refused to be put off. "Aye, it's true she never seems to suffer from any fever or cough, but 'tis a nasty bruise she is sporting on her face."
Eliza's hand gave a jerk, nearly spilling the cup she was passing to him.
"Happens I caught sight of her out back as I came in from the fields," he went on in a low voice. "Is anything amiss here, Eliza? I would hope you would consider me a close enough friend to confide any... trouble."
"Merry slipped and took a bad fall on the rocks down by the abandoned mill," she said quickly, hoping to put an end to such questions.
The waggle of his brows conveyed quite clearly what he thought of her explanation. His reply, however, was a bit more oblique. "Hmmph. Never known Meredith to be clumsy, either."
"Accidents do happen, Ned, no matter how careful one is." Her voice was rather more shrill than she intended, and she sought to temper the tone with another forced smile. "Living on a farm, you know that as well as anyone."
"Aye." He took a moment to add several spoonfuls of sugar and a slosh of cream to his tea. "It's odd, that's all, that the vicinity of Chertwell is proving more than a mite dangerous to pretty young females of late," he murmured.
Eliza felt the blood drain from her face. "Whatever do you mean?"
Ned's cup hovered in front of his lips. "Will Yount's daughter was attacked last night as she was returning from tending a sick lamb in his upper pasture. Whoever it was roughed her up pretty bad when she tried to resist." His voice became edged with a sharp anger. "And that ain't the worst of it, Eliza, though perhaps I ought not be speaking of such things, you being unmarried and all."
"Nonsense," she responded. "I'm certainly old enough not to be shocked by the ways of the world. Of course you can speak of such realities without fearing I shall fall into a fit of vapors." Her mouth compressed in a tight line. "Poor Mary. Do Will or his neighbors have any idea of who might have done such a horrible thing?"
"No." He took a long swallow of his tea, then fixed her with a searching look. "But you may rest assured that if anyone has any information on who the cowardly dastard is, he'll be dealt with sure enough."
Eliza bit her lip, trying to decide just how to reply. On one hand, she wished to protect her sister. The attack itself had been terrible enough without having Meredith's reputation being bandied about by the local wags. Yet such circumspection warred with the desire to see justice done.
; Or was it vengeance? She couldn't help but hear the echo of the earl's words as she pondered her decision. A part of her acknowledged that perhaps justice was best left to the proper authorities. Toying with her spoon, she countered the admission by recalling the bitter truth of the Marcus's other words—a title and money had more to do with the magistrate's brand of justice than the right and wrong.
No, this was not about vengeance, she assured herself. It was about stopping a vile monster before he harmed yet another young girl. Good Lord, it appeared he had already struck again, perhaps in part because of her very silence.
To quell any further debate with her conscience, she also reminded herself that Ned Laskin was a man of solid character, and well-respected within the village. Surely there was no harm in letting drop certain information, so that someone else might help in deciding what ought to be done.
A bit of the cake crumbled in her fingers. Then, mind made up, she finally spoke. "Did anyone note whether the Earl of Killingworth's nephew was seen in the area?"
Ned's eyes narrowed. "You think I should inquire?" he asked slowly.
Eliza chose her words carefully. "I believe there is an old saying in one of my father's books that goes something like this—the apple rarely falls far from the tree. Are you familiar with it?"
"Aye. I've heard that one, too." He took his time in finishing off the last of his tea. "Well, I had best be on my way." As his hands carefully folded the cotton napkin into a neat square, Eliza couldn't help but notice that his knuckles were hard and fissured as chunks of granite. "There are things that need attending to."
"Ned—"
"Thank you for the tea, Eliza. And for making the meaning of some of them old riddles more... clear to a simple man like me." He rose and tucked his cap under his arm, not before fixing her with a steady look. "You know, I have always thought you were a female of uncommon good sense."
Pistols at Dawn Page 5