Sweet Enemy

by Heather Snow

Liliana nodded again, astounded. Her plan had worked better than she’d thought.

  “Did my stance meet your approval?” he challenged. “Not leaning too far forward or back?”

  “Your stance was perfect,” she said slowly.

  He raised himself to his full height and looked down on her, cocking a raven brow. “So even you, with your uninformed petty little standards, could find nothing wrong with my performance?”

  Liliana narrowed her eyes. Uninformed? Petty? She’d had quite enough of his display. Yes, she’d been rude, but he was being a boor.

  She stepped toward him, raising herself as well—she was no shrinking violet. “Since you asked,” she said, simply because she couldn’t help herself, “you didn’t hit the center, not even once.”

  She could actually see the blood rising up Stratford’s neck to his face before he exploded.

  “No one hits the center with a flintlock!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “It takes so long for the powder to ignite, it throws off one’s aim!”

  Liliana shrugged.

  Stratford’s fist clenched and he gave her such a fierce stare, Liliana feared to take so much as a breath. Not that she sensed he’d do violence to her person, but she’d never seen someone so angry.

  Then he collected himself, a mask of indifference slipping over his features. When he spoke, his voice was nonchalant. “But then, what would a woman know of a man’s pursuits?” He capped his mocking words with a shrug of his own and turned away.

  Liliana sucked in a breath. Laughter tittered around her, but it hardly registered through the swiftly rising haze of fury. “A man’s pursuits?” she asked, her voice sounding low and dangerous to her ears. Her entire life she’d been told to keep her nose out of men’s pursuits. As if men alone had a brain worth educating. As if only men were capable of understanding complex scientific theory or making any worthy contribution to the world besides babies.

  Well, not today. Liliana took a bold step forward. “I’d wager, my lord,” she scoffed, “that this woman can not only make that weapon fire faster, but increase its accuracy measurably.”

  Stratford stopped and turned back to face her, both brows raised. People around them hushed in expectation. Liliana heard Aunt Eliza’s groan from the crowd.

  “And how do you propose to do that?” Stratford asked, sounding more surprised than scornful.

  “That is none of your concern,” she snapped. “Do you take my wager or not?”

  Stratford’s cobalt eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. “That depends, Miss Claremont,” he said after a moment. “How would you propose we test your claims? Will you shoot against me?”

  Liliana’s stomach clenched. She’d never fired a weapon in her life. She had little chance at hitting a target.

  “Because while we can verify accuracy easily enough, the only way to test whether a gun fires more quickly than another is to shoot them at the same time,” he pointed out reasonably, with a smile that said he knew very well she couldn’t shoot.

  Liliana clenched her jaw. “I have no experience,” she admitted.

  Stratford nodded. “Well then, unless someone steps forward as your proxy, I don’t see how I could take your wager, tempting though it may be.”

  Liliana’s heart fell as the silence dragged on. Of course no one would challenge Stratford on her behalf. She closed her eyes. Not only had she made a fool of herself, but she’d made sure there was plenty of attention on her now. Her only consolation was that after this embarrassment, people would expect her to stay away in shame. That would clear up her time so she could search the house.

  She only hoped she’d be allowed to stay.

  “I will shoot on the lady’s behalf,” came a rich baritone. Liliana’s eyes flew open and she turned. The crowd parted, and a dashing man stepped forward and came to her side. “As I’ve missed the afternoon games, I’d enjoy getting in a bit of sport.”

  Relief flooded Liliana, though she couldn’t place her rescuer. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him before. Definitely not since she’d been at Somerton Park.

  Like Stratford’s, his hair was as dark as night, but that’s where the similarities ended. His glittering green eyes were framed by long black lashes and had an exotic slant that reminded Liliana of a gypsy.

  He was taller than Stratford as well—taller and leaner, with a smile that flashed quickly, unlike Stratford’s slower, warmer one. Yet he didn’t make Liliana’s breath catch in her chest as Stratford did—a fact that deeply annoyed her.

  “If that meets your approval, mademoiselle?” the stranger asked, giving Liliana a slight bow.

  Liliana swallowed. “I’d be delighted, sir…?”

  The man straightened and laughed. “Stratford, don’t you think you should introduce the lady to her new champion?”

  Stratford’s face had gone stormy. “Miss Liliana Claremont, Lord Derick Aveline, heir to Viscount Scarsdale.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Claremont,” Aveline said. Liliana gave him a quick curtsy. “Now, shall we begin?” Aveline held his arm out to Liliana and, after securing her hand, took a step toward the field.

  “Not quite,” Stratford said, drawing Liliana’s gaze back to him. She and Aveline stopped walking. “We’ve yet to agree on the terms of the wager. What have you in mind, Miss Claremont?”

  Oh, dash it all. This had become enough of a scene. She couldn’t very well ask him to hand over any information he had about her father’s death, and she wanted nothing else from him.

  “I had nothing particular in mind,” she answered. Other than to prove your chauvinistic views as nonsense.

  Stratford gave her a look that said wagers were a man’s pursuit as well. Drat him.

  “I’ve an idea,” Aveline interrupted. “It is my understanding that Stratford chose to champion you for the day, yes, Miss Claremont?”

  Liliana nodded.

  “And that you were to spend the rest of the evening and supper ball with him as escort?”

  She hadn’t known that part. Still, she nodded.

  “Well, as I am your champion now, should we win the wager, I propose that you spend the evening with me instead.”

  The wager sounded innocuous enough and would get her out from beneath Stratford’s watchful eye. “That would be preferable,” she said, knowing it insulted Stratford, but she was beyond caring. “If we should lose?” She looked over at Stratford, who stood rigid, the tic of a muscle evident in his jaw.

  “Then Miss Claremont spends the rest of the house party with me.”

  A gasp came from somewhere behind them.

  “Every breakfast, every luncheon, every supper and every activity.”

  What? Good heavens, this couldn’t be happening. “I don’t really think—”

  “That’s hardly equitable,” Aveline spoke over her, which annoyed her, yet he voiced the truth.

  “Be that as it may, that is my demand,” Stratford said, his voice hard.

  Aveline patted her hand where she gripped his forearm. “Then I must insist the same. Should we win, I shall escort Miss Claremont for the duration.”

  Absolutely not. She’d never be able to search, then. She must put a stop to this.

  “Done,” Stratford said, holding out his palm.

  Aveline reached out and shook Stratford’s outstretched hand.

  This was her wager, blast them! “Gentlem—”

  Aveline squeezed her arm and lowered his head. “Don’t make this worse than it is,” he whispered.

  Liliana slumped. He was right.

  “I don’t know what lies between you, but if you don’t wish to spend the next two weeks with Stratford, I suggest you make certain we win,” Aveline said, and turned her toward the shooting line.

  The crowd followed, silent and rapt, as if watching a carriage wreck. Servants rushed to set up two new targets.

  Liliana’s stomach turned over. There was more than her feminine pride on the line now.

  Dear God, she abso
lutely had to win this wager.

  Chapter Eight

  “D

  o you agree, gentlemen, that these weapons are of similar make and quality?” A blond gentleman, who had been introduced to Liliana as Viscount Holbrook, stood between Stratford and Aveline as each man weighed two matched pistols. After examining one, Stratford traded it to Aveline for the other. Liliana fidgeted, shifting her weight from foot to foot as both men nodded and handed the weapons back to Holbrook.

  “In the interest of fairness, Aveline, I must inquire as to your shooting ability,” Viscount Holbrook stated. Being met with silence, he clarified. “What I mean is, do you feel you are on par with Stratford?”

  Liliana looked to Aveline, who had elected to remove his jacket but retained his waistcoat and neck cloth. In his buff-colored leggings and burgundy-striped vest, Aveline radiated sheer elegance, even while rolling up his puffed sleeves. Dear Lord, how could a town gentleman have a chance against a military veteran like Stratford?

  Aveline regarded Holbrook with hooded eyes.

  “I am a decent shot,” he answered vaguely.

  A decent shot? Liliana nearly groaned. Her chances could be up in smoke before the hammer was even cocked. Aveline’s bland smile did nothing to reassure her. She prayed his relaxed attitude was the benefit of confidence and not a product of his lack of stake in the game.

  “I will admit that I have yet to hit the center with a flintlock pistol, m’self,” he added, sounding unconcerned.

  Holbrook nodded. “Stratford, as you will be firing the unaltered weapon, first choice is yours.” He flipped the guns in his hands and held both curved burl-wood handles toward Stratford.

  Debating only a moment, Stratford chose the pistol on the left. He walked over to the firing line without saying a word, determination lining his features.

  He hadn’t once looked at her since making his ridiculous demands, while she’d caught herself staring at him numerous times. She hated to admit it, but it rankled.

  Holbrook drew her attention.

  “Miss Claremont, do you require time and, or, er”—Holbrook flushed, likely not sure how to phrase the question—“tools to make your modifications?”

  Her chest tightened as seemingly every other eye on the estate turned to her as well. There were some, like her aunt, with faces pinched in disapproval, but many showed rampant curiosity.

  It took all of her willpower not to pull a silly face at the lot of them. Did they think she’d file off half of the barrel or something? An irrational smile threatened as she visualized herself manically sawing through metal as all and sundry looked on.

  “Just a few moments,” she answered, motioning a passing maid. How she wished she wore one of her own dresses. She always carried her tinderbox in the oversized pockets. Liliana sighed. Regardless, she could still win. She’d just have to substitute.

  Liliana whispered to the girl, then started over to where Aveline stood, checking his munitions. He held the gun out as she approached. “How do you intend to alter this weapon?” he asked.

  Liliana waved it away. “I won’t touch the gun,” she said, “just the powder. Be sure to clean the pan, flint and frizzen very well. Leave no residue—wipe it with a moist cloth, then a dry one if you have to—and load the ball as you normally would. I’ll put in the powder.”

  Aveline contemplated her, his sharp green gaze assessing. Then he started brushing out the pan with quick, efficient flicks.

  Liliana cut her eyes to Stratford, who methodically cleaned his own weapon.

  What had prompted his rash terms? He couldn’t truly want to spend time with her…could he? Was it wounded pride that demanded her presence, or had he known what she was about all along? He could see winning this wager as the perfect way to keep her underfoot and unable to investigate.

  His wooden expression gave no inkling.

  The maid appeared and handed Liliana a wrapped handkerchief. Thin lines of confusion marred the girl’s face. Liliana didn’t blame her. All she had time for was a parlor trick at best. She wasn’t even sure it would work.

  Liliana unwrapped the contents, then laid the handkerchief out on the judging table and removed her gloves. She measured a portion, crumbling a bit of the gritty crystalline substance with her thumbnail, and began crushing it with a spoon the maid had provided. What she wouldn’t give for a mortar and pestle—the finer the grain, the faster it would burn. Still, this should do.

  “What’s that?” Aveline asked.

  Liliana smiled. “Magic.” She finished grinding, then scooped the handkerchief up with the powder inside. She walked over to Aveline. “All right, now, fill the pan not quite a third full with the priming powder,” she instructed. The spoiled-egg odor of sulfur tickled her nose. “Be careful not to add too much.”

  Aveline quirked a black brow at her but followed her command wordlessly.

  “Perfect,” she whispered as he finished. “If you wouldn’t mind?” she prompted, indicating the prying eyes of the crowd around them. Aveline understood and shielded their actions from the others with a turn of his body.

  “Thank you,” Liliana murmured, then took a pinch from the handkerchief and sprinkled it into the pan. She cocked her head and debated, then added half a pinch more. She plucked a pin from her hair and gently stirred the powder mix. “That should do it,” she said.

  Please, please, please, this had to work.

  Aveline furrowed his brow but took his place at the firing line, where Stratford already waited.

  Stratford turned and looked at her then. The gaze he fixed her with melted her to the spot. She knew he intended to win, and his look promised retribution when he did.

  Liliana drew in a thready breath as he turned his attention back to his target.

  “Shooters ready?” Holbrook’s voice queried. The crowd quieted.

  Stratford and Aveline both squared themselves to their targets.

  Liliana’s heart thumped hard.

  “Aim…”

  She firmed her jaw. This was the moment. The moment where she’d be made a fool or be proven right. And likely still be considered a fool, by male and female alike. She frowned. Well, better a vindicated fool. “Aim true,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on Aveline’s back.

  “Fire!”

  Two distinct shots rang out, one just before the other. Liliana resisted the urge to whoop. Though it was impossible to gauge with the naked eye, in her heart she knew Aveline’s weapon had fired quicker. If his aim was good, they should win out.

  Servants ran out to retrieve the targets. Liliana stepped up to Aveline’s side, squinting as she watched the boys. She held her breath.

  “Nicked it, ’e did!” came one of the boys’ shouts. “Lord Aveline. Near dead center.”

  The boy looking at Stratford’s target just shrugged.

  Liliana felt her face spread in a relieved smile. She closed her eyes, ridiculously proud of herself.

  The results were quickly verified, and an appreciative cheer went up. Choruses of “Nice shot, Aveline” were heard mostly, but an occasional “Well done, Miss Claremont” peppered the murmurings as the majority of the crowd dispersed.

  Liliana looked to Stratford. She found him staring right at her, his eyes narrowed. Not with anger, she thought, but something altogether more dangerous to her—

  “Yes, well done, Miss Claremont.” Lord Aveline’s smiling face appeared before her, blocking her view. He handed the spent weapon over to Holbrook. “Usually, I aim a little low, but I put my faith in you and aimed right for the center. She fired so fast!” He grinned. “Now, you must tell me how you did it.”

  “Chemistry,” Liliana answered, moving her head to look around Aveline at Stratford, but he’d disappeared. Where had he gone? She returned her attention to her champion. “I simply sped up the reaction, which propelled the ball out of the barrel at a faster rate.”

  Aveline squinted his eyes and pulled his head back a touch, giving her the male version of Penelope’s “d
rop the scholarly tone and speak plain English, please” look. “Yes, but how? What did you add to the powder?”

  Liliana laughed. “Sugar.”

  “Sugar? As in tea and milk and all that?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Gunpowder is generally a mix of charcoal, sulfur and saltpeter or niter, in very precise mixtures. Charcoal is the fuel, and saltpeter the oxidizing agent.”

  Aveline nodded. “Yes, I know that, but where does the sugar come in?”

  Liliana glanced around once more. Where was Stratford? Winning didn’t seem nearly as satisfying if one couldn’t flaunt one’s victory a little.