His Wicked Reputation

by Madeline Hunter

  “They were lovely, and well done.”

  “Not really. I know I have a middling talent. I enjoy painting, however. I intend to work at it and get better too.”

  He went over and took the canvas from her hands and looked at it. The remnants of the landscape could still be discerned. “Middling talents paint like everyone paints, Eva. This had a distinctive look, what with the way you used light on the ground and trees. You do not give yourself enough credit.”

  “Forgive me, but—do you know what you are talking about?”

  “Actually, yes. I do. Art is the one thing I know very well.”

  She beamed at his compliment, then laughed. “Not the one and only thing, I think it is safe to say.”

  Her bawdy allusion heartened him. She seemed to be recovering from the renewed shock of seeing her house like this.

  She set the painting aside and reached for her reticule. “I would like you to do something for me, if you would be kind enough.”

  “Anything at all.”

  She plucked some pound notes out of the reticule and thrust them at him. Sparks of determination flashed in her eyes. “Please buy me a pistol, and teach me to use it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  After buying Eva her pistol, Gareth made a little tour of Langdon’s End. He stopped at the White Horse. Erasmus was there, as expected, and greeted him with a toothy smile. Gareth gestured him over to a table, ordered two ales, and informed him of the situation with Eva.

  Erasmus displayed the same shock Harold had. It appeared genuine, which meant Harold had been good to his word, even when it came to his friend. Better, actually. Not only had Harold not revealed Eva’s presence in his home this morning, he had not even spoken of what sent her there.

  “It musta happened yesterday,” Erasmus said. “I walked by every morning she was gone and saw nothing out of sorts on the property. Didn’t go this morning because Harold said she was back when I passed him in town.”

  “As you can imagine, she is very afraid.” Gareth patted the wrapped bundle he had set on the table. “She asked me to buy her a pistol. If it makes her feel safer, that alone is a good reason to do so.”

  “Has she ever used one?” Erasmus looked incredulous.

  “She will know how soon enough. I want you to keep your ears open. Let me know if you come across any indications of who did this. Such types often take to boasting, especially when in their cups.”

  Erasmus nodded. “I will tell Sir Thomas too.”

  “Tell me first. The magistrate can have what is left of the scoundrel after I am done with him.”

  He set a coin for the ale on the table and left the tavern. Considering how Erasmus liked to talk, within hours it would be well known that Miss Russell now kept a pistol in her house, one that she knew how to use. He also assumed that word would spread that Mr. Fitzallen protected the lady and would not wait for a court to mete out justice.

  Both bits of information might help if that housebreaking had been the work of men grabbing the opportunity to steal. Another possibility had entered Gareth’s mind when he saw the deliberate destruction of Eva’s paintings, however. Before he left the town he made one more stop.

  Mr. Trevor stood to greet him when he entered the architect’s office. A bit of brandy was offered, and they settled into chairs near the window.

  “The materials for the roof should be here this week,” Trevor said. “Once work starts, it will not take long.”

  Gareth allowed a few more minutes of conversation about Albany Lodge’s improvements before moving to his real reason for visiting.

  “Miss Russell’s house was entered while she was gone. You will hear of it soon if you have not already.”

  “Why that house? She has nothing of value.”

  “No one seeing that house would assume it contained nothing of value. It is a handsome gentry home. This is no longer an isolated village but a growing town, and all sorts pass through, I expect.”

  “This is dreadful. Bold. This is not a place where people bolt their doors, or grow suspicious of every face. At least it has not been such a place in the past. I fear this will change that.”

  “No doubt it will, if the details become known. After finding nothing, the intruders took out their anger by methodically destroying what little was there. Floorboards, walls, furniture, crockery—room by room, her possessions were turned into debris.”

  “Thank God she was not there, nor her sister. It isn’t safe, two women alone, living in the shadow of a city like Birmingham— She must be terrified.”

  “Not so much terrified as furious. Although, having seen the destruction, I cannot avoid the thought that terrifying her might have been the goal. A few details seemed unnecessarily cruel, and personal.”

  Trevor stood, flushed from his alarm at the idea. “Surely not. Who could want to harm her? She has no enemies. The townspeople love and respect her.”

  “The old ones do. The new ones hardly know her.” Gareth studied Trevor, who now gazed out the window while he accommodated this new notion. “How badly does your client want that house and land?”

  Trevor turned on him, stunned. “What are you implying?”

  Gareth just looked at him.

  “My client is a respectable businessman, Fitzallen. He is worth seven thousand a year due to hard work and shrewd dealings the last ten years. What you suggest is insulting to him, and uncalled for.”

  Gareth stood and faced Trevor squarely. “I’ll wager you know almost nothing about this man, other than the face he chooses to show you and the size of his income. He is wealthy from trade, which is hardly damning, but ten years is fast success in any business, so he may be the sort to knock over anything and anyone in his way. She won’t sell him what he wants, so perhaps he tried to persuade her by making her feel unsafe in her own home.”

  “Your accusation is outrageous. You do not have any evidence of this, yet you malign a man—”

  “Who is he? Tell me and I will find out soon enough if I am correct.”

  “I’ll be damned first. You are no more a gentleman than he. You, too, may be the sort to knock over anyone in his way, for all I know. I’ll not have you accusing my client when this was probably a random crime.”

  Gareth set his brandy glass on a table. “If this was a random crime, there will be nothing more. If there is any further attempt to frighten Miss Russell, however, I will be back. If you do not give me his name then, I will learn it another way so he and I can have a conversation.”

  He walked to the door.

  “You are out of your depth, Fitzallen. He has lawyers, the best that money can buy. They will ruin you financially if you impugn him.”

  “I have a better one, and since he is family he will not cost me a shilling. He is also the sort to show no restraint with men who threaten women. Tell your client to be glad I am the one suspicious of him, and not my brother.”

  * * *

  The pistol felt less heavy in her hands now. Not nearly as leaden as when she first picked it up and clumsily followed Gareth’s direction on how to load the ball and powder. Nor did she find it difficult to hold steady, the way she had the first two times she fired.

  She aimed at the thick, large wooden board Gareth had brought and set against the garden wall. “Now?”

  “Whenever you are ready.”

  She fired. The crack assaulted her ears. Smoke rose from the end of the barrel. She did not startle this time, although she did not think she would ever grow accustomed to the noise.

  She peered at the board, seeking the ball’s destination. Gareth eased the pistol out of her grasp.

  “Much better, Eva.”

  “Really? I do not see where it hit.”

  “You did not hit the board as such.”

  Her gaze shifted to the wall. A third black dot now decorated it, near two others. The wall might be stone, but lead balls did not bounce off. Rather they embedded themselves, eternal reminders of her poor marksmanship.

&
nbsp; “How can you say much better when I still don’t come close to a board as big as a barn door?”

  “You were closer this time.”

  “By an inch!” She took the pistol back, sat down, and lifted the bag of powder. “Are you a good shot?”

  “You will not meet many who are better.”

  He did not say that with pride or conceit. He merely answered a question. She tapped powder into the pistol. “Did it take you long to become so good?”

  He sat beside her and watched her load. “Every summer I spent a few weeks with my father, right up the road at the lodge. It was the only time I spent with him to speak of. The summer I was twelve, he taught me to shoot. He made me practice every day, for hours. I came to hate that pistol. Here was this precious time, and I was alone in that garden, firing over and over.”

  “Did he know you hated it?”

  “He knew. Finally, when my aim was sure, and I could reload fast, he told me that with my birth, the day would come when men challenged me, or insulted me and I had to challenge them, but if it were known that I was a crack shot, fewer men would take that step. A man known to always hit his aim is not a man with whom other men want to duel.”

  She finished loading, then cradled the pistol in her hands. “Was he correct? Did knowing how to shoot well spare you those challenges?”

  He took the pistol from her. “Mostly. Not always in the manner he expected.” He raised the weapon and sighted the board, then lowered it again. “It probably kept my brother from killing me, though.”

  She looked at him in surprise. He gazed down at the pistol.

  “One of those summers, my oldest brother came to visit. I think our father had begun to suspect what was in Percy by then, but he never guessed the whole of it, and I think he was pleased to see Percy make this gesture of acceptance toward me. One day my father was gone, riding the property, and Percy offered to teach me how duels are done. He explained it all, and we acted it out, the pacing off—all of it. And suddenly I was facing him and we both had loaded pistols in our hands.” He looked at her. “I looked at him, and I knew, I just knew, that he intended there to be an unfortunate accident.”

  “You are sure?” The idea stunned her. “Your own brother?”

  “I was sure. He was standing right below the outer branches of a tree, and one of those branches all but touched his head. So I aimed for that branch, hit it, and it snapped and fell on him. It startled him enough that I had time to reload. Percy looked at that branch, then at me, and decided the dueling lesson was over.”

  He stood and handed her the pistol. “I was fifteen years old. He was twenty. Now, only one more. Light is waning quickly. You will never learn to shoot in the dark.”

  She wished there were more time today. She needed to learn this right away. She hated how vulnerable she felt now in her own home. While Gareth had gone to town today, she spent the time cleaning the destruction, but all the while she listened for anyone coming up the lane or passing near the garden.

  She missed again. Gareth eased the pistol out of her grip, then took the powder bag too. “You do not need to be able to hit anything, Eva, because it is very unlikely you will actually fire. Just wielding a pistol will send intruders running. I am tempted to take the powder with me, so you do not do something rash or hurt someone by mistake.”

  “Don’t you dare take the powder away. I promise not to use it on my own until I am expert with this pistol. However, I’ll not be treated like a child who shows no sense, or a woman too stupid to avoid shooting her own foot.”

  “I said nothing about shooting your own foot.” He caressed her shoulder in a soothing rub. He had done that a lot today since arriving with the pistol and that huge board on a wagon with Harold at the reins. It was the kind of comforting touch one used on people who grieved, or who had become undone by emotion.

  Side by side they walked through the garden to the house.

  Cleaning the house and practicing with the pistol had distracted her from his attraction, but just walking beside him made the pull he exerted tantalize her again. Invisible tethers between him and her body tightened in naughty, teasing tweaks. She had no idea if he did that deliberately, or if it just happened as a result of his mere existence.

  “Have you written to your sister about what happened?” he asked.

  “I have a letter to post tomorrow, but it does not contain this news. I do not want her to worry, or to shorten her visit with Sarah.”

  They entered through the kitchen in the cellar. Gareth lit a lamp while she followed her nose to the hearth. A pot simmered there. Harold must have brought it, the way one brings food to invalids.

  “Stew,” she said. Beef stew, from the smell. That was a treat. Her stomach made happy noises. “Will you have some? There appears to be some fresh bread too.”

  He responded by taking two plates off the high shelf. A good amount of broken crockery had littered the floor a few hours ago, but not everything had been destroyed.

  He went out to the springhouse for water, then they sat down to their meal. She noticed how he watched what she ate.

  “Do you approve?” she asked. “Have I eaten enough to keep up my strength and not become sick from a nervous disorder?”

  “Do not scold me for worrying about you. You were not physically harmed, but you were still assaulted. It takes a body some time to recover from that.”

  “I am fine. Did I faint? No. Did I cry like a madwoman? No. Well, I did cry, but not hysterically, and in anger, not sorrow. Nor have I lost my appetite. See?” She scooped more stew into her mouth.

  His eyes narrowed on her. “You are sure you are fine?”

  “Completely.”

  “Absolutely fine?”

  “Totally.”

  “I am happy to hear it. I will not worry about it in the least henceforth.”

  “That suits me.”

  She took the plates and carried them to the sink to wash. When she was done, they went upstairs. “Will we practice with the pistol again tomorrow?”

  “If you like, but not too early.”

  She led him to the reception hall, and the door. “I promise to wait for whenever you choose to come.”

  She realized he no longer walked with her. She turned to see him leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching her.

  “You will not have to wait on my arrival, Eva, because I am not leaving tonight.”

  He meant well and it charmed her, but she did not want him hovering like an angel. “I do not need you to be here. I promise I will not stay awake all night, cringing with fear.”

  “All the same, tonight you will not be alone in this house. Do not argue with me. I will not be gainsaid on this.”

  “Do you intend to stand guard? Sleep on the divan with your own pistol at the ready?”

  “That was my intention. However, since you are completely, absolutely, and totally recovered, I have decided your bed would be more comfortable.”

  She did not think he believed she should sleep on the divan instead. The implications instantly had her imagining the sensations, remembering the ecstasy. Her attempt to summon indignation over his presumptuous announcement saw little success. Desire became a living force in the space separating them.

  He came to her, kissed her, then led her to the stairs. Up they climbed.

  “I had intended to think a while before we did this again,” she said. “I really should.”

  “Think all you want. Starting tomorrow.”

  “I cannot have an affair with you. You must know that.”

  “All I know is I want you and you want me.”

  “Still, we should—”

  He stopped and pulled her into his arms. His kiss ravished her mouth and showed none of the restraint of last night. “No more shoulds. Not now, or I will make you wait until you ask again. I will make you beg until you are screaming.”

  “I had rather counted on your doing that anyway.” It just blurted out, leaping over all the shoulds tr
ying to get a good foothold in her thoughts.

  The look he gave her caused her legs to wobble. With a quick scoop he lifted her into his arms and strode up the stairs.

  It was different this time. No desperation. No shocks. Pleasure did not riot through her body. Rather it lapped through her in waves, controlled by Gareth’s masterful caresses and kisses.

  Nothing especially wicked happened either. He took her carefully, almost sweetly, and they entwined in an embrace that permitted her to hold him close. She knew incredible pleasure, but little delirium. Instead she felt him around her and in her, in a stunning intimacy. Even the power at the end did not obscure that, but rather intensified it. And as she rested in his embrace afterward, she knew this was the more dangerous passion of the two she had experienced, because it was the one that touched her heart.

  * * *

  Eva woke first. She stayed in Gareth’s arms for a while, savoring the calm and peace. Then she eased out of his embrace and left the bed.

  She donned an undressing gown and slipped downstairs. She quickly walked down the garden path, bucket in hand, to get some water. Upon opening the springhouse door, she froze.

  Someone had been here since she last used the spring, and not merely to get water. A big box that held her gardening tools no longer had the hoe and shovel on its top. They had been moved to the floor. Peering into the box, she saw that its contents had been rearranged haphazardly. She looked around the little hut. Nothing had been broken or destroyed, but she suspected her house invaders had come here too.

  Gareth must have seen this when he came for water yesterday. He probably had not realized something was not normal. A shiver up her spine spoke the answer. If this springhouse had been searched, someone had been looking for something specific, not merely taking advantage of an empty house to see what could be had.

  She carried the bucket back to the kitchen and warmed it by the hearth. Then she carried it upstairs to her dressing room and washed and dressed. Back down in the kitchen she readied a pan to cook some of the eggs Gareth had brought back from town yesterday. She set the table. Ever since she began doing for herself, toting all the food up to the dining room made little sense.