Was he an idealist? Or an idiot?
Given his recent past, maybe there wasn’t much difference between the two. Still, he was inclined to believe she was not working with Orlov. Her surprise at his accusation had been too real. Indeed, now that his anger—and his lust—had cooled down, he admitted that perhaps he had overreacted in declaring they were back to being at daggers drawn. Strangely enough, he found he did not want to break the fragile friendship that had formed between them. At least, not just yet.
What her reaction would be this morning was another question…
“Ah, there you are, Kirtland.” Winthrop stepped out from the Music Room onto the terrace. “Would you happen to know where the Black Dove’s shooting match is to take place?”
The earl set aside his musings along with his coffee. “Her groom is setting up a series of targets in the copse of elms down by the lake.”
“Lud, what a devilish choice for the second challenge.” Winthrop sat down on a marble plinth and took his head between his hands. “I drank far too much of the duke’s brandy last night. No doubt I’ll be seeing two circles rather than one,” he groaned.
“Not that it matters. You and Fitz are by far the best shots among us.”
“Perhaps the lady will oversleep.” Orlov seized the opportunity to resume his tone of infuriating insolence.
“She, too, might have overindulged in some of the pleasures that can be found in the castle.”
“No such luck,” replied Winthrop. “I saw her entering the breakfast room, looking quite as magnificently awake as ever.”
“And the others?” asked the earl.
“They will be down shortly.”
“Well, I shall leave you gentlemen to your games.” The Russian stood and brushed a bit of dust from his immaculate doeskin breeches. “What is the prize for this part of the competition?”
“A ride out to the one of the hunting lodges to enjoy a private supper of game birds and port.” Winthrop grimaced at the mention of spirits. “Apparently one of the previous dukes was a great one for stalking the local milkmaids. The place is said to be decorated with all manner of erotic art.”
“How very romantic,” quipped Orlov. “Assuming that dove is one of the delicacies on the menu.”
“Would that it were so,” said Winthrop. “But like the Psalters, the Black Dove’s favors are under glass, as it were, until the final bids are in and a winner is announced.”
“So you believe she is not spreading her wings, as it were, when you are not looking?” Orlov’s brow arched upward in a blatant show of skepticism. “I admire you English gentlemen. You have such refined notions of honor to trust in a lady’s word. We Slavs have a rather more Byzantine outlook on life.”
“It’s no wonder, seeing as treachery and intrigue seem to run as a matter of course in Eastern blood.” The earl’s murmur was no louder than the gusting breeze.
If Orlov heard the comment, he chose to ignore it. Clicking the heels of his boots together, he bowed. The fluttering tassels of his Hessians seemed to mirror the offhand arrogance of his movements. “Still, it sounds as if one of your group is in for a real treat.”
“Prick,” muttered Winthrop as the Russian walked away. “Someone ought to cut off his cods. And stuff them down his throat.”
The thought of the Black Dove and her blade turning that mocking baritone into a shrill soprano brought a curl to the earl’s lips. But then, he reminded himself that her loyalties were still questionable, despite her denials.
As for the Russian, his motives seemed clear enough. “You ought not to let Mr. Orlov get under your skin,” replied Kirtland. “He, too, is playing at games. And much as he thinks he holds the winning hand, I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Siena checked the priming of the pistols before handing them over to Oban. “The course is set?”
“Aye, ma’am. All is arranged as you ordered. There are five stations set up along the path, a hundred paces separating each one. The targets are hung among the trees according to your layout, and these weapons will be placed atop a barrel. In between rounds, I will make the circuit to reload and collect the results.”
“Excellent.” She tucked the diagram back in her notebook, satisfied that everything was precisely as she had planned. Still, she felt a small flutter of nerves at the prospect of facing Kirtland.
Back to being at daggers drawn? His last words had implied that their tentative truce was over. Which perhaps was just as well. Last night she had allowed things to be come too … personal. In wielding her body as a weapon, she seemed to have found a tiny weakness in the earl’s defenses. If she was to exploit it, she must not let her emotions get out of hand.
Oban shifted slightly.
Tightening her grip on her book, Siena turned to a fresh page. “I will be accompanying each man on his round, to keep track of how long it takes him to complete the course.” And to observe how well he performed a difficult task under the pressure of a time limit.
“Aye, ma’am,” answered her groom. “All is ready.”
After a last look at the shadowed trees, Siena returned to the clearing where the members of The Gilded Page Club were waiting.
“Gentlemen, as you know, today’s challenge is a test of how well you handle a loaded weapon.”
Amid a few scattered chuckles, the men gathered around her.
“The course follows the footpath through the woods and loops back to finish here. You will have to move quickly in order to finish your five shots in the allotted time of ten minutes.” She held up her pocket watch to emphasize the announcement. “Those who are slow will be penalized by having points deducted from their scores, and those who fall behind by more than a minute will be eliminated entirely. On the other hand, those who finish ahead of schedule will earn bonus points. Are there any questions before we start?”
No one spoke up. Perhaps it was the threat of rain hanging over their heads, but the men seemed more subdued than usual. Or perhaps she had simply scheduled the game a trifle too early in the day. Winthrop, in particular, looked under the weather.
“You will draw straws for the order of shooting. The longest will go first, and so on.”
“Stand aside,” quipped Dunster. “It goes without saying that the longest will be me.” His bravado had quieted somewhat since his confrontation with the earl, but he still managed to give the appearance of being supremely sure of himself.
The earl made no move to choose for himself.
It was Jadwin who won the starting honors. Kirtland was to go last.
“Are you ready to begin, sir?” asked Siena.
Jadwin removed his muffler and handed it Leveritt. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said with nonchalant shrug.
“I start counting the time from here, though the first target is set beneath that elm.” She indicated a large tree straight ahead.
At her signal, Jadwin chose a brisk walk over a run. “A rapid heartbeat can throw off one’s aim,” he said as she fell in step beside him.
Siena had deliberately designed a difficult first shot, and she watched the way he handled the pistol very carefully.
Every little nuance was important. A man could, of course, feign clumsiness, yet a seasoned shooter had a certain natural grace that was difficult
to disguise. Most of all, she was looking for a steady hand. The traitor was a man not easily rattled. To pull off the string of betrayals, he needed to possess nerves of steel and the ability to work quickly and unerringly.
“An excellent weapon,” observed Jadwin as his bullet struck near the center of the target. “The duke’s?”
“Yes. Stoneleigh lent me a set from the armory,” she replied. “You like them?”
“Oh yes-tres jolie.” He turned smartly for the next station, setting the same deliberate pace. “The burled-walnut stock is lovely, and silver scrolling is a fine piece of craftsmanship. I would guess it was made by Purdey, rather than Manton.”
His second shot was also on the mar
k. As was his third. The fourth missed the bull’s-eye, but only barely.
“I hadn’t expected such prowess from a man of the arts,” she murmured as they looped around to the last target. For the most part, Jadwin seemed content to stand in the shadow of his older friend Leveritt. It was easy to overlook him— he was of average height and average build, with light brown hair and fine-boned features that made him appear younger than he really was. He was also the quietest member of the group, but she had noticed that his eyes were always alert, always watchful.
Touching his sleeve, she added, “What other special talents are you hiding, sir?”
Jadwin looked at her sharply, then laughed. “I like being well versed in a good many things. It’s important to have a certain joie de vivre, don’t you think?”
“But of course.”
His step took on a slight swagger as he returned to the group. “I believe my performance was quite adequate.”
He winked as he took his muffler back from Leveritt and draped it over his shoulders. “Let us see if any of you gentlemen can best it.”
As Siena entered his time in her notebook, she also made a mental note to review the details of his background. Was the slip of the French phrases a mere affectation? Or could it have deeper implications? A mistress, perhaps, from across the Channel. It was an interesting possibility …
Seeing Oban signal that all was ready for the next round, she turned her attention to the others.
One by one, the rest of the club members took their turn through the course. Leveritt looked as if he barely knew the butt from the barrel, while Dunster was surprisingly smooth in his actions. Fitzwilliam badly misjudged his aim on the last shot, putting him out of the running, but Winthrop
scored very well, despite his claims of an aching head.
“Well done, sir.” As the last puff of smoke dissolved in the breeze, Siena checked her pocket watch. “So far, you have the best round, and each of your shots appeared to find the mark.”
“I fear that last one only clipped the outer edge of the target.” Winthrop blew out his breath. “It is not always easy to perform under conditions like these. The higher the stakes, the harder it is to relax.”
“If your score holds up, I shall see to it that the tension is eased from your bones.”
He watched her smooth the skirts over her hips. “The thought is enough to tempt me to wet Kirtland’s powder.” His tongue flicked over his lower lip. “Almost,” he amended.
Although Siena had already eliminated him as a suspect, she was curious to hear his opinion of the earl. “You are afraid of Kirtland?”
Winthrop’s smirk disappeared. “I’m not afraid of any man. I respect him. And his temper. There is a difference.”
“Indeed, there is,” she said thoughtfully. “Yet from what I have observed, Lord Kirtland is not given to unreasonable outbursts of anger. Quite the opposite in fact.”
Winthrop looked a trifle uncomfortable. “Rumor has it he is dangerous to cross.”
Rumor. Innuendo. What was truth and what was lie? Siena had no chance to pursue the subject as they came to the end of the course. The others had returned to the comforts of the castle. Only the earl stood in the clearing. Despite the darkening skies and the gusting wind, he wore no coat or gloves, giving the impression of a man impervious to the elements.
No wonder his fellow club members were a bit intimidated, thought Siena. He was not a man who invited intimacies. And yet…
“Are we ready to begin?” he asked brusquely.
“My groom requires a few more minutes to reload and reset the targets, sir.” Following his lead, she replied in a clipped voice. “Do you care to know the time you must beat?”
“Not particularly.”
Tucking his hands inside his coat, Winthrop excused himself from the field of battle.
“I shall await the outcome inside the castle with the others, if you don’t mind. Hot coffee holds more allure at the moment than hot lead.”
“From daggers drawn to pistols primed,” murmured Kirtland, once the other man was out of earshot. “Dare we begin another duel? There is no telling what may happen when our flint and steel strike together near real gunpowder.”
Was it merely a waggle of shadows through the branches, or did the earl’s lips twitch?
“I have things under control,” she replied. Save for her wicked, wayward thoughts.
Ignoring her earlier mental reprimand, her mind kept picturing the earl nearly naked in the moonlight.
“It did not appear so last night.”
Unwilling to meet his gaze, Siena made a show of writing a few lines in her notebook, then snapped the covers shut. In the light of day, there would be no errant sparks, no unexpected explosion. “Brandy is a volatile substance. It tends to set fire to a man’s imagination. Now that your head is clear, I trust you will make a real attempt at this test of skill.”
Kirtland lifted a brow. “Why?”
She hesitated. “Because I’m curious as to just how good your aim is.”
“I thought I had displayed my aim well enough already.”
“With a certain weapon,” she said tartly.
This time, there was no mistaking the quirk of his lips. “I assure you, madam, my trigger finger is quite practiced. Some say it is smooth as silk.”
Siena realized she was blushing like a schoolgirl. Raising her pocket watch, she used the smooth gold as a shield from further distraction. “I think it is safe to begin.”
“Do you?”
Damn. The earl kept surprising her. She had expected outright hostility, not dry humor. Why was he trying to throw her off-balance?
Siena shifted her stance and set a hand on her hip. “You do know the rules, sir—you may walk or run from station to station, as you please. Points are given for speed. But accuracy is most important.”
He shrugged. “You are calling the shots, madam. You may start the game whenever you wish.”
“On the count of three …”
At her call, he set out with a loping stride. Siena had dressed for the occasion in wide-cut walking skirts and a frogged spenser to assure ease of movement, yet she still had to race to catch up with the earl. He had already squeezed off the first shot by the time she reached his side.
From where she stood, it appeared as though the bullet had hit dead center. But she had no time for a closer look. Kirtland was on the move again.
“A clever choice of angles,” he said as he broke into an easy jog. “Are you as adept with firearms as you are with a blade?”
“Yes,” she answered, taking care to match him stride for stride.
“What the devil did this mysterious protector of yours think he was doing—training a private army?”
Only his steadying grip on her arm kept her from tripping over her own feet. “He was of the opinion a lady should know how to protect herself.”
“In case she encountered Attila the Hun?”
This show of whimsy was yet another side of the earl. She shot him a sidelong look.
“You are in a rather strange mood.”
“As I said before, you seem to have an enchanting effect on me. A merlin full of magical powers, stirring up all manner of odd emotions.”
In truth, it was her own nerves that were still slightly aflutter. She drew in a deep breath, unwilling to betray any weakness. “Or perhaps the brandy has not yet worn off.”
The earl laughed softly as he took aim and fired. Another bull’s-eye. And another at the third station. Ignoring the footpath, he ducked under a low-hanging branch and cut straight for the fourth station.
“Why don’t you take the next shot?” Turning abruptly, he offered her the pistol.
“That’s not how the game is supposed to be played.”
“Since when do you care about breaking the rules?” he countered.
“You are wasting precious time, milord.”
“I’ll forfeit the seconds to see if you are as good as you say you are
.” The twinkle in his eye turned more intense.
He edged a step sideways. “Come, you aren’t going to refuse a challenge?”
“That is unfair to—”
The air was suddenly slammed from her lungs as the earl’s shoulder hit her square in the chest. The full force of his weight followed an instant later, knocking her sideways.
At the same moment, a loud crack reverberated through the trees.
A bullet whizzed overhead as she fell to the ground, with the earl sprawled atop her.
“Roll to one side, sir,” she wheezed with her first breath. “You are in the line of fire.”
His arms remained locked around her. “That’s rather the idea.”
He meant to shield her from harm? No one had ever risked life and limb for her.
Quelling the urge to stay sheltered in his embrace, Siena kept up her struggles and managed to slither out from under him.
“Don’t be daft,” he growled, keeping hold of her wrist. “If you are as well trained as you say, you know it’s fool hardy to go charging off in blind pursuit of an enemy. You know nothing about how he is armed, or how many accomplices he may have.”
“I know,” she snapped. “I was merely making a quick surveillance. I suggest we take cover behind that log. It gives a better vantage point.”
Kirtland glanced to his right, then rolled, taking her with him. “Very observant.”
He, too, made a survey of the surroundings. There was no sign of movement, no sound, save for the rustle of the leaves. “Your plan for revenge appears to have drawn someone’s ire. Again, I ask who?”
Siena refused to meet his eyes.
“Hell and damnation.” He sounded truly angry. “How in the name of Lucifer can I help guard you against more attacks if I don’t know who the enemy is?”
Kirtland wished to protect her? Siena’s heart stopped for a beat. She was a trained warrior. A killer if need be. Softer sentiments had no place in her arsenal. Nor did a friend. Ever since she could remember, she had been used to standing alone.
And that, she warned herself, was not about to change.
“I don’t need your help.”
Merlins Maidens - The Spy Wore Silk - Pickens, Andrea Page 18