A Dangerous Man (9 page)

“Beryl, is this
gossip?”

Abruptly, Beryl left off enthusing over Mercy Coltrane. She blinked at him in consternation, as though he’d asked, Beryl, are you speaking English?

“Well, yes, Hart,” she said patiently, “I expect it is.”

“Beryl, you do
not
gossip.”

“Yes, I do,” she replied. “I always have. I love gossip. Oh, not the tittle-tattle of the chambermaids—unless they’re chambermaids to
really
interesting people. But I do so love to be in on all the news, the first to know when a scandal is about to break. Who’s doing what, where, and”—her eyes twinkled with relish—“with whom.”

“Good Lord.”

“Oh, come, Hart. You can’t tell me you don’t like discovering things about people.”

“Have you ever considered that the things people conceal are often hidden for very good reasons?” A random memory flickered through his mind: a shadow in a doorway, a gun barrel catching a ray of sunlight, the revolver jerking in his palm, a corpse tumbling through a swinging door. Blood. The smell of gunpowder.

He waited, biting back on his fear. Sometimes a
random memory triggered it. It might start with the tightening of his joints, the feel of his flesh shrinking on his muscles, his heart hammering as if he were racing from the devil. Panic. Fear. Rising up to overwhelm every other sensation.

If it happened here, now, he’d have to get away. He’d have to master it, privately, without drawing attention to himself.

“Hart?”

He waited the space of two more heartbeats. Nothing. “There are very probably excellent reasons people keep certain matters private,” he continued as if nothing had happened.

“Rubbish,” Beryl stated. “Secrets are best exposed. They’re robbed of their power to harm that way. And if they are, indeed, heinous, then ’tis best that people know about them. Forewarned is forearmed.”

There would be no convincing her. Things were so simple and clear cut for Beryl.
And that is the way it should be
, he reminded himself. He’d done everything in his power to ensure it would be so, for her and his other sisters. No night horrors, no soul-damning choices that dogged them through the years, no shadows from the past obscuring every pleasure. Still, this base preoccupation with scandal needed to be addressed.

“Does Henley know about your—interest, shall we say?—in other people’s lives?”

For an instant unhappiness clouded Beryl’s bright eyes, but then she shook her head and smiled with renewed vivacity. “Of course. He likes
his information just as much as I like mine. And, let me tell you”—she tapped him playfully on the cheek—“my … fact-gathering capabilities, shall we say?—have been quite useful to Henley’s career.” She preened. There was no other word for it. “It’s quite an asset for a politician’s wife.”

“No,” Hart said. “Your deportment, your diplomacy, these are the qualities that make you—”

“Dear Hart.” She smiled at him. “Such a lamb. Yes, yes. It’s all very useful, knowing how deep a curtsy each member of the House warrants. But it’s only stage dressing. A well-trained poodle could manage as much. I have more to offer Henley’s career than a wrist strong enough to pour out tea for fifty. It’s what happens
after
the tea is poured that is significant.” She nodded, her eyes flickering over the assembly. “Look. There’s Miss Coltrane now. Come along, Hart. I am determined to befriend her.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“It will add considerably to my cachet,” she answered, claiming his arm and tugging him forward. “She’s becoming quite sought after.”

In the center of the small group Beryl towed him toward stood Mercy Coltrane. She was dressed in a plain tan skirt and white shirtwaist, an old battered Stetson shading her eyes and hiding her glorious red hair. The cool air had kissed color to her full lips. A few rare strands of gleaming auburn hair rippled against the open collar of her shirt. She was smiling again.

Always smiles and animation. Even for him
there had been smiles. He’d never met anyone like her before. And she was, whatever her shortcomings, so very pretty.

Her head was angled attentively toward Acton and another man, a sleek blond gentleman with a rifle perched casually on his shoulder. Beside her, the picture of modest repose in a minty-colored dress tiered with lace, was Annabelle.

“Ah, Mrs. Wrexhall, Perth,” Acton hailed upon spying them. “Delightful of you to join our little shooting exhibition. Do you know Nathan Hillard?” He stepped back, indicating the man at Mercy’s side.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Hillard murmured, bowing over Beryl’s hand and nodding to Hart. Hart assessed him as Acton made the necessary introductions.

Expensively attired in a tweed shooting jacket, middling height, closer to forty than thirty, fair. Interesting face. As a whole he was handsome, but taken apart his features belied each other. His chin was blunt, yet his nose was aesthetically pinched. His lips were full and gentle; his eyes, unusually bright. His high forehead beneath the thick blond hair was unlined, yet deep furrows were etched on either side of a wide mouth.

“Will your husband be joining us, Mrs. Wrexhall?” Acton asked.

“No,” she said softly. “Henley is not particularly fond of shooting and such. He’s gone to London for the afternoon. A political appointment.”

“I see,” Acton said. “Well, then, we will simply
wait for your brother-in-law to arrive before we commence.”

“Richard?” Beryl asked. “Richard doesn’t shoot.”

“Oh.” The single utterance, coupled with Acton’s befuddled expression, held a gentle reproof. Annabelle darted a quick beseeching glance in their direction.

“But Hart here is simply rabid on firearms,” Beryl hurriedly said as though visualizing Acton checking off a demerit against Annabelle’s name. “Aren’t you, Hart?”

“No.” If Annabelle’s qualifications as a duchess rested solely on whether the males in her family shot things, Acton could go to blazes and good riddance.

Acton flushed at his curtness. “Well, then,” he said, turning to Mercy, “shall we start?”

Hart’s gaze jumped to Mercy.
Start what? Good Lord, the woman isn’t going to make a spectacle of herself by competing with the men?
If she did, she could kiss good-bye to any hopes she’d ever have of landing herself a titled husband, whether or not she claimed that as her main objective. Men might find her brass entertaining but their mamas most definitely would not. And most coronets came with dowagers’ fingers attached.

“If you would do me the honor of using my rifle, Miss Coltrane?” Hillard unshouldered his gun and offered it to her. She smiled, accepting the rifle.

“Miss Coltrane is shooting?” Beryl asked, admiration
and pleasurable shock mingling in her voice.

“Yes,” Nathan Hillard said, his bright eyes glowing with open admiration. “In Texas many women are accomplished shootists.”

“Ah,” said Mercy, “you didn’t tell me you’d been to Texas, Mr. Hillard.”

“Oh! I haven’t,” he said, his smile self-deprecating. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never been off English soil. But I’m most fortunate in my friends. They’ve regaled me with tales of their own travels in your country, Miss Coltrane. I hope I have the opportunity to hear accounts of your brave young land from yourself.”

“I’d be delighted, sir.” She moved closer to Hillard, her face alive with delight. “Texas is—”

“And you say Miss Coltrane will be shooting?” Hart still couldn’t believe she would be so bold.

The abrupt interruption gained him a startled glance from his sister. Mercy’s gaze swung back to meet his.

“Yes,” Acton said. “Miss Coltrane has succumbed to my entreaties and agreed to show us her prowess with a rifle.”

Hart relaxed. A simple display of shooting ability. Though why he should give a bloody damn if Mercy Coltrane made her name a byword for vulgar exhibitionism was beyond him.

“Oh, how utterly splendid!” Beryl said. “Is that not delightful, Hart?”

“Wondrous.”

Acton clapped, drawing his other guests’ attention.
Annabelle stepped back, properly unwilling to place herself in a significant position by Acton’s side. There was a hard, assessing set to her dainty features that Hart had never noticed before.

“As you know, this afternoon’s enjoyment is a shooting match among the gentlemen,” Acton said. “But first, I have a very special surprise for you. Miss Mercy Coltrane, late of Texas, has honored us by agreeing to demonstrate shooting in the western style. If you would all please stand well away from the avenue?”

The guests dutifully moved back against the length of pennant-hung rope stretched between the tall poplars lining either side of the bridle path. Some forty yards away the lane had been blocked off. Hart glanced down the avenue, looking for the target. Immediately, disbelievingly, his gaze swung back.

Square in the middle of the path, its head lowered menacingly, monstrously exaggerated horns gleaming atop its yarn-covered head, stood a life-sized papier-mâché buffalo. It would have been a fine facsimile except for the pink ribbon tied about its string tail.

Hart glanced at Mercy. She was staring in horrified bemusement at the thing. She swallowed and looked up, catching his eye. Her lush lips flattened and she notched her chin higher in the air.

“Very pretty buffalo, Acton,” Hart said, watching Mercy with amusement. She looked indignant, apparently suspicious that her precious Texas was
being ridiculed. “I particularly like the tail adornment. Was it your idea, perchance?”

“Why, yes,” Acton said, flushing with pleasure.

Hart nodded. “It renders the beast less frightening for the women. How thoughtful of you to take under consideration the delicate sensibilities of your feminine guests. Well, most of them, at any rate.”

“What am I to shoot at, sir?” Mercy asked, eyeing the pink ribbon with obvious plans.

“Why, the bison, Miss Coltrane.”

“Yes. But what part of the bison?”

Acton and Hillard exchanged knowing smiles. “Any part you care to hit, dear lady,” Acton said.

The man had the makings of a prime ass, Hart decided in disgust. A child of eight would be hard pressed
not
to hit the damned thing at this range. Acton’s implication that he had orchestrated the event so that Mercy could not possibly fail was insufferably patronizing.

“The horns,” Hart clipped out. “See if you can shoot one of the horns, Miss Coltrane.”

Mercy’s gaze swerved toward him. “Which horn,
Mr
. Perth?”

Little egotist. “The far one. I have a guinea that says you cannot hit the far one cleanly.” Now, there was a target to test one’s skill. From here less than a foot of the appendage was showing.

“Oh, come now, Perth,” Hillard protested. “A gentleman wouldn’t make a wager of that sort with a lady. She hasn’t any chance—”

“Done!” Mercy said, and without a moment’s hesitation shouldered the rifle and fired. The sudden report silenced all conversation. Heads swung up, sentences hung unfinished in the air, eyes widened. They stared at the paper sculpture. Both horns still stood atop its massive head.

“I’m sorry, m’dear,” Acton said kindly. “Perhaps you’d like to try again? Not that you have to. You can pick whatever target you like. The head? The sides?”

Mercy laughed. “Oh, I hit the horn. About four inches from the tip, I should say.”

“Of course you did, Miss Coltrane,” Acton agreed. “Now, would you care to try for another—”

“Begad, she
did
hit the bloody thing!” a male voice called in disbelief. Down the alley Lady Acton’s military brother, Major Sotbey, was peering at the horn. He stuck a finger through the papier-mâché and wriggled it. “Dead center!”

Acton and Hillard turned amazed stares at Mercy. She, however, was not looking at them. There was a mocking quirk to one dark brow and her saucy smile was all for Hart. “My guinea, Your High-handedness—or is it Lordliness? Unless you’d care to make another wager?”

“As you wish, Miss Coltrane,” he replied. “Do you think that you could hit the same target again?”

“Certainly,” she returned, and called down to the group of men studying the horn. “Sirs, would you please stand back?” They scurried to the safety
of the trees. Once more, she shot. All three of Baron Coffey’s sons broke from the crowd and ran toward the target.

“Dead center!” one of them called. “A few inches higher, this time!”

Mercy smiled at him, wickedly triumphant, before lowering her lashes and murmuring modestly, “I must be lucky today.”

“Yes,” he responded, his word rife with meaning. “You must.”

He reached into his pocket and was in the act of withdrawing a gold coin when he heard her say, “You wouldn’t care to make a contest of it, would you?”

Of all the conceited, self-satisfied—! “No.”

She sighed, contriving to look contrite. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just assumed … That is, I thought you might know something about … But how foolish of me. You aren’t a sportsman, are you? I mean, what with your horse running away with you I should have realized …” She grinned apologetically and shrugged.

He handed her the guinea, aware he was doing so with ill grace, but she was the most provoking female he’d ever encountered.
And provocative
, a part of him added.

She received the coin and bounced it up in down in her palm, regarding him with an intimacy born of shared history … 
teasing
him, by God!

“Oh, Hart. Do!” Beryl said. “You are so very adept with firearms.”

“Is he?” Mercy asked, managing to invest a world of disbelief in the query.

“Yes. He fought in North Africa, you know. He was little more than a boy and still the best shot in his regiment.” Damn it, Beryl needn’t announce his past to the entire world. “He was medaled any number of times for bravery. His fellow soldiers thought his prowess with a gun quite supernatural.”

“Ah.” Mercy nodded. “That explains his reluctance to compete.”

He was in the act of turning away from the group when her words arrested him.

“How so?” he heard Annabelle ask.

“Well,” she explained, “one wouldn’t want to tarnish past glories with current defeats.”