The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (20 page)

She took a step toward the door and nearly tripped on her untied pantaloons. She
was
undone.

"You could just leave them off, and give me fair wicked thoughts."

She scowled at him and bent over to pull them into place. Turning her back to him, she hitched her skirts up enough to tie the tapes. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

His silence made her look in his direction.

He tossed her a look of ice-cold determination as he opened the door. "I did, but you need not have any pregnancy worries."

"Tony..." She was shocked and she wasn't. "I know that," she hissed. "But gracious, be careful what you say when the doors are open."

"Do your servants gossip?" he asked mildly.

She looked right and left in the corridor. "It's not the servants I'm worried about."

"Oh, Charles."

"And my parents, and Lord, I'm not sure what to make of my niece. Although I could hardly accuse her of being an eavesdropper, since that trait seems to manifest in my side of the family."

"I wouldn't want to cast your reputation to the wolves, but wouldn't it benefit me to see it tarnished?"

Felicity drew up sharply. "No, likely only Diana would be hurt by your machinations. I have a comfortable home and life that won't be affected overmuch by my reputation or lack thereof."

A pain grew under his breastbone. She really meant to remain apart.

They entered the front hall. Felicity made her way to the looking glass. Tony's steps were more deliberate, slower. At times he seemed able to minimize his limp, but was it at the cost of speed? How could he lead infantrymen into battle without a confident stride?

She frowned at her reflection in the mirror. It wasn't that she looked different—well, not other than a certain starry-eyed quality, and her lips might be a little swollen. It was more that she looked at herself differently. Who was the woman staring back at her? Why would she jeopardize her hard-won autonomy to risk being trapped in a marriage with a man who would control her every move?

If not for the interruption, she would be in bed with him now and he'd promised not to kiss her. He'd only honored that pledge until he'd exhausted his powers of persuasion on trying to get her to break his word for him. Her wishes counted for naught between them.

Knowing the men were likely here in regards to a murder was the only thing that stilled her tongue.

Tony pulled up behind her and began retying his neck cloth. A footman stared at them from his station beside the door.

"Would you please have cook prepare refreshments to be sent to the green drawing room? Perhaps some cold meat—whatever is ready—and a pot of tea."

The footman nodded and headed for the green baize door to go belowstairs, and they were once again alone, where no one could mark their ruffled appearance.

Tony waited until the man was out of earshot. "Feeding Bedford is a sure way to win his affections." His cravat tied, he leaned over and brushed a kiss on her temple. "I do think you should get on much better with me, though."

He ran a hand over her shoulder, then pivoted and headed for the staircase. She watched him, mesmerized both by his broad shoulders and his purposeful walk. What was she going to do now? Tony would think an affair was inevitable. Indeed, she thought an affair was inevitable. Therein lay the problem. Passion and prudence rarely went together.

The last thing she wanted to do was end up in a marriage where her husband ran roughshod over her, made all the decisions, and ignored her ideas because she was merely a woman, while he, the man, demanded complete obedience from a wife.

* * *

"What in blazes took you so long?" said Bedford the minute Tony entered the room. His blue-green eyes wild, Bedford paced back and forth and raked a hand through his tousled blond waves.

Tony hadn't ever seen Bedford so hastily thrown together. Did his shoes match? Certainly his peach-and-green striped waistcoat clashed with his purple coat. He looked like the one who had been caught in flagrante delicto just minutes past.

"I don't believe it has been above five minutes," said Tony.

"Ten," countered the normally agreeable Randy, who sat across the room on the chaise longue with the threatening crocodiles crawling up the legs. He rose quickly as Felicity entered the room.

Randy's face was pleated and creased, much the way it had been the night he informed Tony of Lungren's death.

Tony's heart leaped to his throat. "Who died?"

"Should we go elsewhere to—" Randy started to say.

Bedford interrupted him, "Very nearly me."

When Tony's assessment of Bedford turned up nothing amiss, other than the odd choice of clothing, relief flooded through him. He limped over to a plush green velvet chair.

"Someone broke into my place and shot at me tonight. He would have killed me if I had not rolled to the floor just in the nick of time."

Tony's relief was short-lived as he realized that Bedford seemed to have the devil's own luck when it came to getting shot at. Were it anyone else, they might very well have another murder on their hands.

"Perhaps we should go to your lodgings, Tony, where we might be private," suggested Randy.

No doubt he was worried about involving Felicity, but Tony was reluctant to leave and surrender all the ground he had gained with her. If he returned to his lodgings, it would smack of retreat, just when victory was in sight.

"Mrs. Merriwether has ordered refreshments for us. We shall do as well to stay here." He glanced over at her. "I've told her that Captain Lungren was murdered."

Felicity stood near the closed door, looking dazed and thoughtful at the same time. However, she seemed of late to not remember that gentlemen could not sit as long as she stood. He limped back to her, gathered her hand in his, and led her over to the seats. He whispered, "My lap?"

She jerked free of him and sat on the couch. "Please be seated, gentlemen."

Bedford was clearly too agitated to sit, but he perched on the edge of a chair for a second before springing back up and pacing back and forth across the multi-hued green carpet. He barely spared a glance at Felicity before words began tumbling from his mouth. "I told you I didn't want to keep that damn title to Lungren's estate. Now I'm being shot at for it."

"If it is for the estate, then likely only Lord Carlton knows," said Tony.

Randy shook his head. "No, I saw his carriage coming up the lane as we were leaving the Lungrens' house. No doubt he informed them where the title resides."

"Have you summoned a runner?" asked Felicity.

"Well, that is the thing. We are not decided we should," said Bedford. "With everything else that is going on, a runner is likely to think we're all Bedlamites."

Randy turned to Tony. "Do we still think it is easier to get answers if the killer thinks no one knows that there was a murder? Should we involve a runner, we'll have to reveal what we suspect."

"What
do
you suspect?" asked Felicity.

"That we shall all be murdered in our sleep," said Bedford, just as the door swung open.

Her footman carried a tea tray into the room and set it on the table. His eyes darted from Bedford to Felicity, and then he scurried to the door, eager to leave any discussion in which murder figured.

"It has got rather convoluted," said Tony, which was half the reason he wanted her to know. She seemed to have a logical brain. Perhaps she could puzzle out the culprit. "I'll explain it all later."

"Wasn't there something in
The Post?
Didn't Captain Lungren die by his own hand?" she asked.

"He was shot in the head, but he couldn't have pulled the trigger himself," Randy said mildly, "although, that is what people think."

"What was done with the gun used to shoot him?" Felicity asked.

"Should have been deo-dand to the king. Did you see Lord Carlton confiscate it?" Randy looked thoughtful.

"I don't think so, unless he'd already had it removed to his carriage by the time we arrived." Tony thought he'd seen it on a side table. "But I believe I saw it in the library after he left."

"Just more havey-cavey business with Lord C. Or do you suppose he thought it should be too much trouble to turn it over to the crown?" said Bedford. "Although I don't think the shooter tonight was him, because the dastardly bastard—pardon me, madam—was able to get away quickly, and I didn't hear heavy footfalls."

"I wondered if it could have been the same gun." Felicity reached for the teapot and began pouring a cup.

"I suppose we could look at the size of the bullet hole in Bedford's bed. Or better yet, find the bullet," said Randy. "But we don't have the bullet from Lungren to compare."

Tony thought a moment. "The bullet went right through. It might still be embedded in the wall."

"Or the chair. Wouldn't have had much velocity left after piercing the brain box twice," said Randy. "Excuse me, I don't mean to speak of such things in the presence of a lady."

"Felicity is a trooper. Not the least bit missish," said Tony. Besides, it had been his experience that for all their pretense otherwise, women were much more resilient then men when it came to blood-and-guts. Already she was contributing worthwhile suggestions. "We'll have to see if we can find it."

"Don't tell me we shall have to go back there," wailed Bedford.

"Of course we shall. If nothing else, we are pledged to open up their prospects," said Randy.

Tony cocked his head sideways as he looked at his lieutenant. Randy had been resistant to the idea of escorting the women about town. Had he changed his mind? And why? "Was the shooter a woman?" asked Tony slowly.

Bedford slapped a hand to his forehead. "Do you suppose that mad Mrs. Lungren took that much exception to me?"

"Miss Carolyn believes her mother takes exception to being lied to. She attacked her sister because of a lie. So perhaps when you told her the roses were lovely..." Randy let his voice trail off.

"I should rather hate to think that Bedford was nearly killed because the roses aren't in bloom." Tony took the cup of tea that Felicity poured him. "I'm more inclined to believe that there is a link to the word getting out that Bedford has the title to the estate."

"But the estate is worthless," said Randy.

"Mayhap not." Felicity poured another cup of tea.

"In any event, I am in a fine coil, and I am not going to sleep in my apartments until this is cleared up. So which of you gentlemen will put me up?"

"We should all stay somewhere unexpected. Somewhere there are enough servants to raise an alarm and put up a fight if there is a problem. Felicity, how many of us can you put up here?"

* * *

"What are you doing out here?" Meg asked the little boy who had his face pressed between the newel posts on the third-floor landing. "Shouldn't you be abed?"

"Shouldn't you?" asked Charles.

"Likely so, but I am grown and therefore allowed a bit of..." Meg searched the suddenly meager-seeming store of words in her brain.

"Latitude?" supplied Charles.

Meg wasn't even sure she knew what the word meant. "Yes. Well, freedom." She hoped that was close to the meaning of the word Charles used. "Actually, I could not sleep, so I thought I might look for a book I could read."

She was doing a terrible job of carrying out this charade. She hadn't been able to sleep for worry about her mistakes today. She'd thought, even though she hadn't ever really taken to reading—although she did know how—that in the library she might find something to help her learn how to go on.

Charles turned to her solemnly. "Can't you read very well? I know I can't read all the books in Mama's library, but I can read some of them."

"I didn't mean it that way," snapped Meg. When Charles blinked his baby blue eyes at her, she felt bad for her peevishness. She knelt down on the floor beside her supposed cousin. Diana had been so eager to meet this little boy. Meg could at least be kind. "I meant something that might interest me, like something on how to behave at balls and suchlike."

"Grandpapa says they didn't teach you a thing at that school."

Meg searched for a response. "Well, I was sick much of the time, so I often missed my lessons."

"Oh, like my papa—not my real papa, but the one who died. Are you going to die?"

What did he mean, his 'real papa'? Meg put an arm around the thin shoulders of the little boy. "We all will die someday, but I don't expect it will be soon in my case." Unless, of course, she was hung for murder. Was impersonation of a dead woman a hanging offense?

"You should tell Grandmama that you missed too many lessons, because she thinks you just have bad breeding."

Meg choked. Was it so obvious that her mother was a whore? No, she calmed herself. This was what Lady Greyston thought of
Diana.
In truth, Meg did have a better bloodline than Diana, at least on her paternal side.

"What you need is a Pocket Book," said Charles.

"What's that?"

"Mama looked at one at Hatchards, but she decided it didn't really tell her anything she didn't know. I guess they tells womens how to live in London." Charles held out his hands a few inches apart to signify a smallish book. "You know, they're little like this. I could show you the one Mama looked at. Then we could go get an ice at Gunters."

Meg grinned. The little devil was angling for a bribe. Well, she needed all the help she could get. She ruffled Charles's tawny curls. "I shall have to ask Aunt Felicity's permission to take you out, so we shall see. Now, I think I should take you back to bed. What do you say?"

"I don't want to go back to bed."

"Why not?"

"They are down there talking about murder, and if I don't listen, they'll never tell me."

Meg felt the floor drop out from under her. She clenched the newel posts with knuckles gone white. Had they learned about Diana? Were they even now discussing whether they should throw Meg in prison? Or worse? After a second she realized she was still on her knees beside Charles, who was eyeing her rather anxiously.

"You won't tell Mama that I told you that Mr. Merriwether isn't my father. I'm not supposed to tell anyone. I wasn't supposed to tell you."