The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (24 page)

"Now we need to see if we can find the bullet Lungren took." Tony watched Bedford swipe dust from his sleeve with his arm.

Randy looked thoughtful as he placed the pierced pillow back on the bed. "Been thinking. Perhaps Bedford here should register the estate in his name."

Bedford shook his head. "Not a good thought."

Tony looked at Randy. "Why?"

"Changes the whole picture, doesn't it?" Randy moved over to sit on the room's single chair. "If the estate is what the killer is after, then Bedford's legal and duly registered ownership would keep him out of danger."

"How?" Bedford plunked down on the bed.

"Well, your untimely death would mean that the estate transfers to your heirs, not back to the Lungrens."

"You think if he dies without registering the deed, the Lungren sisters could deny that he was the rightful owner. Would Rosalyn be the heir if Lungren died intestate?" Tony shifted so that he was more sitting on the dressing table than not.

"I don't know, what about his mother?" Randy asked.

"Or Lord Carlton could eventually convince the sisters that they should turn over the deed to him," Tony added.

"This is a bad idea. The worst." Bedford folded his arms across his chest.

"Not so. It would thwart the killer. That is, if the estate is the motivation to kill," Randy argued.

"So would my just handing over the damn thing."

"How will we ever know who the killer is, if we can't induce them to take another shot at you?" asked Tony.

"Deuce take it, I wish you shouldn't discuss my being sent aloft with so little feeling. I should rather like to cock up my toes in a natural manner."

"Daresay you could name one or the other us in a will, so if we fail to catch the killer before he does you in, we'll be highly inspired to bring him down," said Randy.

"Now, there is a comforting thought," said Tony.

Bedford gave him a nasty look, which was truly unwarranted because this was Randy's idea.

"There is, unfortunately, the matter of the quiteclaim deed Bedford signed. Shouldn't matter if he registers it or not if anyone gets their hands on that," Tony pointed out. "Let me see that bullet."

Bedford handed over the lead ball.

"Are we off to the Lungrens', then?" asked Randy.

"I, for one, should prefer to get settled at Mrs. Merriwether's first." Bedford sat on the edge of his bed.

Dismissing the black thoughts about Felicity from his mind, Tony rolled the only slightly flattened ball in his fingers. Bedford had pried it loose from the floorboard with a penknife. How could they know if this bullet was fired from the same gun that was used to kill Lungren?

The mold markings were still apparent on the ball's circumference. So it wasn't a bullet manufactured by dropping molten lead from a tower into a tub of water, but a poured bullet. As Tony studied it, he saw a slight indentation on one side. Was it just a random imperfection or one made exclusively by the mold that this one came from? "Where should we keep this? We don't want to lose it."

"I don't know what can be told by the bullet." Bedford handed him an empty snuffbox.

"For one thing"—Tony brushed out the stray bits of snuff left in the enameled box, and deposited the bullet inside—"that the bullet is molded and that there may be an imperfection in the mold." He turned it so that the indentation was up and handed it to Randy.

Randy studied the bullet.

"Bedford is right. We should get settled into Mrs. Merri—Felicity's before we do anything else." He tried, he really tried, to use her married name.

"But—" started Randy.

"Won't we need an excuse to visit the sisters again, beyond that we want to locate the bullet? I mean, unless we plan to tell them that we know their brother was murdered."

"You must be worried about what they will say now they have learned you own the estate," said Randy.

Tony looked at his lieutenant. Randy seemed to be getting almost snappish. "What is it?"

"I shall sell my commission."

Tony was surprised but not surprised. He supposed Randy had been afraid to tell him, his commanding officer for the past few years, but then now that Bonaparte was defeated once and for all, many of his officers were bound to resign or sell their commissions. Not everyone wanted an assignment in India or Canada. Tony wasn't sure that he did anymore. "Considering politics, are you?"

Randy blinked. "I guess I am. I have a small estate from an aunt. Enough land that I might eventually run for a seat in the Commons. I...I—my brother has suggested I do some secretarial work for him to get my feet wet."

Tony clapped him on the back. "You'll be good at politics. You already are."

Randy looked relieved.

"If I take the deed to the estate to Miss Lungren, I suppose that should be excuse enough." Bedford sounded about as enthusiastic as a duck in the desert.

"You're right, we need a better reason. Don't think he should turn it over yet. What do you think, Tony?"

"We need to regroup and ponder our strategy. I'll meet you two at Felicity's in an hour."

* * *

Of course, Sheridan wasn't there when William and Randleton showed up an hour and a half later with William's bags and boxes. It didn't seem to matter, as Felicity urged them into the atrocious green drawing room.

"How many sisters did Captain Lungren have?" she asked as soon as they had settled in the room.

"Three," answered Randleton.

"Perfect. Do you think you could persuade them to attend my dinner party the night after next? I wanted to launch my niece in society with a dinner. Since I assume the three of you will attend, I am in desperate need of three ladies to balance the table. You will attend, Lieutenant Randleton, won't you?"

"Of course. As for the Misses Lungren, I'm sure—" started Randleton.

"They cannot attend without clothes," blurted out William.

Randleton stared at him as if he'd sprouted horns.

The door opened, and the butler ushered Major Sheridan into the room.

Mrs. Merriwether turned to him and said, "I was just inquiring after the possibility of the Lungren sisters attending my dinner party."

"That's a capital idea."

Randleton continued to stare at William.

Well, now that he'd started, he might as well finish. "You see, they are in some distress since their brother's passing, and their dresses are sadly threadbare." Now Sheridan's stare was added to Randleton's "Miss Lungren told me as much."

Felicity rubbed her forehead. "It seemed such a convenient solution."

Sheridan turned to her. "What have you done with all your mourning clothes, ma'am?"

"Of course." Felicity snapped her fingers, her eyes never leaving Major Sheridan's. "I am just out of full mourning, with a clothespress full of blacks. I had no idea what I was going to do to get rid of them, since my dresser really doesn't want a heap of mourning wear. Could I impose upon you gentlemen to deliver them?"

"It appears we have an excuse to visit the Lungren sisters after all," said Tony.

"If you should just give me a few moments, I shall write out invitations." Felicity pulled the bell rope. "And my maid will bundle up the clothes. You don't think it will insult them, will it?"

"Why should it?" asked Randleton. "You have no need of full mourning now."

"Might give offense if they don't fit," said Bedford.

Randleton cleared his throat. "Though Mrs. Merriwether is slender, the Lungren sisters are all quite short. They'll probably have to raise the hems a bit."

Which was probably the most diplomatic way of saying that Mrs. Merriwether was larger than the Lungren sisters. Not that there was a thing wrong with her figure.

"Diana has some day dresses she's outgrown, too. I'll send those along, too. Besides, since the two of us are having new wardrobes done up, I'm sure we'll need the room in our presses."

William wondered if the day dresses that Felicity was expropriating from Diana's wardrobe resembled the one that her niece was nearly falling out of the other day. If so, he bit back disappointment. Although, if he could catch a glimpse of her in a delightfully transparent nightrail, he supposed he could stand the loss. No doubt anything that fit Miss Fielding now would be much too large through the bodice for the Misses Lungren.

And while he might enjoy seeing the charms of Miss Fielding, he really needed to concentrate on landing an heiress. Still how much was Miss Fielding worth, anyway?

Chapter Fifteen

Meg couldn't believe she might be about to meet her half-brother. The present Earl of Wedmont would have to be her brother. She didn't even know if she had other siblings. She hadn't even considered that she had family. Of course, she couldn't admit that he was her brother, and even if he knew about her, he would not be likely to claim her. Her hands shook as she pulled Diana's dresses from her clothespress.

She hated to lose a one. There were better than anything Meg had ever owned, but they didn't fit right. Besides, Felicity had arranged for an entirely new wardrobe. The mantua maker was even now making them up for her. It was only because Meg had spent so much of her life scraping and scrimping and hoarding everything she owned that this propensity to discard perfectly good items seemed so very wasteful.

With the last of Diana's dresses draped over her arm, Meg made her way to the bottom of the stairs. On the second floor she encountered Mr. Bedford carrying in boxes. She peeked into his room and saw two trunks, several bandboxes, and a valise or two, not to mention several packing boxes.

"You have quite a lot of baggage."

Mr. Bedford went red. "Yes, well, I expect I shan't be moving back to those rooms."

"Oh." Meg did her best to play an innocent. "I should imagine it was frightening to be shot at. I don't think I would wish to return to such a place, either."

Mr. Bedford gave her a plaguey look, and Meg wondered if she'd overdone the wide-eyed innocence.

"Yes, well, that is not exactly why I shan't retu—I say, are those some of the dresses for the Lungren ladies?"

Meg extended her draped arm. "Are you to take them?"

"Well, yes, all of us. Your maid was to pack them but perhaps—"

Another false step. "I didn't think to call her. I haven't quite got used to having my very own maid." Meg looked at the stacks of boxes littering Mr. Bedford's room. She sauntered into the bedroom and laid the dresses across the bed. "We ought to just use one of your packing boxes if you've done with it."

Mr. Bedford turned a darker shade of red.

"If you tell me which one to unpack, I shall."

"Miss Fielding, I hardly think it appropriate that you barge into my bedroom. If I am not allowed to even set foot on the third floor, you should not be in here."

Meg couldn't resist. "You don't want me in your bedroom?" She batted her eyelashes. "No one could misconstrue events, since there are clothes all over your bed and the door is open."

Mr. Bedford stared at her gape-mouthed.

All right, enough playing, Meg told herself firmly. This was obviously the wrong way to go about getting a husband. It had failed when she wasn't respectable, and didn't look like a ploy that was winning her the right kind of favors this time around. She backed out of the room. "I suppose you are right, though. I am so used to being in a school full of girls that I quite forget about such things. I mean, it could hardly matter if one enters another's bedroom when there are only girls on the premises. We never worried about catching someone in a state of indecency."

"There weren't any men about at all?" said Mr. Bedford in an unnaturally high voice.

Meg sighed forlornly and shook her head. "None at all." Which was entirely too heartless of her. With a little wave she tripped down the stairs to the rose drawing room.

* * *

Dinner invitations and dresses in hand, the three men had made their way to the Lungren estate. When they arrived, the eldest Miss Lungren was gone to the village and Randy had settled right into a comfortable coze with the youngest, Miss Carolyn. Sheridan had done his best to be agreeable to Miss Jocelyn, leaving William odd man out.

Which was fine by him. Well, other than that he'd have to make pretty with Miss Lungren when she returned. And judging by Miss Jocelyn's stunned reaction to his presence, the sisters knew he held the title to their estate. So any delay in meeting the inevitable vitriol filled him with relief.

He'd made an excuse to leave the drawing room and stole away to the library. His mission, since he was so conversant with the servants, was to locate the wing chair Lungren had been sitting in when shot to death. William didn't think it bore pointing out that the one servant he was had known well was now employed at Mrs. Merriwether's.

William figured he might as well start with the library, where he knew Lungren had spent most of his time at home. The room was damp and dark. No fire burned in the fireplace, and the room had taken on the musty smell of a room no longer used. The stained chair sat in exactly the same place it always had.

William shuddered in distaste. You'd think they would have rid themselves of the macabre reminder. Since they hadn't, he supposed Sheridan and Randleton would expect him to retrieve the bullet. No doubt they would ride him mercilessly if he failed to make the attempt.

He promised himself that he might try and steal a kiss from Miss Fielding if he succeeded. A fellow needed all sorts of encouragement to do this sort of gruesome task, and Miss Fielding seemed a forward little baggage. Not at all like her reserved aunt. Although to think on it, Mrs. Merriwether couldn't be all that circumspect if she'd borne the major's child. William realized he was stalling.

He circled around to the back of the wing chair to examine it for a bullet hole. Finding none, he returned to the front, where, with a shudder of distaste, he prodded around in the padding. He tried not to mind the gore and reminded himself the blood had belonged to his friend.

It still was blood. And it made the back of his throat feel odd. All of his swallowing did nothing to rid him of the sensation.