Pistols at Dawn Read online

  Pistols at Dawn

  The Intrepid Heroines Series

  Book Four

  by

  Andrea Pickens

  Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-530-8

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2014 by Andrea DaRif. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Chapter 1

  A metallic click caused Marcus Fitzherbert Greeley, the Earl of Killingworth to look up from his ledgers.

  "Who's there?" he called sharply.

  No answer sounded in reply, but after a moment the draperies stirred and a dark shape emerged from the midnight shadows. As the cloaked figure approached his desk, candlelight glinted off the steel of an ancient pistol.

  "Stand up," came the curt command.

  The case clock ticked off a second or two before the earl put down his pen and rose.

  "Take off your coat."

  He didn't move, save for a slight twitch of his raven brows.

  "You think a mere female incapable of pulling the trigger? I assure you, I should like nothing better, if you give me the slightest provocation." The young lady—for her speech, if not her actions, indicated that she was indeed a lady—stepped closer. "And in case you are wondering, I am accorded to be a decent shot."

  Marcus slowly shrugged out of the elegant navy superfine garment and let it drop to the Oriental carpet.

  "Now your cravat and waistcoat."

  He frowned, but his fingers loosened the folds of starched linen, then worked free the buttons of the striped silk. The items joined the crumpled coat.

  A wave of steel indicated for him to go on. "Your shirt as well."

  The earl looked for a moment as if to refuse. However, after a brief hesitation, he undid the fastenings and tugged it over his head. The flickering candles cast a ripple of light and dark over the muscled shoulders and the chiseled planes of his bare chest. A glint of what might have been grim humor flashed in his amber eyes.

  "Do you wish for me to go on?" he asked coolly, his lithe fingers openly toying with the flap of his breeches. "I am not unused to females seeking out my attention, but this is a rather imaginative approach. Tell me, are you as creative in other techniques as well?"

  On seeing his assailant's eyes widen, he gave a curt laugh. "Or perchance you have been sent as some prank by Allenby—though I would not have given him credit for being quite so clever." One button slipped out of its slot. "But whatever your game is, sweeting, don't you think it's time you joined in the spirit of things and removed something as well?"

  "Hold your tongue!" The sharp order, more shrill than sure, cut off his words. "I am not interested in any of your lecherous suggestions, sir." The barrel of the gun wavered slightly as her gaze slid along the dusting of dark curls that ran from his breastbone to navel. "I've seen enough. You may put on your clothes—you are not the one."

  "How disappointing to hear it. Things were just getting interesting," he murmured softly. "A good deal more interesting than the blasted ledgers I was wrestling with."

  She ignored the tone of mocking irony. "What other gentlemen are part of this household?"

  "So, having found my flesh wanting, you wish to disrobe someone else?" The earl's lips curled in a sardonic smile. "With all due modesty, I doubt you will find the footmen—"

  "I warn you, do not trifle with me!" Her face went rigid with fury as she raised her gaze. "I am quite capable of pulling the trigger, Lord Killingworth. And there is no doubt that you would deserve it just as much as the one I seek."

  His eyes narrowed. "Why?" he demanded. He usually had no trouble shrugging off slurs to his character, but somehow her note of scorn struck a raw nerve. "I imagine you do not threaten to put a period put to a man's existence without a good reason."

  The young lady took a deliberate step forward and aimed the pistol at his heart. But the swagger did not quite reach her eyes. "It is I who will ask the questions! Now once again, what other gentlemen are in this house?"

  Marcus regarded the weapon calmly. "Surely you do not think a shot will go unnoticed?"

  "I—I have another pistol."

  "Ah—but I have considerably more than one servant."

  "I shall count to three, sir." Her finger tightened on the trigger. "One."

  "If I am to shuffle off this mortal coil, may I at least be permitted to put my shirt back on? I should like to meet my Maker wearing a bit more than when I entered this world." He gave a slight cough. "Besides, I believe you left the window open and it's getting rather chilly in here."

  "I imagine it will be a good deal warmer where you are headed," she snapped. However, a curt nod indicated that he might retrieve the cast-off garment.

  "Two," she added, as he bent to pick it up.

  The earl slowly straightened. Suddenly, with a flick of his wrist, the shirt snapped out like a whiplash, knocking the pistol from her hand. Just as quickly, he was at her side, clamping hold of her arm to prevent her from drawing the other weapon.

  "Let go of me!" she cried, flailing wildly with her free hand. The fist caught him flush on the mouth, drawing blood.

  "Sweet Jesus, you are a real spitfire, aren't you?" he growled, trapping her in a bear hug. In contrast to the hard-edged fury of her limbs, the softness of her tumbled curls was... surprising. As was the subtle sweetness of lavender that scented her skin. It was oddly intriguing that such a fierce creature could possess such beguiling hints of femininity...

  An unladylike kick slammed into his shin. Her knee aimed a vicious blow even higher.

  "Hell and damnation," Marcus swore, a grimace adding to the lopsided cant of his mouth. He tightened his hold, drawing a gasp from her. "Enough! Don't force me into doing something we will both regret."

  Seeing no chance of freeing herself from his grip, his assailant ceased thrashing. "Go ahead and call the magistrate," she said with a defiant tilt of her chin. "Let them throw me in jail or hang me for this! I shall find some way of seeing justice is done, even if I have to claw my way back from the bowels of Hell to do it."

  Marcus could feel the heat of her against his bare skin, but even more searing was the fire in her emerald eyes. Puzzled, he could not imagine what had sparked such an intense hostility. No female in her right mind would behave as she had done without good reason—and despite all absence of civilized behavior, she did not appear to be lacking in sanity.

  Slowly releasing her, he brushed the back of his hand to his split lip. "Perhaps you would care to explain just what is going on here before
any more blood is shed. Mine or yours."

  The young lady drew a ragged breath, though in truth she sounded more angry than fearful. "You fine London gentlemen think it a sport to force yourselves on country girls?" she demanded hotly. "And is the game, as you think it, more enjoyable when they are naught but innocents?"

  The earl's jaw tightened. "A gentleman does not force himself on any female, country or town, innocent or otherwise."

  "Ha!" Her look of patent disbelief expressed how much credence she gave to such a statement.

  "What makes you think the man you seek is under my roof?" he demanded.

  "Given your reputation, Lord Killingworth, it seemed a likely place to start."

  "Ah. So, despite my infrequent visits here, I see that I am not unknown in this area."

  She crossed her arms and glared at him. "Oh, this may be a small country village but we have all heard the stories about the infamous Black Cat, sir. It is truly an unlucky day for Chertwell that such a mangy feline has chosen to cross our path and take up residence here."

  Marcus took a moment to pick up his shirt. "What you just spoke of is not sport, it is a crime. Be assured that no one under this roof is guilty of what you imply," he said quietly. "You have my word on it."

  "I have your word on it? How very reassuring." Mimicking his earlier mocking tone, the young lady also made an effort to match his cool sneer.

  It was a credible job, acknowledged the earl. And to his chagrin, he felt a tinge of color creep to his cheeks. "You have already acknowledged that I am not the responsible party, and there is only my..." His words pinched off in a frown. "Just how did you decide that I am not the one you seek?" There was another slight pause as he sought a decent way to word his next question. "I take it you, er, saw... a portion of your attacker's anatomy?"

  She gripped her arms a bit tighter to her chest. "It was not me. It was my..." There was a slight catch in her voice. "My younger sister."

  His assailant suddenly appeared a good deal less fierce. She looked away to the fire but the thick fringe of lashes did not quite cover the glitter of tears in her eyes.

  "She was returning home from an errand just after dusk when four gentlemen came out of The King's Crown. One offered to escort her home. She declined and he took himself off." There was a harsh intake of breath. "But apparently 'no' is not part of the vocabulary they teach at Eton and Oxford."

  Marcus drew in a harsh breath but refrained from making a reply.

  "Her attacker wore a mask," continued the young woman, her voice barely audible. "But he made no attempt to hide other distinguishing features of his person. His shirt came open in the struggle... baring a distinctive tattoo."

  "A tattoo?"

  "Yes. Of a wolf's head. Indeed, he boasted of how it marked him as a member of a special club—someone who was privileged to live above the rules."

  There was silence, save for the crackling of the logs in the hearth.

  The earl slipped on his shirt, then walked over to retrieve the fallen pistol. Taking it by the barrel, he weighed it heavily in his hand before returning it to its owner.

  "Put this away and go home," he said, suddenly feeling very weary. "I imagine your sister needs you by her side, not on a ship bound for the Antipodes. Or swinging from a gibbet."

  She started to protest, but he cut her off.

  "What you are looking for now is revenge, not justice. If the guilty party is one of my household, you have my word of honor that he shall answer for his actions."

  The young lady stared down at the pistol. It was still primed and cocked, and her finger curled around the trigger.

  "Don't be a fool," he murmured. "You have shown you possess courage. Show that you have brains to match. Bullets are not the answer. Let me look into the matter. Regardless of what you think of a gentleman's pledge, mine is binding."

  There was a reluctant sigh, then the weapon disappeared into her cloak pocket. "I suppose I have little choice tonight but to accede to your wishes." Pulling the cloak tighter around her willowy form, she backed off to the mullioned window and jumped lightly onto the sill. "But don't think that because I am a female, and one without lofty connections, that I can be fobbed off by empty promises for long. If you are lying, I have a pledge of my own—The Black Cat will not have seen the last of me. Or my claws."

  With that, she disappeared into the night.

  Marcus continued to stare out at his gardens long after the figure had melded into the shadows. Then, swearing softly, he quitted the room, not bothering to gather up the rest of his clothing from the carpet.

  * * *

  "S-sshir?" The voice was as unsteady as the stumbling steps. "Hope you weren't waiting up f'r me. Told Ingalls I'd be... late."

  Marcus rose from the chair by the bedchamber hearth and regarded the disheveled state of his nephew's dress. The young man's linen was badly rumpled and streaks of mud on his breeches bespoke of several tumbles to the ground.

  "Only a fool drinks more than he can hold, Lucien. Haven't I told you that before?"

  "I can hold m' liquor," came the defensive mumble. Lucien reached out to steady himself on one of the carved bedposts and nearly missed catching hold of it. "No more foxed than t'others. Just tired, izz all."

  The earl's mouth tightened, but he willingly changed the subject. "Who were you with?"

  "Stonef'rth. Barr'nton." The young man winced slightly from the effort of trying to force his thoughts into coherent order. "Oh, and D'Quincy." His hand raked through his tangled locks. "Where the devil izz Ingalls with m'dressing gown? Need to lie down."

  "You may do so after we have finished our little talk," replied Marcus.

  Lucien's head snapped up at the sharpness of the earl's voice.

  "You were at The King's Crown?" he went on.

  "Y-yes, sir." The words sounded a trifle less slurred.

  "Doing what?"

  "E-enjoying a few pints. And a bottle or two of b-brandy, I s'pose." Lucien swallowed hard. "Mayhap a hand of cards as well."

  Marcus leaned against the mantel. "So, rather the same as you have been doing for every night this past week."

  A flush stole to the young man's cheeks. "Sir, if Barrington has suggested I can't cover m' vowels, I beg t'assure you my losses weren't so—"

  "Was wenching a part of the evenings as well?" interrupted Marcus.

  Lucien's color deepened. "I—I'm as game as any m-man f'r a grope and a poke," he muttered, avoiding the earl's gaze.

  "No doubt," replied Marcus, keeping his voice neutral. "Any of the barmaids or local farm girls catch your fancy? There are a number of comely lasses in the area, are there not?"

  Lucien looked puzzled by all the questions, and by the earl's seemingly erratic mood. "I—that is, there's one girl. A pretty blond who I've noticed s'veral times before. I walked with her f'r a bit."

  "Did you tumble her?"

  "What's the fuss if I did or not?" mumbled Lucien, rubbing at his temples in some confusion. "It's been deucedly boring rusticating here in the country. Surely you aren't going to kick up a dust over havin' a bit of f-fun. Why, the stories of your carousing in Town are legend—"

  "It is not my behavior we are discussing here, it is yours." The earl took a step closer to his nephew. "I asked you a question, Lucien. I expect an answer."

  "I might have. I—I don't remember," came the sullen reply.

  "You don't remember," repeated Marcus softly. "You drop your breeches and spill your seed inside of some girl and You. Don't. Remember?"

  "She was no one of any rank—"

  Before Lucien could finish his words, the earl hit him, a bruising blow that knocked him flat to the carpet.

  Dazed, the young man struggled to sit up. His nose was bloodied and his cheek turning an ugly shade of purple. "I d-don't understand! What have I done?" he groaned.

  "A despicable act. And one not befitting of anyone who dares call himself a gentleman. You miserable cur. Get up!" The earl reached down and hauled his ne
phew to his feet. Although the young man was nearly as tall as he was, Marcus shook him like a terrier would a rat. "You will present yourself in the breakfast room at nine o'clock." Shoving Lucien onto the bed with a grimace of disgust, he turned for the door. "And I shall expect you to be dressed for an important occasion."

  "W-what occasion, sir?" stammered his nephew.

  The earl's smile was frightening in its coldness. "Oh, as to that, you will learn it soon enough."

  Chapter 2

  "Hmmph."

  Eliza Kirtland penned in the last set of the figures and tallied the sums. After checking over the pages one last time, she shut the account book with a satisfying snap and stacked it atop the others on her desk.

  Now that she had marshaled her proof, the numbers arranged in precise columns like the cream of Wellington's troops, Squire Newton would have to be suicidal not to surrender to her suggestions. Still, the fellow was wont to be extremely pig-headed about such things, even though her advice had proven useful over the last few years.

  And yet the phalanx of figures was unassailable. By switching from rye to barley, and by utilizing the newest theory of crop rotation—as well as by cutting back on cows and adding more sheep—his income should double over the next six months.

  A wry sigh slipped from Eliza's lips. Of course, there would be the usual dire mutterings about the risk of changing from age-old traditions. A glass of sherry would be downed, followed quickly by a second one. Then, after another round of grousing on how females did not understand the nuances of either business or farming, the squire would grudgingly agree to put her suggestions into practice.

  She wouldn't even have to muster much of an argument. The numbers spoke for themselves. And the prospect of a full purse was more convincing that any words she might utter.

  Eliza looked back to the pile of ledgers. The squire wasn't the only local to have profited from her cleverness with figures. Even as a young girl she had possessed a head for numbers and a penchant for practicality—attributes that had allowed her family to live in a good deal more comfort than her father's meager income should have allowed. After noting her deft handling of the church fund for the poor, the local butcher had requested her help in balancing his books. Word spread quickly concerning her knack for maximizing returns while cutting expenses, and she soon had a thriving little business in handling accounts. Nowadays, more than a few of the local gentry and merchants depended on her skill and savvy in helping oversee their endeavors.