Pistols at Dawn Read online

  Her talents made it possible for her family to continue living in the manner to which they had become accustomed, despite the death of her father. And though her mother fretted that her oldest daughter was forced to earn a living for them all, Eliza didn't mind in the least. She enjoyed being useful.

  Useful.

  Eliza tapped the tip of the pen to her chin. Was that how most people viewed her?

  Well, she hadn't been very useful last night.

  Lud, what had possessed her to burst into a gentleman's house and threaten him with a pistol? It was most unlike her to act in such a wild, impulsive manner, letting heated emotion override common sense.

  And much good it had done her.

  Her fingers tightened as she recalled how easily the Earl of Killingworth had overpowered her. It had taken barely a flick of his muscled arm, and suddenly the steely strength of his fingers had trapped her inexorably within his grasp.

  The very memory of his touch sent a strange frisson of fire along her spine. She was surprised the imprint of those lithe fingers wasn't singed onto her skin, so aware had she been of their heat. Just as from the moment he had looked up at her with those hooded amber eyes, she had been acutely aware of his rampant masculinity. Even clothed, he had radiated a raw animal magnetism. But when he had removed his shirt, the sight of such naked, chiseled power had ignited a powerful response.

  It was simply a burning contempt, she assured herself, and not any other reaction. It had nothing to do with the fact that being pressed up against the hard length of his body had been oddly comforting. Or that, for an instant, a flicker in those luminous eyes had hinted at a sympathy she wouldn't have imagined possible in a rakish scoundrel...

  Eliza stared in mute consternation at the snapped pen in her hands and felt a heat creep up to her cheeks. Muttering a word that no rector's daughter should know, she hid the two pieces in her desk drawer. If only she might shove such disturbing thoughts back into the darkest recesses of her mind as well. It was a measure of how overset her nerves had become that she would, even for an instant, imagine that a man like Killingworth might offer some measure of support.

  Even more ridiculous was the notion that she might have need of anyone to lean on, especially a dissolute rakehell. She was too busy being a pillar of strength for everyone around her.

  And as for the strange flames licking up inside her—well, that was simply the conflagration of worry and anger. And perhaps a spark of surprise. The earl had not been at all what she had expected.

  Her lips quirked. Not that she had any idea of how a jaded London rake and notorious libertine ought to appear. However, she supposed she had imagined someone more... debauched looking. Someone whose fuzzed features and clammy touch would betray his dissolute dedication to wanton habits. Instead, the flickering candlelight had limned an austere, aristocratic face, forbidding in its chiseled contours.

  A small swallow caught in her throat. Forbidden. Mayhap that was more the word. She felt hot... and then cold. He was all the things she loathed in a man—sinfully handsome, supremely selfish, overbearingly high-handed. Surely she could not be attracted to anyone like that.

  Quite the opposite.

  "Loathsome, loathsome man," she whispered, hoping the harsh sound would serve to reinforce such sentiment. Even though it appeared he was not guilty of the crime in question, there was little doubt he embodied exactly the sort of condescending pride she found so abhorrent in the opposite sex. It was there in the arrogant tilt of his lean jaw, the sardonic twist of his sensuous lips and the raking gaze of his amber eyes. Eyes made even more imperious by the dark arch of his brows.

  No matter that he spoke of honor. Ha! If the rumors had only a grain of truth to them, such words lilting off his tongue made a mockery of the notion. To hear his tenants repeat the stories that had drifted down from London, the lord of the manor cared for naught but the pursuit of pleasure. Drinking, wagering, seducing a goodly number of other men's wives—there appeared to be few, if any, vices the Earl of Killingworth was not intimately acquainted with.

  But honor?

  A host of adjectives might be used to describe the earl, but 'honorable' was not among the first that came to mind. Eliza doubted the concept meant anything more to him than the fact that he must not shirk from covering his gaming vowels or meeting a disgruntled husband's dawn challenge on Houndslow Heath.

  After a moment's consideration, her lips slowly curved in disdain as she added another word to the list.

  Foolish.

  Besides being an indolent wastrel, the earl must be a hopeless fool to boot. For only someone devoid of all common sense would let such a magnificent estate as Killingworth Manor fall into such a state of neglect. Why, the rich fields and lush pasturelands should be yielding a handsome return, but from what she had heard, the place was running at a considerable loss.

  Her fingers drummed on her desk. And he was an even bigger fool if he thought idle promises would put her off for long.

  As if in answer to the agitated tattoo, a large marmalade cat jumped down from the window still, purring loudly as it settled itself in her lap.

  Eliza smiled as a paw batted at an errant curl that had come loose from its pins. "Well, Caliban, I may have been no more effective than an old tabbie last night, but His Lordship has better take note that my claws will not remain sheathed for long."

  * * *

  "What!" Lucien's face went even paler, accentuating the heavy mottling on his cheek and the dark smudges under his eyes.

  Marcus didn't look up from his newspaper. The freshly ironed page turned with a snap as he took a sip of his coffee.

  "Dear God in Heaven! You can't mean it!" added his nephew in a horrified whisper.

  "Can't I?" Another page rustled. "You must still be a trifle bosky if you are confusing me with the Deity on High." The earl put down his cup. "With Him you might pray for forgiveness, but with me you are wasting your breath. I will tolerate many things, but never a breach of honor. You knew the rules. If you were in such need to dip your wick, you should have chosen an experienced woman—or paid one."

  "But sir!" The note of panic in Lucien's voice rose as he pressed his palms to his brow. "M-m-marriage? Why, I've only spoken to the girl a couple of times. I have no real acquaintance with her," he stammered.

  "You should have thought of that before you forced an innocent—no matter what her position in Society—to toss up her skirts."

  "I... I didn't mean to! Indeed, I have no recollection of it at all—" He broke off and took a deep breath.

  "Which is precisely why I advised you in the past not to imbibe more than you could tolerate without losing control of your senses."

  Lucien suddenly looked up with a glimmer of hope. "How are you so sure it was me? I mean, the others were as drunk as I was."

  "Do you know anyone else in this area who sports the tattoo of a wolf's head on his breast?"

  The young man bit at his lip.

  "I also warned you that joining such a club was not wise."

  His nephew's hands balled into fists. "It's not fair!" he blurted out.

  "I am no more pleased than you are that your parents saw fit to name me as your guardian. Lord knows, they never informed me of the arrangement. But as you don't come of age for another year, you are still my ward."

  "Nine months, twelve days to be exact." Lucien kicked at the carpet. "You cannot force me into marriage," he muttered.

  "No, I cannot," agreed Marcus with a grim smile. "As I said, the choice is yours. You can marry the girl. Or you can accompany me to the magistrate, where I shall be forced to press charges against you for the heinous assault." He paused to butter a slice of toast. "Because of your age and rank, you might only be transported, rather than hung."

  His nephew gave a convulsive swallow.

  "Now then, have you made up your mind?"

  Lucien's voice was hardly more than a hoarse croak. "I'll m-m-marry her."

  "I rather thought you might.
" The earl finally looked up. "Do you, perchance, know her name?"

  "Mari—no... Meredith."

  "Family name?"

  His nephew was silent for a moment. "I'm not sure. I think it may be Kirtland."

  "Any idea as to where she lives, or what her family does?"

  Lucien shook his head.

  The earl turned attention back to the newspaper. "Well, we should be able to discover the information soon enough with a few discreet inquiries in town." He rang for a fresh pot of coffee. "I suggest you have something to eat before we leave. I imagine it will be a rather long and trying day."

  His nephew made a choking sound, and looked as if he might be sick. Then, casting a look of pure venom at the earl, he rose and fled from the room.

  Marcus let out a harried sigh as the door slammed shut. Pushing aside his toast, he turned to stare out the window, anger and dismay leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Bloody hell, what had his sister been thinking? She and her husband must have had windmills in their heads to imagine he was the proper sort of guardian for anyone. Why, he had only met his nephew a handful of times before the influenza epidemic had turned him into a surrogate parent. Even then, the lad had quickly been packed off to Eton. Between holidays spent with school friends and his own frequent travels, contact between them had hardly been more frequent.

  It was only several weeks ago, when Lucien had finished his studies at Oxford, that the earl's man of affairs had strongly advised that the young man be summoned to Killingworth Manor. Duty demanded a discussion regarding Lucien's plans for the future—at least until he came into his majority, and with it the tidy inheritance left by his father. The earl had grudgingly yielded to the suggestion, though the last thing he desired was a visit from an utter stranger.

  Especially as the estate required his full attention.

  Marcus grimaced at the irony of the situation. Here he was, lamenting the twist of fate that had made him responsible for someone he hardly knew. And yet, he was about to force the same upon his nephew, not for a paltry few years, but for life. The young man could hardly be blamed for looking as though he, too, would like to take dead aim with a pistol at the earl's heart.

  In truth, Lucien had more than a little of his sympathy, despite his outward show of callous indifference. However, he could see no way out of the coil. Contrary to the rumors regarding his own rakish reputation, Marcus had never tolerated dishonorable behavior, either in himself or others. He simply could not turn his head at this egregious breach of conduct.

  Not even for his sister's son.

  Lucien knew the rules governing a gentleman's behavior. And yet, he had chosen to break one of the most basic tenets. The consequences had been spelled out in just as much detail. No matter how harsh the punishment seemed in retrospect, it must be accepted.

  Marcus found his thoughts drifting to the bizarre scene of last night, and the cloaked figure who had sought to mete out her own justice.

  Right and wrong.

  He wished he knew just what sort of man his nephew really was. Lucien seemed remorseful, but did he merely regret being caught? Had the act been an unfortunate aberration in character? Or was the young man a depraved creature capable of casual cruelty without a thought for aught but his own selfish desires?

  With a twinge of guilt, the earl realized that he really hadn't a clue. As an oath slipped from his lips, he found himself adding a silent prayer that Lucien wouldn't prove to be an utter scoundrel. His decision was affecting not only his nephew's fate, but also the lives of others.

  Pushing away from the table, his coffee as cold as his hopes, Marcus reluctantly quitted the comfort of his breakfast room.

  Duty, however onerous, could not be denied.

  Chapter 3

  Lucien's expression was more befitting a funeral than a wedding. He threw himself against the carriage squabs and turned to stare out the window. His hand rubbed his cheek, as if it might be possible to banish the bruise, along with the other ghastly consequences of his carousing.

  Marcus took a seat beside his nephew and called for the horses to be sprung. Ignoring the young man's sullen silence, he fell to studying the papers in his lap. It was of some benefit to have competent servants, he thought with a grim smile. As well as a lofty title and an adequate purse. His valet had managed the purchase of a special license, while the head footman had learned enough from the innkeeper to avoid embarrassing public inquires as to where the young lady lived.

  His lips thinned on regarding the last fact. It appeared that the situation was even messier than he had imagined. The injured party was the daughter of a rector. With a harried sigh, he crumpled the sheet and shoved it in his pocket, restraining the urge to take his nephew by the collar and give him yet another shake.

  A quarter mile past the village of Chertwell, the carriage turned onto a narrow lane lined with high hedgerows. It passed several small farms before stopping before a large cottage whose whitewashed walls were like a splash of fresh cream against the dappled greens of the surrounding fields. The dwelling was set off from the road by a low stone wall, heavy with honeysuckle. Its sweet perfume scented the morning breeze.

  Marcus had to nudge his nephew twice before the young man managed to rise from his seat.

  A profusion of daffodils bordered the pebbled path that lead to the front door. Despite its obvious age, the cottage looked to be a cozy place, with trellised roses climbing up its weathered sides and a hint of cheerful chintz behind the spotless leaded windows.

  The earl took his place by Lucien's side, pausing for a moment to smooth a crease from his coat. "Head up, shoulders squared," he growled. "I expect you to comport yourself with at least an outward show of dignity, as befits a gentleman." There was a slight pause. "Though in truth I'm not sure you deserve the title."

  Lucien swallowed hard, shooting the earl a look that mingled equal parts resentment and fear. Despite such emotions, his chin came up and he managed a firm stride. They mounted the steps together, but there his courage seemed to flag.

  It was Marcus who reached up and rapped the iron knocker.

  There was no answer.

  "P-Perhaps we should come back at a later time," mumbled the young man, not daring to look over at the earl's rigid face.

  Marcus knocked again, this time with more force.

  The door came slightly ajar. After a slight hesitation, he pushed it open. There was still no sign of anyone.

  "Uncle Marcus—"

  The earl silenced him with a brusque wave and stepped into the entrance foyer. He took in the plain appointments, then slowly moved into a narrow passageway, motioning Lucien to follow. It gave entrance to a sunny little parlor, bright with scrubbed pine and faded chintz florals. A large desk, its surface nearly obscured by books and papers, dominated the space near the windows. Atop the stack, Marcus caught sight of several of the latest new manuals on agriculture.

  Restraining the urge to have a closer look, he forced his gaze to move on. At the far end of the room, a door was open to the sunlight. It revealed a large garden, whose original shape had long since grown into a delightful twist of nooks and crannies, now filled with flowers and herbs.

  Marcus finished his cursory survey. Satisfied that no one was around, he was ready to retrace his steps when a young lady suddenly appeared from outdoors, cradling a basket of cut greens. Head bent, she was halfway across the room before she noticed the two gentlemen.

  Her gasp was punctuated by the crack of woven willow hitting the floor.

  "Forgive us if we have startled you," said the earl. "I assure you, there is no reason to be alarmed."

  There could be little doubt as to her identity. As the innkeeper had described, Meredith Kirtland was a very pretty girl, with guinea-gold hair, azure eyes and rosebud lips that had likely inspired more than one young man to try his hand at poetry.

  At the moment, however, Marcus saw that those lovely features were shaded in fear. With good reason—her cheek had
been bruised by a hard blow, and several deep scratches cut across her neck.

  "Is your father at home?" he added quietly. "I wish to speak with—"

  A rustling of skirts in the hallway caused Marcus to break off his question.

  "Merry, have you fetched the chamomile and—"

  The voice was all too familiar. As were the clenched fists and flashing green eyes.

  "Get out!" His erstwhile assailant shoved past him and took up a stance to shield her sister. "At once!"

  The halo of unruly blonde curls—a deeper, redder shade than that of her sibling—put the earl in mind of an ancient Valkyrie. All that was missing was a sword.

  Her tongue, however, was just as cutting. "How dare you despicable men force your way into our home!"

  The earl's jaw tightened. Her verbal attack was threatening to turn an awkward confrontation into a full-scale battle. Reminding himself that she had good reason to be upset, he answered with what he thought was a show of great patience. "I did knock. But as no one appeared, and the door was half open, I took it upon myself to enter. I think you might agree that the circumstances merit a certain urgency."

  The appeal to reason only sparked a scowl.

  "I had hoped to find your father present..." He let his words trail off in question.

  This time the young lady obliged him with an answer. "My father has been dead for two years, sir."

  Marcus cleared his throat. "A brother, perhaps?"

  "If you are casting about for the head of the family, you have found her," she snapped. "My mother has been in ill health for some time, and this morning she was stricken with another bout of chest pains. That is why both the housekeeper and I were upstairs and did not hear a knock." Exhaling a ragged breath, she added softly, "Any knowledge of what has happened would likely kill her outright."