Pistols at Dawn (21 page)

"You are rarely wrong in your assessments, Miss Kirtland. However, in judging your own assets, you have no notion of how far from the truth you are," His hands framed her face, then slowly slid upward to twine in the knot of her hair.

"Damnation," he whispered. "I am not sure this is a lesson we should explore."

There was no question that he was right. Yet practical, pragmatic Eliza found herself refusing to listen to reason. She tilted her head to meet his lidded gaze. "Why not?"

A hairpin fell to the carpet. Then another.

"Eliza," he murmured, as her tresses tumbled over her shoulders. "Lord, have you any idea how lovely you look with your hair loosened?"

Lovely?

"Y—you have left off your spectacles, sir—"

"My name is Marcus. I should like for you to say it."

Her lips quivered, but before they could form the first sound he stilled them with a kiss.

The taste of him was dizzying, potent. A lick of fire raced through her limbs. To keep her knees from buckling, Eliza clung more tightly to him, reveling in the hard, sloping strength of his shoulders and the reassuring breadth of his chest.

Lud, it felt wonderful to be so weak with desire. No wonder so many young girls fell from grace.

The window casement helped to keep her upright. Hips pressed against the ledge, she arched into his embrace, opening her mouth to the heady new sensations. As the earl deepened his kiss, he began caressing her breasts through the thin muslin—slow, swirling strokes that teased the tips to points of fire.

Eliza let out a soft cry. As heat surged through her, spiraling down to pool in her most intimate core, she let herself melt against him. Their bodies pressed close and she was acutely aware of his unmistakable maleness.

But rather than feel daunted or dismayed at arousing the earl's passions, Eliza felt deliciously wicked and wanton.

And wonderful.

No matter a part of her warned that it was wrong, she wanted more. More.

To the devil with being prim, practical Eliza Kirtland.

She held very still for an instant, then shook off any doubts. For once in her life, she meant to cast all caution to the wind and experience a taste of pure, primal passion.

As if sensing her tiny hesitation, Marcus pulled away. "Eliza..." Gently but firmly, he started to loosen her embrace.

"I know I have none of the practiced charms of a Diamond of the First Water," she stammered, "but—"

Her halting words were interrupted by a tentative knock at the door.

* * *

Hell and damnation.
Marcus waited a fraction before answering. "On second thought, we will take tea in the drawing room," he called, stalling for an extra moment of reprieve.

Eliza had managed to retrieve most of her hairpins and was making a stab at taming the disorder of her dress.

"It is I, sir," said his nephew.

Tugging the folds of his cravat into some semblance of order, Marcus crossed the carpet and opened the door halfway. "Ah, so it's you, Lucien." He crossed his arms, using his frame to shield Eliza from view, and inclined a nod, but made no move to step aside.

"Might I have a word with you? I am sorry for interrupting, but it's rather important."

"Then do come in." He hoped he did not look as guilty as spotty-faced schoolboy caught pilfering pastries. "Miss Kirtland and I were just going over some figures."

To his relief, Lucien looked too preoccupied with his own concerns to notice the air of tension in the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw that Eliza had managed to straighten her bodice and take a seat at the desk. Clearing her throat, she began fumbling through the estate papers.

"As I was saying, sir, the unexpected expenses for rebuilding the stable will be considerable," she said loudly, her voice a trifle more brittle than usual. "We may have to defer some other projects. And there won't be any profits from the estate until the first harvests."

The announcement gave his nephew pause for thought. "If you are looking to augment income, you might consider investing in the Exchange. There are some short term opportunities that offer a good return without undo risk."

The earl could not hide his surprise.

"I have always had more of an interest in cerebral challenges," explained Lucien. "Rather than cutting a dash on horseback or mastering the fine points of fencing, I spend my time trying to hone my understanding of economics and politics. Mayhap you think me a man-milliner for it, but so it is."

"On the contrary, Lucien. I am... impressed. Perhaps you might offer a few suggestions."

"Thank you, sir. I shall be happy to look into the possibilities and see what I might recommend." His nephew resumed his limp toward the leather chair. "But that is not why I am here. Meredith and I were talking earlier and, well, I fell to thinking about our assumptions regarding our enemy..."

As he bent down to pick up something from the carpet, Eliza's face colored to the same shade of crimson in the Oriental design.

"...And how to apply logic."

Marcus was seized by the irrational urge to snatch the hairpin from his nephew's hand and stuff it in his pocket. Lucien, however, merely placed it on the desk as he passed by.

"I mean, it is logical to think that the man we seek is a gentleman with a past grudge against you, sir. But what if we look at it from another perspective? What if it is about Killingworth Manor, and not you personally?"

"Hmmm." Eliza's embarrassment appeared to fade somewhat in light of Lucien's suggestion.

Forgetting his other distractions, Marcus considered the idea. "Go on," he encouraged.

Lucien was quick to oblige. "The more I thought about what you said earlier, the more it made sense, sir—why would an enemy from Town choose here and now to exact revenge? It's
not
logical. The odds would be stacked against him, and our adversary, whatever his other faults, is not stupid."

At the earl's nod, he continued on. "So, with that in mind, who is the most obvious suspect?"

"Hastings." Both Marcus and Eliza spoke at the same time.

"Hastings," agreed Lucien. "No doubt it came as a nasty shock to learn you meant to take up a more permanent residence at Killingworth Manor. And when he discovered that you were actually taking an interest in the estate's management, he must have realized it was just a matter of time until his embezzlement of funds came to light."

"The same thoughts had occurred to me," said Marcus. "And yet, the truth is, I don't see how he could have been responsible for the attack on Miss Meredith or the other girl. Only a gentleman of the
ton
would know about Wolf's Head Society, and the details of its tattoo and what it stand for."

"But that is just it. Hastings
did
know."

"How?"

Lucien shot an apologetic look at Eliza before answering. "Several weeks ago, there was a night I did not return to the Manor until well after dawn. Needless to say, I had been drinking heavily—so heavily that I had cast up my accounts—and I stopped at the horse trough to clean myself up before slinking up to my room. Hastings saw me and offered commiseration, along with some soap and a towel."

He paused to think. "My memory is a bit hazy, but I do recall that he asked a number of questions and I was happy to oblige. He seemed especially curious about the mark on my breast and what it signified." His mouth tugged into a grimace. "At the time, his interest in me seemed nothing more than an effort to be friendly—which I welcomed. Now, of course, it appears in a much more sinister light."

"Bloody hell," murmured the earl softly.

"You think I am right, Uncle Marcus?"

"I think you have hit it bang on the mark." Marcus started to pace. "But to prove it, we are going to have to catch him in the act."

"How?" It was Eliza who echoed his earlier question. With an errant curl caressing her cheek and a lushness clinging to her kiss-ravaged lips, she looked achingly lovely.

And achingly vulnerable.

Greed, made even more volatile by hatred by hatred—Hastings had been utterly ruthless in his earlier attacks. It was only by mere luck that none of them had yet been lethal. The next strike...

Marcus repressed an inward shiver. He couldn't allow there to be a next strike.

"As to that," he answered, "it may take me another day or two to work out the final plan." Marcus looked away, his voice taking on a rougher edge than he had intended. "But catch him we will."

"What can I do to help?" asked his nephew.

"You have already proved an invaluable in cutting to the chase. But for the moment, there is nothing that either of you can do." A sidelong glance at Eliza prompted him to add, "Save to keep a watchful eye open and not to stray far from the Manor alone."

"Very well, sir," replied Lucien. "Then I will let you get back to your figures, sir."

Was it his imagination, or did his nephew have the audacity to wink as he went by?

"An excellent suggestion." Eliza grabbed up a book on crop rotation and made to follow.

"I did not think we were quite finished here, Miss Kirtland," he said very softly.

"Oh, I believe we covered all the essentials, sir. The rest can wait for another time."

"Eliza..." The sound was no louder than the whispery brush of her skirts against his boots as he angled to cut off her line of retreat.

She avoided any eye contact. "I—I need to review several of these chapters before my meeting with Whitney."

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps they both could use an interval of solitude to reschool their emotions.

Reluctantly, he stepped sideways and allowed her to pass.

* * *

Eliza stared down at the detailed diagram of properly furrowed soil.
Ha!
If only a hole would open up deep enough in the earth for her to drop all the way to China. Yet not even the thought of vast oceans between them could dampen her burning mortification.

Or her simmering desire.

What a fool she must have appeared—an aging spinster clinging to the coat of a sinfully handsome rake. To his credit, Marcus—no, she must only think of him as Killingworth—had been kind. He had not sought to humiliate her, even though her fumbling inexperience must have been pitifully obvious to a man of his amatory prowess.

She pressed a tentative touch to her lower lip. He had kissed her, to be sure, but that did not signify overly much. She was wise enough in the ways of the world to know that men had primal urges—and the earl embodied the very essence of masculinity. For him, their intimate interlude had most likely been merely a passing fancy. While she might savor the lingering traces of sea salt and spiced smoke, he was no doubt grateful that his nephew's knock had extricated him from an awkward position.

Eliza had seen it in his eyes—the odd flicker in his eyes as he pulled away. It could only have been embarrassment.

Even odder was the fact that she felt no shame, just an ache of regret. As it wasn't likely that she would ever again experience a man's passionate kisses, she had wanted more.

Of what?

Of Marcus. Of his strength, his smile, his passion, his intelligence. No matter that she knew it was absurd to indulge in schoolgirl fantasy.

Giving up all pretense of reading a stick-in-the-mud passage on digging dirt, Eliza put the book aside and began to pace the perimeter of her bedchamber. Just as unsettling as the earl's kisses was the look in his eyes on hearing Lucien's revelation. She was sure he meant to set himself up as his former steward's next target. A prickling chill coursed down her spine, as if cold steel had touched bare flesh. Marcus was, by all accounts, a crack pugilist and a deadly shot. But he was also a gentleman, bound by a strict code of honor, and would fight fairly.

Hastings most definitely would not.

A thoroughly dirty dish, the man would have no compunction about chopping his own mother into mincemeat if he could see any profit from it.

Warning the earl would do little good. He was as damnably stubborn as she was about certain principles. Picking up her pace, Eliza started another circle of the room. It wasn't until she had passed the cheval glass for the third time that an angled reflection of her own scowl gave her pause for thought.

Unlike the earl, she was more of an even match for the former steward. She didn't fight fair either. Coming from the same world, Eliza understood his breed of men all too well. She was intimately acquainted with bullying creditors and intimidating tactics of petty tyrants who wished to keep her in her place. Like Hastings, she had no compunction about doing whatever it took to survive and keep her family from harm.

So, Eliza decided, it was up to her to see that Hastings was caught.

She owed it to the earl for her part in what had happened to Lucien. And for thinking the worst of him.

As for what she felt now...

Her heart gave a tiny lurch. It was best not to think of that, or the future. Triumph would be bittersweet—once the threat was over, her family would return to Rose Cottage and their old routine as if nothing had changed.