Pistols at Dawn (4 page)

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."

After a tiny pause, her voice once again hardened to a sharp edge. "What is it you want? Why are you here? I cannot imagine why you would think that anyone in this family would care to set eyes on either of you scoundrels."

It was not as if he expected a cordial greeting. But neither had he anticipated such a scathing assault on his character. The vengeful Valkyrie was not even allowing him the chance to explain himself. Angry with his nephew for putting him in such a damnably awkward position—and with the lady for being so rigidly righteous, Marcus felt his own temper growing dangerously frayed.

Somehow he managed to keep his voice even. "I made a promise to look into the matter, and as I told you, my word—however worthless you consider it—is binding. It appears you were correct in thinking your sister's assailant was a member of my household." He took Lucien by the arm and forced him forward. "My nephew is here to—"

The young lady, on the other hand, made no effort to disguise her fury. Yet again, a violent outburst interrupted his explanation. "You presume to bring that mongrel, that
beast
, anywhere near my sister?" She pointed at Lucien, who flinched as though he had been skewered with steel. "After what he has done!"

"I-I..." Lucien tried to speak but all that came out was a croak.

"He is extremely sorry for what happened," intervened the earl. "Apparently he had consumed a great deal of spirits and was lost to all sense of reason." The young lady was making it extremely difficult to maintain a measured tone.

Bloody hell, did she think he was any more pleased with the situation than she was?

"That, of course, is no excuse for his actions," he went on. "But he is prepared to do the honorable thing and make amends for his conduct. I have procured a special license. Your sister may be properly wed before nightfall."

The young lady stared with withering scorn at the document, then slowly raised her eyes to meet his. "Are you
mad
? Do you really think my sister would consider for an instant legshackling herself to such a filthy miscreant as your nephew?"

She turned back to Lucien, a sneer thinning her mouth as she eyed his bruises. "Honorable, you say? Oh, yes, I can see just how eager he was to do the honorable thing." Her hands clenched. "Perhaps you, too, are completely jug bitten. I can't think of how else to explain why you might imagine such an offer would be of any interest to us."

"You are overset at this moment," began Marcus.

"Overset?" she repeated with marked sarcasm. "My sister has just been assaulted! Overset doesn't
begin
to describe what I am feeling at this moment."

Gritting his teeth, Marcus managed to ignore the repeated insults, though the effort was costing him dearly. "I would counsel you to think long and hard before rejecting the proposal. My nephew is from an excellent family, and as of now, he stands heir to an earldom. Not only that, he shall come into a tidy inheritance of his own on reaching his majority. A great many Mamas of the
ton
would consider him an excellent catch." He darted a pointed look at the modest furnishings. "All in all, I don't imagine that a country rector's daughter could hope to look any higher."

"Higher?" scoffed the young lady. "As far as I can see, we would have to dig in the deepest, foulest muck to find a creature as loathsome your slimy relative." She gave a protective squeeze to her sister's shoulder, who had finally summoned enough courage to raise her gaze from the floor.

Hell and damnation.
Muttering an oath under his breath, Marcus could not refrain from taking the offensive. "Have you given any thought to the possible consequences?" he said harshly. "Your sister may find herself with..."

The girl flinched.

He stopped abruptly, angry with himself for allowing his antagonist to goad him into such bluntness. Despite what she seemed to think, the last thing he wished to do was add to her sister's suffering.

"Forgive me. I suggest that we continue this discussion in private, Miss..."

"Kirtland." The young lady finally consented to confirm her identity. "Elizabeth Kirtland."

"I fear there is no way to avoid plain speaking. And such things will no doubt prove too upsetting for your sister's ears."

Eliza hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "Mama is waiting for her tisane, Merry. Might you manage to take it up to her by yourself?"

Meredith Kirtland spoke for the first time, softly but firmly. "Nay, Eliza. I understand your concern, but it is my wish—and indeed my right—to stay and hear what is being said."

Eliza looked torn between the sense of her sister's words and the desire to shield her from more pain. It took another whispered exchange before she relented. With a brusque wave of her hand, she signaled for Marcus to continue.

He waited for a moment to see if she might change her mind, "Very well, then. As I was saying, before you reject the offer out of hand, have you considered that your sister may find herself with child? Even if she does not, her future prospects of marriage have no doubt been greatly compromised, if not ruined outright."

The elder Kirtland sister fixed both him and Lucien with a look of contempt. "Our local midwife has examined her. Judging from that, and what my sister was able to recount, it seems your nephew did not actually..." A tinge of color rose to her cheeks. "That is, my sister was pawed over and vilely humiliated in the most intimate of ways, but there was no actual... consummation of the act." Her eyes pressed shut for an instant. "I suppose we must be grateful for small favors."

Lucien's face went from deathly pale to a vivid scarlet as he gave a convulsive swallow.

Recovering her composure, Eliza went on. "And any man who truly cares for Meredith will not hold her to blame for being forced against her will."

The earl made no effort to hide the cynical curl of his lips. "You have a more sanguine view of human nature than I would have expected. Let me assure you that men can be quite unreasonable about that sort of thing." He saw a flicker of doubt cross her face. "Once your anger has cooled, I urge you to think over my nephew's offer very carefully."

There was an awkward silence as their gazes locked.
Steel against steel.
Marcus was surprised the clash of metal was not ringing in his ears.

He slowly withdrew a purse from his pocket. He placed it on the sidetable, next to a basket of sewing. "In the meantime, if your sister has need of anything, this may serve to help. And if you are truly bent on rejecting the offer of marriage, I should be willing to arrange for a suitable dowry, one that might help smooth things with any future suitor."

However reasonable they sounded to him, his words seemed only to rekindle the fire in Eliza's eyes.

"Take your filthy purse and be gone, sir! In London, your money may be adequate recompense for the pleasures you take, but not here."

So much for thinking that logic might prevail
.

"No doubt you look at us poor country folk as mere chattel to be used as you please. Well, no amount of coins will ever pay for what you have done to my sister, you debauched wastrel."

The earl stiffened. If she were a man, he would not hesitate to demand satisfaction for the slur.
A duel at dawn?
That, of course, was out of the question. Or was it? With a flash of grim humor, he recalled her obvious experience with wielding a weapon. Why, if looks could kill, those molten emerald eyes—