Pistols at Dawn (7 page)

The earl put down his pen and rubbed at his weary eyes. Lud, the figures were making his head ache far worse than any keg of spirits ever had. Try as he might, he found it impossible to make sense of the endless columns of estate expenditures, or to decide whether they were all necessary.

Bloody hell.
Somehow he would have to figure out which ones might be put off. Even though his proficiency in mathematics was rudimentary at best, it took only a simple schoolboy's skill to see the costs were far exceeding the income.

His lips pursed. Was this endeavor to restore Killingworth Park to its former glory just as corkbrained as some of his past stunts? At least some of those other whims, like racing his yacht to the Orkney Islands, or wooing away the Duke of Derwitt's buxom mistress, had had some element of excitement to balance the danger. This current undertaking, however, offered nothing but a dull, unrelenting sense of being slowly sucked under by the morass of responsibilities.

He supposed it should not have come as any great surprise that the estate was in such a sorry state. Successive generations of Killingworth earls—himself included—had contributed to its demise by frittering away its wealth rather than ploughing it back into the land. It was his grandfather who had first abandoned the rolling fields and rugged cliffs for the pleasures of Town. His father had also preferred the life of a boisterous
bon vivant
to that of a bucolic farmer. Marcus doubted the man had ever set foot in the once-elegant manor halls. Rather, he was content to spend its ever-dwindling profits at the faro tables without risking a thought as to how the estate was being managed. The rich farmland had slowly grown over with thistle and thorns. Only a few scattered sheep now grazed the hills—hills once alive with flocks of fat, black-faced merino ewes and rams that yielded some of the most prized wool in England.

Marcus looked down once against at the sea of fiery red upon the page, each individual number seemingly a taunting rebuke to his casual neglect. He had shown no more care for the ancestral seat than his forbearers. The truth had hit home six months ago, during a meeting with his man of affairs in London. The fellow had informed him that the prudent plan of action was to put the vast estate up for sale since the Greeley coffers, while not exactly empty, were no longer in any shape to bear the burden of its losses.

The news had forced him to take yet another sobering look at his life. In doing so, he realized that he didn't wish to be the one to let the land—a heritage that had been in his family's possession since the time of William the Conqueror—slip through his fingers.

It had been humbling to face the fact that he had accomplished precious little to be proud of over the course of thirty years. His spirits, already blue-deviled for some time, had teetered on the brink of black despair until it suddenly seemed that he might make amends for a lifetime of wasted chances by taking on the challenge of Killingworth Manor. He had already given up his heavy drinking and carousing, so there was little reason not to abandon London as well.

The decision made, he had closed up his townhouse in a matter of days and set off for the country, determined that this time his efforts would result in something more meaningful than a scribbled line in a betting book or a furtive coupling in a garden.

Now, however, the earl couldn't help but wonder if his best efforts would be anywhere good enough.

How in the devil had he been such a naive fool as to imagine he might have the knowledge or the experience to run a vast estate?

Marcus glumly thumbed open yet another ledger. The sort of talents that had earned him such a high regard in London were of no matter here—who cared whether his cravat was tied in a perfect Waterfall or whether his box step was a picture of precise elegance? That he was a bruising rider and skilled with his fives might earn him marginally more respect, but on the whole, he felt utterly useless. Why, he didn't even know enough to judge whether his steward was halfway competent or whether the fellow was stealing him blind.

His mouth set in a harried grimace, and after a cursory examination of yet another page of incomprehensible numbers, Marcus snapped the book shut. Setting it back atop the stack still waiting for his perusal, he pushed away from his desk and decided to quit the task for a while, before his mood became too black. After all, he reminded himself with a humorless smile, there would be plenty of time to continue later on, for it was not as if there was much other entertainment to choose from.

Restless, Marcus prowled through the empty corridors, passing by a number of rooms that were still gloomy with dust and Holland covers. On the stone terrace off the music room, he stopped to light up a cheroot and watch the sun set. But rather than take any real pleasure in the subtle play of pinks and mauves against deepening blue of the evening sky, he found himself making a mental note to ask the housekeeper the cost of hiring another maid. And whether such an addition would have any noticeable effect on daunting amount of cleaning yet to be done.

Tossing the half-finished cheroot aside, he moved on to the library, thinking perhaps a glass of brandy and a book of poetry might help to keep the feeling of overwhelming bleakness at bay. A fire had been lit and the soft flicker of the flames made the leather spines and gold-leaf titles glow with a mellow warmth. His spirits brightened a bit as he approached the carved oak shelves. Tracing a hand along several rows of books, he took his time in choosing a slim volume wedged between two tomes on the natural history of the Americas.

It was not until he crossed to the sideboard that the earl realized he was not alone.

"Sorry, sir." The high back armchair scraped over the carpet as Lucien shifted uncomfortably and lay down his own book. "I had thought you were busy in your study. I'll go upstairs—"

Marcus motioned for his nephew to stay where he was, suddenly finding that the prospect of dialogue with someone other than the demons in his own head was not entirely unwelcome. "No need for that." He poured himself a splash of brandy. "Care to join me?"

The young man blanched and shook his head.

The earl set aside the decanter and took some time to settle himself in the facing chair before speaking again. "Do you mean to give it up? I must warn you, many men find such a resolve impossible, no matter how hard they try."

"In truth, I rarely care to imbibe more than a glass," answered Lucien softly. "I have little taste for it, sir." A ragged sigh followed. "And my senses even less tolerance, it would seem."

The earl's brows rose in surprise. "Yet you rode out each night to get jug bitten with your friends?"

Lucien bit at his lip. "I—I had thought perhaps you might like me better if I was more like you."

Bloody hell.
Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. Yet another careless sin for which he bore blame. It had never occurred to him that the young man might consider him a hero of sorts and try to emulate his less than exemplary behavior.

"Is that why you chose to join the Wolf's Head Club?" A small and exclusive society of gentlemen, its members included some of the wildest blades of the
ton.
Marcus did not consider himself easy to shock, yet even he found some of their activities went beyond the pale.

"I was invited because of my connection to you, sir, and I hoped to prove I was not a man milliner," admitted Lucien. After a small swallow, he went on in a tone of near awe. "Your exploits are near legendary. And though I could never hope to match your prowess in—"

"Hell's teeth, don't remind me of all the idiotic things I have done," exclaimed the earl, more roughly than he intended.

His nephew flinched.

"I am not angry with you, Lucien," he added quietly. "It is my own self with whom I am sorely disappointed."

"But..." The young man looked thoroughly perplexed. "I don't understand."

Marcus raised his glass to dancing flames of the fire and slowly swirled the amber spirits. The light refracted off the cut crystal and churning brandy, sending a kaleidoscope of patterns across the dark paneling.

"No, I don't imagine you do," he murmured.

"It is hard to fathom what you might find lacking in yourself, sir. While I..." Lucien let out a harsh laugh. "I have no need to plumb any great depths to find my own faults."

"We all make mistakes—"

"None so grievous as mine," cried his nephew with some bitterness.

"Yours was serious, but as long as you truly regret the transgression and do your best to make amends, that is all you can ask of yourself."

"I do regret it!" The young leaned forward to bury his head in his hands. "I still have trouble believing I could act in such a violent way, no matter how foxed I was."

The earl pursed his lips. "I have seen spirits spark even the most mild of men into a flaming temper. Do you know exactly what it was that set you off?"

"No! That's the devil of it. I can't remember a thing." Lucien looked up, his face taut with self-loathing. "You would think I should recall
something
of ravishing a young lady."

"Unfortunately there are times when the amount of drink renders you completely insensible to what you are doing. I was lucky enough to escape such lapses of judgment without paying any more of a penalty than a bilious stomach and an aching head."

"Yes, I have heard much of The Black Cat's luck," murmured Lucien, with his first hint of a smile.

Marcus gave a wry grimace. "Much exaggerated, as indeed are most of the stories."

"Nonetheless, I should like to hear some of them," said his nephew shyly. "That is, if you wouldn't find it too much of a bore to spend time with me."

"I suppose there are one or two that would bear repeating sometime." He rose to put another log on the fire, surprised to find he had no urge to return to the solitude of his study. As he stirred the coals to flame, Lucien stood up abruptly and began to pace before the hearth.

"This afternoon I rode over to see...
her
."

"Did you?" Finishing the task, Marcus leaned back against the mantel and regarded the shadowed planes of the young man's profile. "Hmmm. You have more courage than most, to risk facing the elder sister. I'm amazed you returned unscathed."

Lucien pulled a face. "Well, she did pull a pistol—"

A bark of laughter cut off his words. "She seems rather fond of that damn thing. And you managed to avoid a bullet in the breast?"

"Actually, the threat was aimed a bit lower on my person."

The earl had to stifle another deep chuckle. "Sorry," he said, his lips still twitching with amusement. "Having served as her target myself, I know it is not quite so humorous to be facing those molten green eyes."

"Green, sir? It is you who showed courage, sir, if you were able to remark on the color of Miss Kirtland's eyes. I'm afraid my attention was wholly occupied with the steel-gray orb of the weapon."

Marcus grinned in answer, then his expression became serious. "It is rather our adversary who exhibited a steady nerve. And trigger finger. For that, I suppose, we should be grateful, else neither of us would be in any condition to make light of the experience." He paused to watch the log suddenly catch fire. "A singular female, indeed. Though not one I wish to encounter again anytime soon."

That was not entirely true, Marcus was forced to admit as he watched the sinuous sway of the flames. Although it ran counter to all reason, there was something about the heated intensity of the lady's gaze that intrigued him. And not simply because she had taken it into her head to undress him on their first meeting.

He felt a slight tightening of his body on recalling the scene—well, maybe that
had
added a certain spark to things. As did the memory of her willowy curves pressed up against his bare chest. Despite the unladylike language and actions there had been no doubt that the figure beneath the thick wool cloak was very much a female.

Grimacing, the earl sought his chair and pushed it back from the heat of the hearth. No doubt he was entertained such absurd fantasies because it had been so long since he had enjoyed any intimacy with a woman. He would soon have to consider a visit to Town, for he had no intention of giving the local tabbies—and the tigress—any reason to embellish the rumors of his amatory exploits.

"Aye, sir, Miss Kirtland has a real fire about her," mused Lucien, as if he had been reading the earl's thoughts. "Yet one can hardly blame her for reacting in such a way. I, for one, can't help but admire such spirit, even though she would just as soon see me boiled in oil. She obviously... cares very much for her family and would do anything to protect them from harm."

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Marcus thought he detected a note of wistfulness in his nephew's voice. "Loyalty is indeed a noble sentiment," he murmured.

His nephew sighed. "Well, after this afternoon, she not only thinks me a veritable monster but a complete idiot as well."

The earl arched his brows in question.

"I... I brought flowers to Miss Meredith." The young man colored slightly. "That was terribly stupid of me, wasn't it?"

"Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really wish my opinion?"

"Oh, I should like very much to know what you think, sir," answered Lucien.