A Dangerous Man (21 page)

“You’ll be shooting, then?” Hillard asked as she started forward.

“Yes, I expect so.” She’d lose sight of Annabelle if she didn’t hurry. “Good morning, gentlemen.” She hastened across the room, arriving in the wide, gleaming hallway just as Annabelle was about to turn the corner.

“Miss Moreland!” Mercy called.

The girl obviously didn’t want to acknowledge her. But it would have been ridiculous to pretend she didn’t hear her. They were the only two people in the hall. She had stopped but not yet turned. Mercy could see the tension in the set of her narrow back.

Good manners won out. Annabelle turned, a small questioning lift to one golden brow. She waited until Mercy was close enough so that she didn’t need to raise her voice. Point for Annabelle, Mercy thought wryly.

“Miss Coltrane?” she asked politely. “There is something you wanted? An item added to the luncheon menu, perhaps?”

Mercy laughed and Annabelle’s lovely eyes widened.

“No, Miss Moreland. I am looking for your brother. I have a—a book he wished to borrow.”

It wasn’t a very good lie, but Annabelle’s breeding once more held on, if but by a tenuous thread. “Do you?” she said. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until later to give it to him. He’s gone.”

“Gone?” To press Annabelle for more information
was unforgivably vulgar and if Annabelle had had even a year of seniority over her, Mercy was sure she would have given her the set-down she was obviously trembling to contain. Thank God for English governesses.

“Yes,” Annabelle said. “At breakfast this morning he mentioned he would be in London for the day. Business. Is there anything
else
you want to know?”

London
, Mercy thought. He’d gone to find Will by himself.
Damn him, he’s left you behind like a lame dog
.

The thought cut deeply. After she’d made clear how important it was that she be the one to approach Will.
After he’d held you. After you’d imagined he might have some feeling.…
She refused to follow the thought further.

“No, Miss Moreland,” she said faintly.

“You’re most welcome,” said Annabelle, and, with one last superior glance, left.

“Bully!” shouted Major Sotbey as the pheasant plummeted from the sky in a flurry of feathers. “Grand sport, what?” he asked, beaming at Mercy.

“Delightful,” she returned perfunctorily.

“That’s a fine-looking firearm you have there, ma’am,” he said.

“Thank you, Major. Lovely, isn’t it? It’s a Winchester.”

“You carried your shotgun from America?” the major asked.

“No, sir. His Grace had it in his collection. He gave it to me after the, er … exhibition between Lord Perth and myself.” Hart’s face flickered across her thoughts. She forced it away. He’d left her. Even now he was in London, searching for Will while she stood here, useless and abandoned.

“Did he, now?” The retired major’s voice took on an interested tone.

Mercy fixed him with a severe gaze. “Yes, sir. As a
consolation
prize to the losing participant.”

“Didn’t really lose, though, did you?” the major asked. “Just left Perth the field.”

“No, sir. I forfeited because I could not repeat his shots.”

“Well, young lady, you’ll have a hard time convincing Acton of that.”

“Convincing me of what, Major?” Lord Acton asked, appearing beside them.

“Convincing you that Miss Coltrane here isn’t the best shot in the county.”

“Too true,” Acton declared. He beamed at Mercy. “Miss Coltrane, you haven’t fired yet. Is there something amiss? You dislike your gun?” His face fell.

“No indeed, Lord Acton. It is a very nice gun. Everything is very … well orchestrated,” she replied.

“I know what the problem is,” Acton said, snapping his fingers. “These fellows are so set on
impressing you, they haven’t given you a clear shot.”

“Really, that’s not the—”

“Here, now! Gentlemen!” he called. The other members of their party stopped their slow progress through the waist-high grass that still gallantly held on to a vestige of summer’s green. “We’ll let Miss Coltrane have a go, shall we?”

“That’s not necessary,” Mercy protested, but Acton was bound and determined to showcase her expertise.

“Course it is,” he said. “Pull up, lads.”

The other men complied, shouldering their shotguns and waiting patiently for her to shoot something. Fighting back a sound of resignation, Mercy pushed the safety button on the gun and waded out into the grass. Acton wouldn’t be content until she’d downed at least one pheasant.

She looked over her shoulder to the small oak-tree-covered knoll where open carriages, festooned with bright ribbons and more brightly clad ladies, were parked. All except Annabelle, who was standing a bit away from the carriages, watching her with that impassive chill so like her brother’s.

Mercy wistfully regarded the relaxed, convivial—well, mostly convivial—group. They were sipping punch, nibbling on cakes, and droning on to each other like autumn-drunk bees while she staggered over hummocks and rodent holes as beaters drove the fields a hundred feet ahead.

She narrowed her eyes against the sun. She would have freckles tomorrow. Unless Brenna had
some magical concoction that took care of those too.

Suddenly, to her right, a pheasant rooster exploded from a gorse thicket, cackling raucously as it beat its wings skyward. With a tinge of regret Mercy shouldered her shotgun. At least it was a clean end. One second flying upward, the next falling lifeless to the ground.

She pulled the trigger.

A deafening roar shattered her eardrums. Agony ripped up her hands through her arms. The world buckled beneath her.

And then it was she, not the pheasant, that fell to the ground.

Chapter 18

H
art rounded the stable and headed for the front of the house, weariness slowing his pace. He’d spent an entire day in London, choking on the fumes in countless gin houses, “private” clubs, and dens, and still he was no closer to finding William Coltrane than he’d been when he set out this morning. And no closer to ending Mercy’s quest.

The memory of her lithe young body, so supple and vulnerable, relaxing into his embrace, stirred a deep yearning in him. He bit it back. There would be nothing she wanted from him now, except possibly his head on a platter.

The thought wrung a rueful smile from him. She would be mad enough to spit because he’d left her behind. Not that he’d had any choice. Since he hadn’t been able to bring himself to frighten her into staying behind, he’d simply sneaked away. Now, as soon as she discovered that he was back, she’d doubtless treat him to a display of American
vitriol. He picked up his stride. If she insisted on a scene, he wouldn’t disappoint. He even looked forward to it. Her energy, her passion, were magnetic.

He sniffed at his coat. Even after three quarters of an hour in the open air the faint odor of opium still clung to it. He started to shrug out of the battered ulster and grimaced as he felt the knife wound over his ribs protest this treatment. He looked down. Beneath the concealing coat his shirt was ruined, stained with blood. His thoughts clouded with the memory of the two men he’d left unconscious in the squalid Soho side street.

Six years and he’d not once lifted a finger in violence, and then Mercy Coltrane appeared and awoke every brute instinct he’d thought he’d destroyed. He had snapped one of those men’s wrists with no more remorse than he’d buttered his toast. And God help him, he’d do worse if the situation should call for it. If
she
needed it.

There was still a dangerous animal lurking beneath the surface calm, testing the bars of self-restraint, prowling along the trenches, waiting for its opportunity to be free. He closed his eyes. She was pushing him toward some fatal union of past and present, some volatile and explosive combination of impulse and act.

He entered the house, intent on avoiding conversation, to find the foyer crowded. Some sort of disturbance had upset Acton’s party. White-faced ladies cast surreptitious glances up the staircase, troubled-looking gentlemen clasped their hands behind their backs and murmured.

“… disastrous,” he heard Baron Coffey say.

“… never heard the like in me life.”

“… couldn’t believe the damn thing exploded!”

What
, Hart wondered bitterly as he wove his way toward the staircase,
the pastry chef’s soufflé?
He’d spent a day among London’s lost and destitute. He’d no sympathy for whatever disaster had momentarily interrupted the pleasurable pursuits of Acton’s house guests.

“Poor Miss Coltrane …” Lady Carr was saying.

He halted, swinging around and scowling at her so fiercely that she stepped back. “What of Miss Coltrane?” he demanded, his pulse quickening.

“You haven’t heard?” she asked.

“No. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” he bit out.
“What
of Miss Coltrane?”

“Her shotgun … the barrel exploded when she was shooting at—”

“Where is she?”

“They’ve taken her to her room. But you can’t—”

He shouldered his way past her, barely aware of her gasp of indignation. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering, his body tense, a fire of urgency setting his pace.

In the upper hall Beryl detached herself from a group of ladies and came toward him, her lean face full of sympathy. She stretched out a hand to stay him.

“I know she means something to you—” she began to say.

“Get out of my way.”

“My God, Perth, you can’t just—”

He shook her off and strode to Mercy’s door, reaching for the knob. Fear made his hand tremble.

God, don’t let her be maimed. Don’t let her be dead
.

He wrenched it open.

“… so please, Lord Acton, don’t dismiss your gamekeeper,” Mercy was saying.

She was alive.

He closed his eyes, nearly slumping to his knees, fighting to regain the blessed numbing coldness, not wanting to feel these things. Not wanting to sob with relief. He forced his eyes open and looked around the room.

Hillard and Acton were perched on low ottomans beside an ornately carved four-poster in which Mercy lay, propped against a half dozen pillows. Near the bed’s foot Lady Acton sat in a wing-back chair. All three stared at him in open astonishment. But Mercy … her hands lifted toward him. It was only a fractional movement, a matter of a few inches, but it was telling.

He almost went to her then. Almost gave in to the overwhelming need to meet her unspoken entreaty. Almost.

“Hart,” she whispered.

He ignored her, swinging on Acton. “What the hell happened? They said there was an explosion.”

“Yes.” The Duke stumbled to his feet, chagrined and red faced with guilt. “The barrel of
her shotgun split. Luckily, she was only thrown by the concussion. The doctor assures me she is fine—”

“Only
thrown by the concussion?” Hart demanded. “Men have died from such shock, Acton.” His gaze raked the other man’s face.

“Here now, Perth—” Nathan Hillard said. Why was
he
here?

Hart ignored him. “Whose shotgun was it?”

“It was hers.” Acton burned a brighter scarlet. “That is, one I had given her.”

“Good God, man,” Hart bit out. “Doesn’t your gamekeeper check your firearms before handing them out?”

“Perth, it wasn’t his fault,” Mercy said.

“Yes, it was, Miss Coltrane,” Lady Acton said. “You are our guest and therefore our responsibility. I have been remiss in my duty. How remiss is only now”—her autocratic gaze touched Hart—“becoming apparent. I cannot tell you how very much I regret our negligence.”

Mercy stirred among the flounced and ruffled covers. “The gun was fine,” she insisted. “I checked the action myself before the hunt. It was in perfect working order.”

“But, my dear,” Hillard crooned, “surely there was some small defect that would have escaped the hobbyist’s eye but should not have been missed by the gamekeeper.”

“No,” Mercy said, a stubborn set to her mouth. “I am not a hobbyist, Mr. Hillard. I am well acquainted with firearms. I have had to be. There was
nothing untoward about that gun when I returned it for loading.”