The Scoundrel and the Debutante (5 page)

Prudence looked back at the others. She expected some gentleman to stand up and express a desire to shoot. But no one did.

“Well, then, Miss Cabot?” Mr. Matheson said. “Wasn't it your idea to pass the time?”

It was. And in hindsight, it appeared to be a very bad idea. It was very unlike her to speak so boldly and impetuously, and now Prudence knew why her sisters were accustomed to talking out of turn and saying outrageous things. How did they do it? How did they say impetuous things and then
do
impetuous things?

Mr. Matheson was watching her with far too much anticipation. As if he couldn't wait to put a firearm in her hand. His smile had broadened. “Perhaps these good people might like to wager on our contest,” he said smoothly, gesturing grandly to the ladies.

“Wager,” said the old man, nodding.

“Ooh,” said Mrs. Scales. “I certainly have been known to enjoy a wager or two.” She tittered as she opened her reticule. Prudence gaped at the woman in surprise. Mrs. Scales glanced at her expectantly. “Well? As the gentleman said, it was
your
idea.”

“Yes, all right,” Prudence said crossly. What a fool she was! She
had
been taught to shoot. The earl, as they had always referred to her stepfather, had insisted his stepdaughters be properly instructed in riding, shooting, gaming and archery. He said that they should be prepared to meet their match in a man. Unfortunately, Prudence had not met her match in a man in such a long time that she was quite unpracticed at shooting now.

“We will need a target,” Matheson said with all the confidence of a man who knew he would win and win handily. That trait, Prudence discovered, was just as maddening whether a gentleman was British or American.

“I've one,” said the old man. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flask. He tipped it up at his lips and drained what was left, then handed it to Mr. Matheson.

“A perfect target. Thank you, sir,” Matheson said. He was enjoying this now, winking slyly at Prudence as he passed her, carrying the flask.

That flask looked awfully small to Prudence. “I don't have a firearm,” she quickly pointed out, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Then you may use mine,” Mr. Matheson said, and smiled as he reached deep into his coat and withdrew it. “I suggest you remove your gloves, Miss Cabot.”

The sisters fluttered and cooed at that, and then unabashedly admired Mr. Matheson as he strolled away to set the flask on another rock.

There was no escape. Prudence yanked her gloves from her hands, muttering under her breath about fools and angels.

Mr. Matheson walked back to where she stood and, with the heel of his boot, he scraped a line in the dirt. “Give me your hand,” he said.

“My hand?”

He impatiently took her hand, his palm warm and firm beneath hers. He pressed the gun into her palm and wrapped her fingers around the butt of it. He squeezed lightly and smiled down at her, his gold-brown eyes twinkling with what Prudence read as sheer delight. “Ladies first,” he said, and let go of her, stepping back.

Prudence looked down at the gun. It had a pearled handle and silver barrel, not unlike the pistol her stepbrother, Augustine, liked to show his friends. But Augustine kept his pistol in a case at Beckington House in London. He did not wear it on his person. Moreover, Mr. Matheson's gun was smaller than the gun she'd been taught to fire.

“You know how to fire it, don't you?” he asked as she studied the gun.

“Yes!” She lifted the gun to have a look. “That is, I assume that the trigger—”

“I suspected as much,” Mr. Matheson said. He stepped forward, took her by the wrist and swung her about so that her back was against his chest. “I would feel more comfortable,” he said, a bit breathlessly, “if you do not point it at me.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon.”

He leaned over her shoulder and extended her arm with the gun, helping her to sight the target. He showed her how to cock it. “Would you like a practice round?”

A practice round? No, she wanted this over as quickly as possible. “Not necessary,” she said pertly.

One corner of his mouth tipped up. Prudence had to force herself to look away from that mouth. Those lips, full and moist, made her a little unsteady and she needed all her wits about her.

“Let the contest begin,” Mr. Matheson said, and stepped back once more to take his place among the few gentlemen passengers who had wandered over to have a look.

As Prudence studied her target, there seemed to be a lot of chatter at her back as well as the sound of coins clinking when they were tossed into the hat the old man had taken off the young man's head as people made their bets. There was laughter, too, and Prudence wondered if it was directed at her.

“Go on, Miss Cabot. We don't want night to fall before you've had your chance,” Mr. Matheson said, and someone snickered.

Prudence glanced coolly at him over her shoulder. She lifted her arm. The pistol was heavy in her hand as she tried to sight the flask. Mr. Matheson had put it at what seemed like a great distance. Her arm began to quiver—she was mortified by that. She aimed as best she could, closed one eye...and then the other...and fired.

The sound of breaking glass startled her almost as much as the kick from the gun that sent her stumbling backward. She'd not expected to hit the target at all, much less head-on as she seemed to have done in a moment of sheer dumb luck. Prudence gasped with delight and relief and whirled about. “Did you
see
?” she demanded of all of them.

“Of course we saw!” Mrs. Scales said. “We're sitting right here.”

Prudence squealed with jubilant triumph, as if she'd known all along she could do it. “Your turn, Mr. Matheson,” she said cheerfully as two men hurried by her to examine the flask. “But it appears we'll need another target.” She curtsied low and held out the gun to him.

The slightest hint of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth. “It certainly does,” he said, and looked at her warily, as if he expected her of some sleight of hand. He took the gun Prudence very gingerly held out to him.

“I've a target!” Mrs. Scales called out. She held up a small handheld mirror.

“Ruth, Mr. Scales gave that to you!”

“Hush, now. He can give me another one, can't he? Make your wager.”

A man took the mirror and walked across the meadow to prop it where the flask had been.

“Watch now, Miss Cabot, and I will demonstrate how to shoot a pistol,” he said. He stepped to the line he'd drawn in the dirt. He put one hand at his back, held the gun out and fired. He clearly hit something; the mirror toppled off the back of the rock. Two gentlemen moved forward to have a look; Prudence scampered to catch up with them and see for herself. One of them leaned over the rock, picked up the mirror and held it aloft. The mirror was, remarkably, intact for the most part, but a corner piece had either broken off or been shot off.

“I
win
!” Prudence cried with gleeful surprise. “You missed!”

“I most certainly did not miss,” Mr. Matheson said gruffly, gesturing to the broken mirror. “Do you not see that a piece is missing?”

“Must have grazed it,” one of the men offered. “You hit the rock, here, see? And the bullet—”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Mr. Matheson said, waving his hand over the rock. “Nevertheless, the object has been hit. We have a tie.”

“Then who is to receive the winnings?” Mrs. Scales complained as the sound of an approaching coach reached them.

Prudence didn't hear the answer to that question—her heart skipped several beats when she saw the coach that appeared on the road. It was not the second stagecoach as they all expected—it was Dr. Linford. Prudence's heart leaped with painful panic. One look at her and Dr. Linford would not only know that she'd lied, but he would also demand she come with him at once. He would tell her brother-in-law Lord Merryton, who would be quite undone by her lack of propriety. That was the one thing Merryton insisted upon, that their reputations and family honor be kept upmost in their minds at all times. As Merryton generously provided for Prudence and Mercy and her mother, and had indeed paid dearly to ensure that the patrons of the Lisson Grove School of Art overlooked Mercy's family and placed her in that school, Prudence couldn't even begin to fathom all the consequences of her being discovered like this. Moreover, she had no time to try—she looked wildly about for a place to hide as the Linford coach rolled to a halt. But the meadow was woefully bare, and there was nothing but Mr. Matheson's large frame to shield her, so she darted behind him, grabbing onto his coat.

“What the devil?”

He tried to turn but she pushed against his shoulder.
“Please,”
she begged him. “Please, sir, not a word!”

“Are you
hiding
?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, obviously!”

“Good God,” he muttered. His body tensed. “Miss Cabot,” he said softly, and she thought he'd say he would not help her, that she must step out from behind him. “Your feather is showing.”

“Please indulge me in this. I shall pay you—”

“Pay! Damn it, your
feather
is showing!”

The feather in her bonnet! Prudence gasped and quickly yanked the feather from her bonnet and dropped it. She stepped closer to his back, practically melding herself onto him. She could smell the scent of horseflesh, of leather and brawn, and she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to the warmth of his back. The superfine felt soft against her skin, and she closed her eyes, feeling entirely safe in that sliver of a moment.

“What are you doing?” he demanded softly.

“Hiding,” she whispered. “I told
you.”

“I understand you are hiding, but you're
touching
me.”

“Yes, I am,” she said with exasperation. Was he unfamiliar with the concept of hiding? “I would crawl under your coat if I could. That's what hiding
is.
”

“Good afternoon!” she heard Dr. Linford call out to all. “May we help?”

Prudence was doomed. She would be humiliated before Mr. Matheson and exposed to scandal—all of which seemed far worse than Mr. Matheson's displeasure that she was touching him.

“Turn about,” Mr. Matheson said.

“No,” Prudence squeaked, her voice sounding desperately close to a whimper. “Please don't—”

“Turn about and walk to the stand of trees just beyond the rocks. No one will see you there, and if they do, you'll be at too great a distance for anyone to determine who, exactly, you are.”

“I
can't
—”

“You can't stand here hiding behind me, Miss Cabot. It's entirely suspicious. Go, and I'll walk behind you and block any view.”

Prudence lifted her cheek from the warmth and safety of his back. He was right, of course; she couldn't hide like a dumb cow in the middle of a meadow. She glanced at the trees Mr. Matheson had suggested.

“Miss Cabot?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, earnestly.

“Let go of my coat and turn about.”

“Oh. Yes.” She reluctantly released his coat and tried to smooth out the wrinkle she'd put in the fabric with her grip.

Mr. Matheson hitched his shoulders as if she'd tugged him backward, and straightened his cuffs. “Have you turned about?”

“Ah...” She turned around. “Yes.”

“Then for God's sake walk on before the passengers begin to wonder why I stand like a damn tree in this field.”

Prudence did as he instructed her, her hands clasping and unclasping, her step light and very quick, trying not to run. She didn't dare look back for fear of Dr. Linford seeing her. When she reached the safety of the trees, she whirled about and collided with Mr. Matheson's chest.

He caught her elbow, his grip firm, and dipped down to see her beneath the brim of her bonnet. His gaze was intent. Piercing. It felt almost as if he could see through her. “I'm going to ask you a question and I need you to be completely honest with me. Are you in trouble?”

“No!” she said, aghast. Not as
yet
, that was. “No, no, nothing like that.”

“Do you swear it?”

Good Lord, he acted as if he knew what she'd done. Prudence looked away, but he quickly put his hand on her cheek and forced her head around to look at him. She opened her mouth to respond, then thought the better of it and closed it. She nodded adamantly.

He unabashedly continued to study her face a moment, looking, Prudence presumed, for any sign of dishonesty, which made her feel oddly vulnerable. She looked down from his soft golden-brown eyes and dark lashes, from the shadow of his beard, and his lips. His
lips.
She was certain she'd never seen lips like that on a man and, even now, as terrified as she was of being discovered, they made her feel a little fluttery inside.

“Stay here,” he said. He strode away from her, toward the carriage.

When he reached the small crowd, there was a lively discussion, the center at which seemed to be Mrs. Scales. Mr. Matheson gestured toward Linford's carriage. Mrs. Scales bent over and grabbed up her pail and a bag, and hurried toward the Linford coach. Her sister was quickly behind her, dropping her pail once and quickly retrieving it. But at the coach door, there was another discussion.

There was a shuffling around of the luggage, and then Mrs. Scales, Mrs. Tricklebank and the elderly gentleman all joined Dr. Linford and his wife in their coach. Dr. Linford climbed up to sit beside his driver. After what seemed an eternity, Dr. Linford's coach drove on, sliding around the stagecoach, and then moving briskly down the road.

Prudence sagged with relief. A smile spread her face as she realized she had managed to dodge Dr. Linford completely. How clever she was! Prudence had never thought herself capable of subterfuge, but she appeared to be quite good at it. She felt oddly exhilarated. At last, something exciting was happening in her life! It was only a single day, but she was completely enlivened by the events thus far.