The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (18 page)

She whirled to a sudden stop, making William's head spin—probably due in part to the lack of food. Her face paled, and her eyes took on nearly the bleakest look he'd ever seen.

"Lord Carlton doesn't want a wife. He wants a..." She looked around, marking the other two couples' out-of-hearing but not out-of-sight distance. Then she studied the ground, then in something between a barely audible whisper and a hiss, she said, "He wants a slave to control."

"Rubbish!"

To which tears pooled in her dark eyes, and she swung away and marched into the house. Her back ramrod-straight, she slammed the door loud enough to jar the other couples' attention.

The two other sisters broke away and followed the eldest into the house.

"Oh, I say," said William as Sheridan and Randleton approached, and William was at a complete loss whether he believed the accusation or even should repeat it.

"What the devil did you say to her?"

William sputtered. Ten years it had been since his tutor had beat his stutter right out of him, and it reemerged with a vengeance as he tried to stammer some explanation, sure he sounded like the merest ninny. Finally he managed, "I'm-m c-c-cold."

"You said you were cold, and Miss Lungren went running in the house?" said Sheridan sternly.

It was easy to see how he'd kept his troops in line, because William felt like whimpering. "Actually, I said 'r-r-rubbish,' which wasn't precisely in argument with what she said, but if it was true—hang it!" William needed to decide if he wanted to slander Lord Carlton, and he couldn't think straight with his knees knocking from the cold, and his spine and navel rubbing together for want of food. "I say, we need to look a little closer at Lord Carlton's involvement in all this."

"This gets worse by the minute," said Randleton. "I don't know about you two, but I think, other than Miss Carolyn, Mrs. Lungren may be the sanest of them all."

Sheridan rubbed his face. "Then are we are agreed, all the men in this family have been murdered?"

Chapter Eleven

Five o'clock came and went, then six, then seven. Felicity heard the long case clock in the entry hall chime eight times, then nine. Finally, her butler showed in Major Sheridan.

"I don't suppose you still want to go for a drive?"

Felicity put down her pen. She had long since given up on him and had moved to her study to get work done. But the minute he walked in she was lighter and slightly breathless. He hadn't just ignored her note as she'd begun to suspect. "You have to stop these late-night visits. They're not proper."

She waved her butler away, anyway.

"Surely a pretend fiancé is allowed a little latitude." Tony limped into the room. His overcoat was draped over his arm, as if he or her butler was unsure of his welcome or he didn't mean to stay long. "I came as soon as I got your note."

She rolled her eyes.

"It would appear I am not timely in response to your written missives." He sat, his overcoat covering his lap.

"Indeed." She softened a little at his self-deprecating remark.

"So why did you want to go for a drive?" He fastened his light blue gaze on her face. In the half-light from the lamp his eyes didn't look so devoid of feelings.

Felicity put her hand to her forehead. "To talk. My parents aren't leaving, after all. My father was in here earlier trying to 'assist' me." She doubted if Tony cared or even understood that merely the idea of her father meddling in Layton's business affairs terrified her. "I understand you told Charles nothing was decided yet."

"And he told your parents?"

"I should imagine they grilled him thoroughly."

"I failed in my promise to avoid the subject."

"I imagine Charles raised the issue." She knew her son. Her anger had long since faded to the realization that Tony couldn't have known that Charles could be a very determined little imp, and he tended to hear far more than he should. Felicity wondered what other subjects he had questioned Tony about.

Tony gave her a tight smile. "I did not think I should lie to him, under any circumstances."

"No-o," Felicity drew out her response. It wouldn't bode well to begin a father-son relationship with dishonesty. It would have been better not to start the relationship at all.

"Nothing
is
decided yet."

"Apparently not," agreed Felicity. But they did need to reach some understandings.

She stood to move around the desk. He began a slow lurch to his feet.

"No, stay." She held out her hand. The limitation caused by his wound made her want to reach out and comfort him. "I'm just changing seats."

She sank into the chair beside his. Tony's gaze dropped to her chest, rose to her lips, and lifted back up to her eyes so quickly she could have missed it, but she didn't. Instead a foolish warmth ran through her.

"So your parents believe your son is more informed than they when it comes to the truth of our engagement?" His conversational tone betrayed nothing.

Was he merely biding his time, or had he decided to let her set the tone of this encounter? But she had summoned him to discuss things, not for him to kiss her or offer to become her lover. She was the one with wayward thoughts.

She rubbed her forehead. "Well, he is. And he does have an uncanny ability to ferret out the truth."

"Does he?" Tony leaned his elbow up against the arm of his chair, cradling the back of his head in his hand. He shut his eyes and opened them. "I could make good use of him, then."

She bristled. Her son wasn't to be used, no matter how good he was at learning the truth.

Before she voice a protest, the tiny shake of Tony's head told her he had no intention of using Charles in any such manner. "He hears a lot for child, likely too much."

"Well, yes, there was some mention of a duel and murder."

"Murders, actually." Tony frowned, yet his pose remained reassuringly relaxed. "Although I suppose this morning we hadn't yet concluded that there was more than one."

Her chest squeezed. Felicity stared at Tony. "More than one?" she echoed weakly. What on earth? Was he somehow involved in a murder? Murders? "My parents are now convinced you are totally unsuitable. Perhaps they are right."

"Never think it. One of my captains was murdered the night of the ball. It would seem his brothers might have been murdered before him."

"Lord!" Felicity stared at him, waiting for more. "You are serious. Who? When? Who did it?"

"I should like to know who did it." Tony leaned toward her and put a hand on her arm. "Don't repeat this. It is not common knowledge."

She swallowed hard. "I was so irritated with you for forgetting my drink." The thought seemed petty and mean-spirited in light of the truth. He must have been called away because of the death.

"Yes, well, do you dislike lemonade now? I thought you liked it before."

"I do still like it—prefer it, actually."

His hand still rested on her arm, warming it, until he moved it and a jolt of sparking pleasure shot through her. With a reluctance that made her arm feel like lead, she moved it away from his too-tempting touch.

"I was rather incensed that you married another man while we were engaged." He dropped his arm to lie on top of his coat. So shall we just call it even and be done with it?"

He was inviting her to let bygones be bygones. While she didn't want to relive the past, she couldn't just ignore all had happened. "No, I don't think we are at evens, Tony. I can't believe that you did not know I was with child."

Felicity looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. Heat burned her cheeks as she realized they were calmly discussing the consequences of that one night that had changed her life forever.

He watched her steadily a moment and finally said, "You have reason. I should have inquired after the possibility."

Tension drained from her shoulders, and she only then realized how tightly coiled her body was.

His blue eyes softened as he watched her, which raised a corresponding softness in her gut. "So how is it that your father's offer of assistance is bothersome?"

"He doesn't know the first thing about business." She stood and paced across the small floor area. "He can't even run his estate well enough to pay his bills. I've tried to piece together why he can't make ends meet, but there isn't any reason."

Tony watched her a while and then said, "I take it you're a wealthy woman."

"Charles is wealthy or will be. But obviously he is too young to manage his affairs for some time, so I...I suppose I'm wealthy enough in my own right. My father says they are placing bets on who will marry me."

"Bedford assures me his intentions are honorable, so you could marry him." Tony looked dreadfully serious.

Her mouth fell open. She snapped it shut.

"But I suspect he is honorable in that it is the only way to get at your fortune. Of course, I am only after your person, so my intentions are less honorable, but no less sincere."

She knew he was trying to tempt a smile from her, but marriage was much too serious a burden to contemplate lightly. "I don't want to marry anyone. I just want some peace."

He turned his head away and said casually, "Not planning on sharing your fortune?"

"Charles's. I'm not letting anyone take over Charles's inheritance or mismanage it."

The piles of ledgers and correspondence jumbled on her desk marked her dedication to the task. There were so many figures she needed to transfer into the ledgers—prices paid for raw materials, manufactured goods, labor costs, equipment, and so on. Really she was getting behind on her work.

Every time she headed for her study, her father would follow her and insist that he should help. Then she would hastily close all the books and shove them all in a cabinet, creating even longer subsequent delays. At home she had spent several hours each day with the stuff. She couldn't bear the idea of a husband coming in and taking that away from her. While much of the work was tedious, she enjoyed it and had worked very hard to keep the companies profitable.

"So do you wish to continue a mock engagement?"

Felicity looked at him warily. "A pretend engagement only."

Tony reached under his coat. She watched in horrified fascination as his overcoat rippled with the hidden movement of his hand. "Perhaps your father will not insist on helping you with the this"—he waved the arm holding his coat, indicating the piles on her desk—"if he thinks I am taking it over."

Before he settled his overcoat back into his lap, she saw his long fingers massaging his injured thigh. She felt an odd, somewhat disappointed relief that he wasn't doing anything untoward. "I don't want you taking over. I
like
running the businesses. I've been doing it quite some time."

"Since your husband's death?"

"No, before. Several years, now. He was ill. He couldn't..." She continued staring at his leg. While she tried to tell herself that she only wondered if she could ease Tony's pain by rubbing his leg, it wasn't really his pain she was thinking of easing. "He couldn't..."

She couldn't finish the thought. What kept coming to her mind was that there were a lot of things Layton couldn't do because of his illness, and that it had been a long, long time since she had done
that.
An even longer time since she had
enjoyed
doing that, and she had enjoyed it...once.

Tony tossed the overcoat into the chair she'd vacated, and caught her arm. He tugged her forward so quickly, she stumbled. He used her momentum to propel her into his lap. With a deft motion as if she weighed no more than a fractious kitten, he shifted her to rest on his healthy leg.

"You can't continue standing, as it is making me rude to sit in your presence. And my injury is bothering me."

Felicity started to scramble off.

"Don't squirm, you're making me..."

It was quite obvious what she was making him, as he pulled her tight against him.

* * *

William woke with a jolt. He had been immersed in a dream in which he possessed a harem. Only it wasn't a pleasant male dream with beautiful, scantily clad concubines plying him with grapes and nectar. No, he had the three Lungren sisters as wives, and they were haranguing him for food. Not grapes, either.

It was an odd thump that had him rolling out of bed, half believing that his wives were so hungry and angry they were throwing things at him. As he hit the floor, he saw the flash of light and heard the crack from his bedroom doorway.

It took a moment for the gunshot to register. He shook off the fleeting thought that his wives had really given up on his ability to provide for them, if they had decided to shoot him.

Good God, he was being shot at!

He lay on the floor in stunned disbelief for a moment before he heard the intruder—surely it wasn't his man, even though his wages were overdue—move. Then he heard his valet yell from the other room, "Sir, sir, are you all right, sir?"

William scrambled under his bed. Cowering in the dusty dark space, he heard the fleeing footfalls.

William didn't dare answer. In the dark, perhaps his assailant wouldn't know that the bullet had missed. His valet stumbled around, and he heard the concerned voice of his landlady from the stairs. William clenched his eyes shut, hoping no one would be hurt, and fearing the consequences to his valet and his landlady should they try to catch the shooter. He should climb out and assist them, but as the target in this absurd game of ducks and drakes, he would rather stay under the bed.

Slowly his room filled with light, and William's hiding place was exposed when the dust got the better of him and he sneezed.

His man latched onto an ankle and dragged him out from under the bed frame. Unable to resist, for sneezes had overtaken him, William ended up sprawled on the floor of his bedroom, the landlady standing over him with a lamp, and his man staring at the bed. His best nightshirt was covered in gray dust streaks. The landlady leaned closer, and William jerked his nightshirt down over his bare legs.