Page 68 of My One and Only Duke
Duncan resumed his seat and resigned himself to suffering until his knee was done lecturing him.
“Let’s fetch Mrs. Hatfield, shall we? Your theory is fanciful at best, but it explains much, particularly if that neighbor was also benefitting from Arbuthnot’s thievery.”
“In other words, I’m right. Something stinks, all roads lead to York, and we’ve sent Quinn north with little more than a few grooms and a boy to guard his back.”
“My money’s on the boy,” Duncan said. “He puts me in mind of Quinn at a younger age. Ferocious, principled in his way, and nobody’s fool. Just like Quinn.”
Though Quinn, for a time, had been the Countess of Tipton’s very devoted fool.
* * *
“I see improvement,” Stephen said. “We’ve been at this little more than a week, and already you have a good eye and a steady hand.”
Althea had said something similar about Jane’s use of knives. In both endeavors, aim was critical, because, as her tutors had explained, using the weapon meant giving away her location, and that meant greater risk of retaliation.
The weapon had thus best be employed effectively the first time. Jane had no objection to the theory, but having rejected the lex talionis, she wouldn’t be carrying a knife or a gun on her person. An eye for eye left everybody blind, as Mama had often pointed out.
“I don’t care for the noise of firearms,” Jane said, “though hitting a target is gratifying.”
She’d graduated to moving targets, and for that exercise, Stephen had taken her to some rural property on the edge of London. The footmen had set up jars suspended on ropes, which Stephen had them swing from overhanging branches.
As a way to pass the time, target practice distracted Jane from Quinn’s absence, but each night she went home to a vast, empty bed, and equally vast worries. Where was Quinn—where was he really? What would he make of Papa’s daft maunderings about assuming guardianship of Jane’s child? What business required Quinn’s remove from Town barely a fortnight after he’d been pardoned?
Were the grooms, Ned, and the footmen keeping Quinn in sight at all times?
Quinn’s siblings worried as well, and thus Jane obliged their need to instruct, arm, and protect her. All very different from how she’d envisioned married life, but not dull.
“Quinn would be proud of you,” Stephen said, as the grooms gathered up the ropes, firearms, powder, and shot. “Give me that last pistol, Ivor.”
The footman passed over the gun, a small, double-barreled weapon that would fit easily into a lady’s reticule, then stepped back.
Safety mattered to Stephen, and thus Jane’s first lessons had been simple: Always stand behind the shooter, always handle a gun as if it’s loaded. Always. She moved behind Stephen, who surveyed the trees and hedges around them.
She hadn’t seen him shoot previously, but she had seen him walk. With the aid of two canes, Stephen could navigate slowly, step by painful step. For these shooting expeditions, he chose that option while Ivor carried the chair behind him.
Stephen had settled into his chair, lips nearly white, and remained seated for the duration of today’s lesson. He loaded the lady’s pistol, took aim at some distant twig or branch, then, without warning, swung the pistol and fired such that a blooming sprig of honeysuckle dropped from over Jane’s head to land at her feet.
He’d aimed a loaded gun in her direction and fired a bullet within inches of her head.
“Never relax around firearms, Jane.” He fired the second bullet at a fencepost five yards away. “Never. They can misfire, land in the wrong hands, and as long as somebody—”
“How dare you?” Jane snapped, snatching up the murdered honeysuckle and pitching it at him. “You did that for the puerile pleasure of frightening me, you vile wretch. The risk you took with my life is inexcusable, and this is the last lesson I take from you.”
She shook with a primal reaction that compelled her to get away, collapse, or strike back.
Ivor appeared at Jane’s side. “Lord Stephen will apologize.” His diction was perfect, right down to the w. His tone was arctic, worthy of Quinn.
“She needs to realize when she’s not safe,” Stephen shot back. “She needs to realize she’s a Wentworth.”
Jane marched up to him, Ivor hovering at her elbow. “You need to realize that a gentleman does not discuss a lady in the third person when she’s participating in the conversation.” She plucked the gun away and hoped Stephen’s fingers were bruised in the process. “You further need to realize that I will not abandon your brother on a whim. I spoke vows, Stephen, and I keep my word. Quinn is honorable, he has been kind and decent to me, and he will always have my loyalty.”
No sulky boy glared up at Jane, but rather a young man exercising a frightening degree of calculation.
“Quinn is not who or what you think he is,” Stephen said. “He’s my brother, but I owe you at least that much warning. Ivor, please escort the lady to the—”
Jane passed Ivor the gun and crossed her arms.
“I’ll meet you at the coach,” Stephen said, pushing to his feet and balancing on his canes.
