Page 64 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“Rapid spurts from the bottom of the ridge where the second part was,” another murmured.
“Must be a stray one,” a fair-haired Lord shook his head. “No one in their right mind would dare harm Sir Stratham.”
Then, to his relief, the man blinked and shook his head. His deep grimace was lessening by the seconds, but he still looked to be in pain.
“My God, Stratham,” Lord Allerton’s voice was a mix of shock and outrage. “How are you feeling?”
He managed to twist his neck and shook his head, “It stings like the dickens and looks bloody but ‘tis only a flesh wound, Allerton. The physician can pry it out of me in quick time. In retrospect, I—well, any one of us actually—should have expected accidents like this to happen while in the middle of a hunt. We’re not bulletproof.”
But that leaves the question…who shot him? Was it truly an error of judgment or was it deliberate?
He listened keenly to hear where exactly the Lord had gotten shot, and then, slipping out of the room he went back to making the tray for Penelope. He called a maid over and sent it with her.
When the Lords were settled in the rooms with refreshments, and the doctor was on his way, Heath slipped out of the house to get Duke. With the horse saddled, he rode to the ridge that the lords had mentioned.
The location, though deep in the forest, was a bit near to the Earl’s home. The deer must have been feeding near and the party had happened upon them by pure luck. He slipped off the horse and began to walk slowly around, looking with trained eyes at the very minute things that many would not notice like the trampled twigs, the sprinkle of gunpowder on the ground or the discarded bullets.
He felt it was a very slim chance that he would find any evidence of the shot like the parchment casing or even the discarded bullet itself as it was the ground of a hunt. It would be littered with bullets and casings and sprinkled with gunpowder.
Moving foot by slow, measured foot around the space, Heath shifted through the discarded casings that all had a generic English make. That was not what he was looking for. He kept looking diligently for anything out of the odds.
On his second pass his toe kicked up a spot of dirt and a .46 caliber ball, about the same basic size and weight as other muskets the hunters might have used was revealed.
He knelt and took it up trying to place the color. It was a strange amalgamation of tin and—he squinted—was that gold or steel? The look and makeup of this bullet were one he was unfamiliar with and felt that something was decidedly off with this one. Furthermore, there was no dent telling him that the bullet had not struck any tree of rocks like the other missed shots.
Was this the bullet one of those that had struck the knight?
He rolled it again, trying to discover any residue of gritty black gunpowder and found none. He kept examining the bullet when a strange suspicion build in the back of his mind. There is no gunpowder, no dent for a missed shot and a no paper casing laying around. Could it be that this came from an air gun?
Those arms were quieter than any other firearm, they had no muzzle flash, and were smokeless, practically indistinguishable and a perfect assassin’s weapon. Anyone with a good sight could have fired that weapon from over a thousand feet away which would account for the lack of gunpowder and casing. Supposing this spot was where the Lord had stood when he got shot, Heath stood and twisted around, fraction by fraction to see where the shot might have come from.
With each shift, he saw only thick tree cover and branches that blocked the way, until about three-quarters through his turn he stopped dead. There was a clear sight from the base of the hill about a thousand or so feet from away where a rocky outcrop lay. It was perfect for camouflage for any shooter.
That was it. That was where the shot had come from. But air guns were not usual in England and not many lords had them. Then he staggered so hard he almost fell to his feet. Lord Allerton! He had them!
Had someone stolen one and used it to frame him?
Racing back to Duke who was quietly munching on tall blades of grass, Heath swung into the saddle with ease and spurred the horse back to the manor. This was not good!
He made to the house just as the carriage for the physician came around the bend. Heath directed Duke to the service backroads and went directly to the stables. He had to find Lord Allerton. Quickly unsaddling Duke and promising him a few apples for his quick run, Heath went back inside.
Most of the Lords had changed from their hunting attire and were reclining in the sitting room with bottles of wine and newly-added card tables. He scanned the room—Lord Allerton was not there. Spinning around, he went to the Lord’s study. He was not there either.
Wasting no time, Heath went to the gun room hoping that everything would be all right while fearing in equal measures that something had gone wrong. The room was locked. Frustration burned bright under closed eyes. Now, there was no way to see if a gun had been taken from the Lords’ vault.
Raking a hand through his hair, he felt at a loss. Feeling that bleak hopelessness was a decidedly strange feeling for Heath as somehow, his mind always came up with another way out. If someone was framing the Earl, as he suspected from the death of Lord Shirlling, this was the best time to find out who. The party was smaller this time, and the suspect could easily be ferreted out.
Someone wants to send Lord Allerton to prison, I am sure.
“What are you doing here?” a strong voice laced with contempt arrested him.
Heath spun to see Lord Hillbrook seething at him. He barely got a word out when the Baron advanced, “Was it you?”
“Pardon me?” Heath asked.
“You,” the Baron challenged, “did you shoot Sir Stratham?”
Him? Shoot the knight? That was the definition of preposterous.
