Ann Lethbridge - Gabriel D'Arcy

She frowned at him.

‘I’m not going to let some damned idiot poacher ruin my plans, Countess.’

She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘You think it was a poacher?’

He shrugged, but his eyes were intent on her face. ‘What else could it be?’

Surely he did not suspect her of having a hand in this shooting? ‘If you think so, then who am I to argue? I know little of English ways. But I must say that, in Paris, people do not go shooting...’

‘Rabbits,’ he said helpfully.

‘ Tiens. Rabbits, in what I understand is a Royal park.’

They rode at a steady canter, past the spot where he’d teased her with her glove to the gate where they’d left the carriage. All the time they rode, his gaze scanned for hidden dangers. As did hers. Who could have fired a shot? And why?

Paul? Surely he was far too subtle for such an overt act in so public a place. And besides, why would he? She did not yet have the information he sought. Did Mooreshead have other enemies? Someone as mundane as an angry husband, perhaps. Or a jealous lover?

When they arrived at the carriage, her groom was walking the horses as instructed. All seemed as it should. It must have been an accident. A poacher. Or someone undertaking a bit of early-morning target practice. Nothing to do with them at all. Yet she could not stop dread from trickling icy fingers along her veins.

She had learned to never ignore those instincts. If she had listened to them years before, she would never have married Vilandry.

Mooreshead climbed down from his horse and helped her dismount.

Reggie came and took Peridot’s halter.

‘Take the countess’s horse back to its stables,’ Mooreshead ordered. ‘I will escort your mistress home later.’ He led his horse to the back of the curricle.

Reggie looked at her. She nodded her acquiescence. ‘Take it easy, Reggie. She’s had a good run.’

Peridot rolled her eyes, showing the whites.

‘She seems a little nervous, my lady,’ the groom said, his stolid square face showing puzzlement. He frowned at Gabe’s gelding, whose legs were trembling, and then at the makeshift bandage around Mooreshead’s arm. ‘What’s amiss?’

‘A shot,’ she said calmly, smoothing her glove. ‘Some idiot shooting in a thicket.’

The groom’s frown didn’t lighten. ‘Shooting what?’

‘A target. Or rabbits,’ Mooreshead said, returning in time to hear the question. ‘The fool must not have seen us. I’ll speak to someone in authority about it later.’ There was steel in his voice. Displeasure. ‘Well, man? Do you plan to stand there all day while the mare takes a chill?’

Reggie drew himself up to his full height, though his head didn’t come much above Mooreshead’s shoulder. His resentment at the accusation was no less impressive. He touched his forelock and bowed to Nicky. ‘I’ll be going now, my lady.’

‘Yes, Reggie. Thank you.’

He marched off stiff-legged to mount his hack.

When Nicky looked up at Mooreshead to chide him for his ordering of her servant, she saw that the good humour was back in his face and his eyes were alight with amusement. ‘A good man, that,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘A very good man.’ Reggie had been one of the few people who had remembered her mother with any kindness when she arrived at her relatives’ house. He could have been no more than a small boy when her mother left for France, but for some reason, he had expressed the desire to leave their employ and serve her instead. She’d come to rely on him and half-wished she could go with him and confront Paul about this failed assassination attempt. But she must stick to the plan and accompany Mooreshead to breakfast. The wound in his arm could not be all that serious or he would be fussing about it. Men always fussed about their aches and their pains.

‘I’ll apologise for my harshness next time I see him,’ Mooreshead said.

He helped her up into the curricle and with little more ado they were on their way. From time to time his gaze flicked to her face with a considering expression and the lines each side of his mouth seemed to become more pronounced. Was he really wondering if she had some involvement in what had occurred? She waited for him to speak. To give her some hint of his thoughts. But his expression remained uncommunicative and his conversation commonplace. Near Kew Bridge, he turned off the road and took the lane to the village of Strand on the Green. He brought the curricle to a halt in the courtyard of the Bull, an inn overlooking the River Thames.

‘What a pretty spot,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you are pleased.’ Gabe took her arm and led her inside, where they found a private parlour ready and waiting. She glanced around at the comfortable surroundings. The low beams and panelled walls. A table with a pristine white cloth and an attentive servant. The unobstructed view of the river. ‘You think of everything, my lord,’ she said calmly, though her heart was beating far too fast. Because of the shot? Or was it the idea of being alone with him? It could not possibly be the latter.

‘I’m glad you approve,’ he murmured, pulling out her chair and seating her.

‘Coffee or wine, my lady? My lord?’ asked the waiter.

‘Coffee, please.’ She had the feeling she needed her wits about her.

‘For me too,’ Gabe said. ‘Thank you. If you will excuse me for a moment or two, Nicky, I’ll have my host make a better job of this bandage and be right back.’

She nodded her assent.

The waiter poured their coffee and placed several dishes on the table. Coddled eggs, rashers of bacon, slices of ham, toast, preserves and fruit.

‘I hope you are hungry,’ Gabe said, returning and giving her a charming smile as he sat down, no longer sporting the handkerchief around his upper arm. The innkeeper must have bandaged it properly.

‘Starving. Riding first thing in the morning always leaves me sharp set.’

‘Me too.’

‘How is your arm?’

‘As I said, it’s merely a scratch.’ He looked down with a frown. ‘Ruined one of my favourite coats, though. For that he ought to be horsewhipped.’

Bluster. Nicky laughed. ‘No doubt he went home with a couple of good rabbits to fill his stewpot.’

He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Here’s good luck to him, then.’

They tucked into the food and it was a good few minutes until they sat back in their chairs and sipped at their coffee. He was watching her again. Over the rim of his cup. Intently. As if considering his next move. Prickles of warning raced across her shoulders. If she had thought him dangerous when he played the charming rogue, she now thought him terrifying. She stiffened her spine against a surge of anxiety.

If he was what she suspected, he would pounce on any sign of weakness. She needed a distraction. She remembered their wager. ‘I suppose it is time to pay the piper?’ Once more she held out her hand, palm up.

He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with a kind of wildness she hadn’t seen in him before. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said with an undertone of menace she couldn’t quite fathom. ‘The wager.’ But he made no attempt to take her hand. He just smiled, a baring of teeth that was almost a grimace. ‘You do it.’

She fumbled with the button, the leather loop making it difficult. The gloves had been made to fit tight around her fingers and the leather was whisper-thin, like a second skin. The button slipped free. She drew the glove off and held it out to him. When he didn’t take it, she set it beside his plate.

He glanced down at it. ‘You have small hands, Countess.’

She trilled an easy laugh, thankfully back on the ground she knew. ‘And tiny feet.’ She lifted the edge of her skirt and looking down, circled one foot in its riding boot.