assignations under tables than with gunfire. “Higgins, do you see any bullet holes?” he asked, and twisted this way and that to inspect his person for damage, including the lace at his wrists about which he couldn’t care less, all the while watching Sir Anthony out of the corner of his eye to gauge his reaction. Was the Bertie act fooling him? And if it were, did a vestige of hope of being given Mira Crenshaw’s hand in marriage remain?
“Harry … ” Sir Anthony said, but was silenced by Harry’s wagging finger in his nose. “But of course, it’s Bertie now. I don’t know if I shall ever grow used to calling you such! Meanwhile, I must find my wife and daughter and make sure they are well. Will you join us back at the inn?”
“I mustn’t, no, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,” Harry averred, “but you may rest assured your lady wife and daughter are in good hands. But wait!” he said, once again snapping his forefinger to attention. Wasn’t it the Duke of Marcross with whom they tarried? As such, I must recant,” he said with a woeful wag of his head. “The last I saw of him, he was drying his tears with the tablecloth.”
“Then I had best hurry. Do be careful, Bertie,” Sir Anthony said and disappeared into the inn.
“Well, that Bertie of your’n is a right fine ninny, ain’t he?” Higgins said with a snort.
“Aye,” Harry agreed, “but there be worse men about.”
“No doubt you’re referring to that traitor with the pistol.”
“None at all,” Harry replied while privately wondering if an honest nincompoop such as Bertie weren’t a better man than the snide hypocrite Harry was becoming. “Let us part here, you to find a surgeon for that arm and me to track down the gunman,” he insisted.
“Nay, ’tis a cold trail already,” Higgins said. “I would as lief have you tuck yourself into bed for the remains of the day and continue your journey at night. You’d make a sight less easy target under a moonless sky.”
“Doubtless true,” Harry agreed. He scanned the horizon for any clue as to the identity of the person who wanted them dead. “I should be a bit of a babe in the woods remaining here though, shouldn’t I?”
“Rubbish! This is the last place he’ll look. He must know you are headed to London and doubtless has gone ahead to try his luck there. Snug as a rug you’ll be here, Harry, mark my words.”
“To tell the truth, I would rather feel the muzzle of a gun in my back than take a scolding in the face,” Harry said with a rueful smile.
“Eh?”
“Forget I spoke.” Harry thrust out his hand to bid Higgins farewell and watched his secret service contact ride out of sight before he reluctantly entered the inn. There was the small matter of having refused to return to the inn with Sir Anthony just a few moments past, while the matter of having kissed his daughter under the table was no small matter indeed. The possibility that Lady Crenshaw witnessed any or all of his and Mira’s
tete-a-tete
filled him with a hot and painful dread. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lady Crenshaw’s displeasure in word or deed. Returning to the inn was the last thing he wanted to do, but Higgins was right; it would be best to cool his heels until nightfall.
Meanwhile, his time would be best spent in the spreading of false rumors as to the nature of the bedlam let loose at the Cygnet and Lute. It simply wouldn’t do for a personage such as the Duke of Marcross to bandy it about that someone had been gunning for Harry. A plausible explanation for the gunfire must be thought of, and the malignant expression on George’s face when Harry strode into the dining room was all the inspiration he needed.
“Bertie!” Sir Anthony said with some surprise. “I thought you were off already.”
“I meant to be, but I felt duty bound to inform you that the Duke’s life is in danger,” Harry said with a studious determination to avoid Mira’s gaze, a task made more
“Harry … ” Sir Anthony said, but was silenced by Harry’s wagging finger in his nose. “But of course, it’s Bertie now. I don’t know if I shall ever grow used to calling you such! Meanwhile, I must find my wife and daughter and make sure they are well. Will you join us back at the inn?”
“I mustn’t, no, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,” Harry averred, “but you may rest assured your lady wife and daughter are in good hands. But wait!” he said, once again snapping his forefinger to attention. Wasn’t it the Duke of Marcross with whom they tarried? As such, I must recant,” he said with a woeful wag of his head. “The last I saw of him, he was drying his tears with the tablecloth.”
“Then I had best hurry. Do be careful, Bertie,” Sir Anthony said and disappeared into the inn.
“Well, that Bertie of your’n is a right fine ninny, ain’t he?” Higgins said with a snort.
“Aye,” Harry agreed, “but there be worse men about.”
“No doubt you’re referring to that traitor with the pistol.”
“None at all,” Harry replied while privately wondering if an honest nincompoop such as Bertie weren’t a better man than the snide hypocrite Harry was becoming. “Let us part here, you to find a surgeon for that arm and me to track down the gunman,” he insisted.
“Nay, ’tis a cold trail already,” Higgins said. “I would as lief have you tuck yourself into bed for the remains of the day and continue your journey at night. You’d make a sight less easy target under a moonless sky.”
“Doubtless true,” Harry agreed. He scanned the horizon for any clue as to the identity of the person who wanted them dead. “I should be a bit of a babe in the woods remaining here though, shouldn’t I?”
“Rubbish! This is the last place he’ll look. He must know you are headed to London and doubtless has gone ahead to try his luck there. Snug as a rug you’ll be here, Harry, mark my words.”
“To tell the truth, I would rather feel the muzzle of a gun in my back than take a scolding in the face,” Harry said with a rueful smile.
“Eh?”
“Forget I spoke.” Harry thrust out his hand to bid Higgins farewell and watched his secret service contact ride out of sight before he reluctantly entered the inn. There was the small matter of having refused to return to the inn with Sir Anthony just a few moments past, while the matter of having kissed his daughter under the table was no small matter indeed. The possibility that Lady Crenshaw witnessed any or all of his and Mira’s
tete-a-tete
filled him with a hot and painful dread. He couldn’t bear the thought of Lady Crenshaw’s displeasure in word or deed. Returning to the inn was the last thing he wanted to do, but Higgins was right; it would be best to cool his heels until nightfall.
Meanwhile, his time would be best spent in the spreading of false rumors as to the nature of the bedlam let loose at the Cygnet and Lute. It simply wouldn’t do for a personage such as the Duke of Marcross to bandy it about that someone had been gunning for Harry. A plausible explanation for the gunfire must be thought of, and the malignant expression on George’s face when Harry strode into the dining room was all the inspiration he needed.
“Bertie!” Sir Anthony said with some surprise. “I thought you were off already.”
“I meant to be, but I felt duty bound to inform you that the Duke’s life is in danger,” Harry said with a studious determination to avoid Mira’s gaze, a task made more
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