the hunt no longer seems exciting.” The earl hesitated, and then suddenly handed his fowling gun to their grizzled guide. “You go ahead and take my shots, Rochemont. I’ve just spotted an interesting species of mushrooms and wish to have a closer look. I shall catch up with you shortly.”
The comte raised a brow. “Mushrooms?”
“An uncommon variety for this part of England. I should like to examine the soil and surroundings, so that I may make proper note of the details,” answered Saybrook.
Shaking his head, the ghillie uncocked the gun and blew the priming powder from the pan—along with a few mumbled words about aristocrats being queer in the attic.
“Good hunting,” said Rochemont, his voice mildly mocking as he stepped over to take the earl’s position. “I shall try not to disgrace myself in your stead.”
Saybrook was already hunched over a patch of mossy ground, carefully picking away at a tangle of damp, decaying leaves. “Yes, yes,” he said absently. “I won’t be long.”
As the two other men moved off, he dug up one of the small speckled mushrooms and wrapped it in his handkerchief. “ Morchella esculenta ,” he murmured to himself. “And given their preference for limestone-based soil . . .” He swung around to survey the surroundings.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The shooting party had moved well past the copse of trees that fringed the denser strip of forest growing up the hillside. Placing the specimen in his pocket, he began to pick his way through the brush, intent on examining the mulch beneath the canopy of leaves and pine needles.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
As he paused to unsnag a twist of thorns from his coat, a movement on the far side of the moor caught his eye. Flitting in and out of the gorse was a man, heading in a hurry for the dark shadows of the trees.
It appeared that someone else found the bird shooting as boring as he did. And yet . . .
Saybrook quirked a frown. There was something strangely furtive about the man’s movements.
The earl watched for a moment longer, then continued on his own way—but quietly, his steps lighter, his gaze sharper, his senses on full alert.
Like all the hunters of their party, the man was wearing a thick tweed shooting coat and oilcloth hat. The collar was turned up and the broad brim tugged low, making it impossible for Saybrook to make out his quarry’s identity.
Whoever he was, the figure suddenly looked around and then quickened his steps. Ducking low, he disappeared beneath the branches.
“ Dio Madre , Arianna’s talk of specters has me imagining the worst,” muttered Saybrook under his breath.
The leaves stirred in the breeze, the dark greens going gray in the shifting shadows.
“Don’t be a birdwit. The fellow simply prefers privacy for a call of nature.” He straightened from his crouch, feeling a little foolish.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Recalling that he had promised to join Mellon at the next break for refreshments, Saybrook reluctantly decided there was not enough time to explore the woods. Turning away, he started to make his way back to where Rochemont was stationed.
And yet, the earl remained on edge. Every few steps, he paused to look back at the dark tangle of trees.
“Any luck with your champignon s?” asked the comte, stumbling slightly as he turned to look at Saybrook.
“I found one interesting specimen,” he replied gruffly, turning to steady Rochemont’s footing. “I plan to come back for a closer look at the woods behind us—”
The glint of sun on steel lasted only an instant as the barrel of a gun shifted ever so slightly within the gray-green foliage.
On instinct, the earl shoved the Frenchman down and dove for cover, just as sharp crack rent the air.
A gorse branch shattered close by his face, the splinters nicking his cheek.
“Damn,” he grunted, clapping a hand to his shoulder as he rolled up against the thorns. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
Silence.
And then the sound of running
The comte raised a brow. “Mushrooms?”
“An uncommon variety for this part of England. I should like to examine the soil and surroundings, so that I may make proper note of the details,” answered Saybrook.
Shaking his head, the ghillie uncocked the gun and blew the priming powder from the pan—along with a few mumbled words about aristocrats being queer in the attic.
“Good hunting,” said Rochemont, his voice mildly mocking as he stepped over to take the earl’s position. “I shall try not to disgrace myself in your stead.”
Saybrook was already hunched over a patch of mossy ground, carefully picking away at a tangle of damp, decaying leaves. “Yes, yes,” he said absently. “I won’t be long.”
As the two other men moved off, he dug up one of the small speckled mushrooms and wrapped it in his handkerchief. “ Morchella esculenta ,” he murmured to himself. “And given their preference for limestone-based soil . . .” He swung around to survey the surroundings.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The shooting party had moved well past the copse of trees that fringed the denser strip of forest growing up the hillside. Placing the specimen in his pocket, he began to pick his way through the brush, intent on examining the mulch beneath the canopy of leaves and pine needles.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
As he paused to unsnag a twist of thorns from his coat, a movement on the far side of the moor caught his eye. Flitting in and out of the gorse was a man, heading in a hurry for the dark shadows of the trees.
It appeared that someone else found the bird shooting as boring as he did. And yet . . .
Saybrook quirked a frown. There was something strangely furtive about the man’s movements.
The earl watched for a moment longer, then continued on his own way—but quietly, his steps lighter, his gaze sharper, his senses on full alert.
Like all the hunters of their party, the man was wearing a thick tweed shooting coat and oilcloth hat. The collar was turned up and the broad brim tugged low, making it impossible for Saybrook to make out his quarry’s identity.
Whoever he was, the figure suddenly looked around and then quickened his steps. Ducking low, he disappeared beneath the branches.
“ Dio Madre , Arianna’s talk of specters has me imagining the worst,” muttered Saybrook under his breath.
The leaves stirred in the breeze, the dark greens going gray in the shifting shadows.
“Don’t be a birdwit. The fellow simply prefers privacy for a call of nature.” He straightened from his crouch, feeling a little foolish.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Recalling that he had promised to join Mellon at the next break for refreshments, Saybrook reluctantly decided there was not enough time to explore the woods. Turning away, he started to make his way back to where Rochemont was stationed.
And yet, the earl remained on edge. Every few steps, he paused to look back at the dark tangle of trees.
“Any luck with your champignon s?” asked the comte, stumbling slightly as he turned to look at Saybrook.
“I found one interesting specimen,” he replied gruffly, turning to steady Rochemont’s footing. “I plan to come back for a closer look at the woods behind us—”
The glint of sun on steel lasted only an instant as the barrel of a gun shifted ever so slightly within the gray-green foliage.
On instinct, the earl shoved the Frenchman down and dove for cover, just as sharp crack rent the air.
A gorse branch shattered close by his face, the splinters nicking his cheek.
“Damn,” he grunted, clapping a hand to his shoulder as he rolled up against the thorns. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
Silence.
And then the sound of running
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