The Scoundrel and the Debutante by Julia London Page A

you
see
?” she demanded of all of them.
    â€œOf course we saw!” Mrs. Scales said. “We’re sitting right here.”
    Prudence squealed with jubilant triumph, as if she’d known all along she could do it. “Your turn, Mr. Matheson,” she said cheerfully as two men hurried by her to examine the flask. “But it appears we’ll need another target.” She curtsied low and held out the gun to him.
    The slightest hint of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth. “It certainly does,” he said, and looked at her warily, as if he expected her of some sleight of hand. He took the gun Prudence very gingerly held out to him.
    â€œI’ve a target!” Mrs. Scales called out. She held up a small handheld mirror.
    â€œRuth, Mr. Scales gave that to you!”
    â€œHush, now. He can give me another one, can’t he? Make your wager.”
    A man took the mirror and walked across the meadow to prop it where the flask had been.
    â€œWatch now, Miss Cabot, and I will demonstrate how to shoot a pistol,” he said. He stepped to the line he’d drawn in the dirt. He put one hand at his back, held the gun out and fired. He clearly hit something; the mirror toppled off the back of the rock. Two gentlemen moved forward to have a look; Prudence scampered to catch up with them and see for herself. One of them leaned over the rock, picked up the mirror and held it aloft. The mirror was, remarkably, intact for the most part, but a corner piece had either broken off or been shot off.
    â€œI
win
!” Prudence cried with gleeful surprise. “You missed!”
    â€œI most certainly did not miss,” Mr. Matheson said gruffly, gesturing to the broken mirror. “Do you not see that a piece is missing?”
    â€œMust have grazed it,” one of the men offered. “You hit the rock, here, see? And the bullet—”
    â€œYes, yes, I see,” Mr. Matheson said, waving his hand over the rock. “Nevertheless, the object has been hit. We have a tie.”
    â€œThen who is to receive the winnings?” Mrs. Scales complained as the sound of an approaching coach reached them.
    Prudence didn’t hear the answer to that question—her heart skipped several beats when she saw the coach that appeared on the road. It was not the second stagecoach as they all expected—it was Dr. Linford. Prudence’s heart leaped with painful panic. One look at her and Dr. Linford would not only know that she’d lied, but he would also demand she come with him at once. He would tell her brother-in-law Lord Merryton, who would be quite undone by her lack of propriety. That was the one thing Merryton insisted upon, that their reputations and family honor be kept upmost in their minds at all times. As Merryton generously provided for Prudence and Mercy and her mother, and had indeed paid dearly to ensure that the patrons of the Lisson Grove School of Art overlooked Mercy’s family and placed her in that school, Prudence couldn’t even begin to fathom all the consequences of her being discovered like this. Moreover, she had no time to try—she looked wildly about for a place to hide as the Linford coach rolled to a halt. But the meadow was woefully bare, and there was nothing but Mr. Matheson’s large frame to shield her, so she darted behind him, grabbing onto his coat.
    â€œWhat the devil?”
    He tried to turn but she pushed against his shoulder.
“Please,”
she begged him. “Please, sir, not a word!”
    â€œAre you
hiding
?” he asked incredulously.
    â€œYes, obviously!”
    â€œGood God,” he muttered. His body tensed. “Miss Cabot,” he said softly, and she thought he’d say he would not help her, that she must step out from behind him. “Your feather is showing.”
    â€œPlease indulge me in this. I shall pay you—”
    â€œPay! Damn it, your
feather
is showing!”
    The feather in