Chapter 8 #2
“Thank you, Lizard. From you, that is high praise indeed.” The earl slowly lowered the two pistols, savoring the exquisite balance of the deadly-looking weapons.
He turned to where an ebony box inlaid with brass lay open, revealing an interior of deep forest velvet.
After running a piece of chamois over the burled walnut and polished steel barrels, he placed the pistols in their compartments and snapped the lid shut.
The gentlemen lounging around the area parted with alacrity as Branford strolled away, Lizard at his shoulder.
“The young pup you sent over ain’t half bad,” said Lizard. “Raw, but willing ta learn, which is more ‘n one can say about most of them gents of quality.” He pointed to where Justin Chilton was facing a set-up of stationary targets. “I sent Jasper over to give him a few pointers.”
Branford left off putting on his jacket and watched for a few moments.
Justin reloaded and squeezed off a shot. It caught the paper target, but wide left of the small circle at the center.
“Has Jasper commented on your stance?” he called.
Justin turned quickly, a look of surprise on his face.
“Try a little more weight on your left foot, then open your right side a touch.”
Justin took up his position and Jasper handed him the reloaded gun. This time the bullet was much closer to the mark, though still off-center.
“And relax your hand—you’re not strangling a chicken,” remarked Branford dryly. He stepped forward. “Here, let me see the pistol.”
Justin handed it to him with a slight hesitation.
The weapon was at least twenty years old and heavy as a lump of coal.
Its barrel was pitted from the elements, and as the earl sighted down the aged steel, he could only imagine what a disaster the interior was.
And although someone had recently gone to great pains to bring the gun up to snuff, it was a wonder the thing actually fired, much less hit anything.
Branford moved it up and down, as if testing its balance. He then laid it aside and motioned for Lizard to bring his case.
“Try this one,” he said, taking up one of his own pistols and loading with practiced ease before offering it to Justin.
The young man took it gingerly, eyeing its craftsmanship and obvious quality with something akin to awe.
Branford gestured at the target.
Justin swallowed, then turned and took aim, careful to follow all of the advice the earl had just given him, squeezed off a shot.
“Dead center,” grinned Jasper as he consulted the target. “Yer Lordship will be putting me poor self outta a job.”
The staff at Manton’s treated the earl with an obvious respect, but showed no fear in engaging in easy banter with him.
The corners of Branford’s mouth twitched slightly.
Justin fingered the polished wood and chased silver longingly before handing the weapon back to the earl. “Thank you, sir. I’m ... I’m grateful for your pointers—and for the chance to use such a fine piece.” His eyes unconsciously followed the pistol’s progress back into its case.
Branford nodded. He handed the other gun back to Justin, who grimaced slightly at its awkward weight.
“Yours?” asked the earl.
The young man colored slightly and raised his chin— a gesture Branford was becoming well used to from the Chilton siblings. He felt a twinge of sympathy for Justin’s embarrassment. He remembered well enough what it was like to be short of funds but have a surfeit of youthful pride.
“It belonged to my father,” replied Justin stiffly. “I haven’t ... purchased one of my own yet.”
“There is no shame in lacking blunt, Chilton. And no need to act as if there is,” murmured Branford in a voice soft enough that only Justin could hear.
Then, in a louder tone he added, “Jasper, see to it that Mr. Chilton shoots with a decent weapon on his next visit.” With that, he gave the young man a curt nod. Good day, Mr. Chilton.”
Before Justin could stutter a reply, he was already staring at the earl’s back.
His good friend, Frederick Hartley, had witnessed the encounter and rushed over, eyes wide with astonishment. “Good heavens, Justin. The Icy Earl actually spoke to you!” Hartley’s voice was tinged with awe.” And not only that—he offered you one of his matched pair!”
“Ain’t never seen the likes o’ that,” said Jasper, shooting Justin an appraising look. “Nope. Ain’t never seen him offer one o’ his barking irons to nobody.”
The two young men gathered their things and made to leave.
“Thursday at one, Mr. Chilton,” added Jasper.
Justin nodded, then he and Hartley walked off, drawing not a few interested glances.
“I didn’t know the two of you were acquainted,” persisted Hartley, as they walked towards his phaeton.
“Hardly at all. That is, he ... he is a friend of my sister,” mumbled Justin. “They share a mutual interest in botany,” he added quickly, lest Hartley get the wrong idea.
Disregarding Justin’s disavowal, Hartley looked at him with newfound respect. “Wait until Stanford and Yorkhill hear about this! They’ll be green with envy that they missed it.”
Justin colored slightly. “It’s nothing to make a fuss over, really, Freddy. I daresay he was merely ...”
Merely what? Justin found that he couldn’t begin to answer the question. The idea that the earl was trying to cozen up to him was absurd—but equally absurd was the idea that he was acting in ... friendship.
“I say,” exclaimed Hartley, taking no notice that Justin’s voice had trailed off.
“The others will really be impressed—egad! I nearly forgot!” His friend hastily consulted his gold pocketwatch.
“I’m supposed to meet with my grandmother at one, without fail.
” His face took on a pained expression. “She is having guests—including a chit of marriageable age, no doubt. But as she grants me a most generous allowance, I must do my duty. I fear it means abandoning you here.”
Justin laughed. “You go on. It’s a pleasant day. I shall walk home.”
Indeed, he was still new enough to Town to find the streets fascinating.
A myriad of sights, smells and sounds overwhelmed his senses—the cries of a costermonger, the pungent yeastiness of a spilled keg of ale, the smart carriages with matched teams jostling with dray carts.
He was so lost in his observations that it took a second greeting to catch his attention.
“Mr. Chilton.”
Justin’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon. I fear I was woolgathering.”
“Indeed you were.” There was a faint smile on Branford’s face as he controlled his spirited team with careless ease. Are you headed to Half Moon Street? I am passing by there if you care to climb up.”
Justin hesitated.
The horses danced with impatience.
“They are getting cold while you ponder the offer. If you prefer to walk ...” He made as if to give the team its head.
Realizing how rude he was appearing, Justin quickly made his decision.
“Thank you, sir,” he said as he climbed up beside the earl.
Branford flicked the whip and they were off.
They rode in silence for a bit, with Justin casting surreptitious looks to observe just how the earl handled the ribbons.
Branford suppressed a smile at the young man’s obvious interest and smartly guided the team around a number of slower moving conveyances, displaying a number of skillful moves with the whip and reins.
It gave him an odd twinge as he recalled how his young cousin had sat with him, showing much the same rapt attention as Alex’s brother.
And he found that he was rather enjoying himself—he had to admit it was nice to see admiration rather than fear in another’s eye.
“Tell me, Chilton,” he said after a while. “What was your father like?”
Justin started in surprise. “W-What?”
“What sort of man was he?” Noticing the young man’s consternation, he added a brief explanation. “As you know, your sister asked me to look at ...”
“The infamous letter,” groaned Justin.
“Quite.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, that she saw fit to pester you with such nonsense. You needn’t take it seriously.”
“I take my word very seriously, Chilton,” he replied.
“And I promised your sister I would endeavor to help—and to do that, I would like your assistance. Your late father devised an unusual sort of system for his code. Someone with no training in the subject is often tougher to crack than one who follows set principles or patterns. I’ve learned from experience that it helps to know something about the person himself.
Little things may help provide a key as to how he thinks—and thus how to decipher the coded message. ”
Justin nodded slowly. “I think I see what you mean.” He thought for a moment. “He was a ... driven man, wrapped up in his own world. I mean, he was kind enough to us, but, well, even as a child I sensed there was a part of himself that he wouldn’t share.”
A sigh. “At times, he would fall into dark moods—that was when he would go off on one of his trips, to gather material on his book. When he returned, things would usually be fine for a while.” Justin gave a small grimace. “Until the next mood.”
The young man seemed to be struggling with painful memories, noted Branford.
“Alex had to take care of all the practical things, for our mother died when I was very young. I ... I wish I could have helped her more.” He caught himself. “I daresay this probably sounds quite ridiculous to you.”
“Not at all,” said Branford softly.
Justin let out a breath, as if relieved that he hadn’t made a cake of himself by revealing such private details.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the townhouse Lady Beckworth had taken for the Season. As Justin made to dismount, he turned impulsively to Branford. “Would you care to come in for tea, sir? It is nothing out of the ordinary, but ...”
He hesitated, as if aware that one wasn’t expected to invite the Icy Earl to tea.
It was Branford’s turn to hesitate. “Thank you.”
He tossed the reins to his tiger, giving directions for the horses to be cooled down, then followed Justin up the stairs. After Givens took their hats and walking sticks, Justin immediately headed for the library.
Instead of waiting in the drawing room, as Justin had offered, Branford followed along.
“Alex, Aunt Aurelia, we have a guest for tea!” called Justin
Alex didn’t lift her eyes from her easel. She wore a shapeless smock over her gown, and had a large paintbrush stuck behind her ear. It had dislodged a number of hairpins allowing her thick tresses to fall in disarray over one shoulder.
“What time is it?” she demanded, rubbing at the smudge of cerulean blue pigment on her cheekbone. The annoyance at being interrupted quite evident in her tone. “Can’t you send whoever it is away?”
Then, as she looked up, her eyes widened. “Oh!” The sound came out as little more than a squeak.
Branford approached the easel.
“M-milord,” she began.
He ignored her and came around to view the painting. “Hmmm.” He cocked his head to one side.
Mortified, Alex put down her brush and ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “It is most disconcerting to be interrupted in the middle of my work,” she said, covering her embarrassment with a show of artistic ire. “I told you, sir, I don’t make a habit of showing a work in progress—”
“And yet it’s progressing very nicely,” observed Branford
“It is extremely ungentlemanly to barge in uninvited,” she countered.
A smile twitched on the earl’s lips. “But I was invited.”
Alex looked from the earl to her brother, then down at her paint-spattered smock. Hell’s bells—what the devil had her bacon-brained brother been thinking!
“Please excuse me, I had better go inform Cook that there will be one more for tea,” she said before rushing out of the room.