Chapter Nine
Two hundred and twenty-five yards.
Child’s play.
Seth exhaled slowly, matching his breath to the squeeze of the trigger. The familiar, heavy kick of his rifle landed against his shoulder as he easily fell into an old rhythm.
Aim. Fire. Reload. Repeat.
He would have liked a word with whoever decided to have the blasted competition in the morning, with targets set in the east. The sun blinded him temporarily from the glint off of his own rifle, leaving a circular spot of light illuminated behind his eyelids when he blinked.
He repositioned the rifle until he found a suitable angle to shield from it.
A thin sheen of sweat accumulated where his head rested, and the heated smell of oil, gunpowder, and blistering metal spiked the air.
Rubbing his ear on his shoulder, he tried to ease the itch from bits of cotton that he had shoved inside.
It lessened the ringing in his ears after each percussive shot, but it did nothing for Mr. Edgars grating voice in the distance as he announced, “Targets are being moved to two hundred and fifty yards!” Must he announce the distance each time?
Were nobles not taught to count? And for that matter, why not start with the higher numbers so he could win and be done?
Circus, the word came to mind, a monkey in a suit performing for wealthy patrons.
Seth may as well not be wearing the cotton balls at all to block out Bishop.
The Colonel had not stopped talking from the beginning of the competition in an obvious search for a weak point.
Stooping low indeed, if distraction was his tactic.
With the man’s bravado, was he feeling threatened?
The thought brought a grin to Seth’s lips.
He should be.
When he was ten years old and could hold a gun—and when Lord Bolderwood was confident that Seth wouldn’t shoot himself or the older man with it—he trained daily in all aspects of their use.
He spent most of his childhood in his bedchamber learning how to disassemble and reassemble all manners of armament, pistols, rifles, muskets, anything with a barrel and a trigger.
He took to the training like a newborn foal learning to run, clumsy at first, but quickly mastered.
With his ability to organize his memories, all he had to do was close his eyes and he could envision the order.
The delicate metalworkings inside fascinated him, which was convenient, as he had plenty of time to improve his skills during his endless nights of confinement.
However, taking apart a gun and shooting one were separate skills entirely.
Knowing how to do something didn’t always make one good at it.
When it came to hitting a perfect target, Lord Bolderwood was unrelenting.
The Earl had overseen his training and punishments directly, slapping him with a yardstick to correct elbows, wrists, shoulders, and Seth dared not cry because that only made it worse.
He learned to shove his emotions down and keep trying.
A lesson in perseverance. Over and over, hour after hour, weeks after blurred weeks of unforgiving failure until finally, finally, he got it right.
Lord Bolderwood’s words echoed in Seth’s ears as he aimed downrange.
“Focus! Your emotions make you weak!”
Seth almost felt the ghost of a yardstick snap on his elbow as he fired his round.
Now, he didn’t need to look at the retrieved target to know that he had made a perfect shot.
Bishop matched him shot for shot at these lower distances.
Seth knew the Colonel would be a challenge, and in a way he enjoyed it.
It would feel earned when he won. He looked at the target next to his.
Bishop also shot straight through the black bullseye, dead center.
No matter.
That would change in another hundred yards.
Mr. Nott’s target was brought forth, also a perfect shot.
Mr. Nott was a quiet man, dark hair, square shoulders, and shorter than Seth had imagined.
Nott’s was the name in arms manufacturing, synonymous with quality and durability.
A natural businessman in his forties, he reigned over a conglomerate in Birmingham of handpicked smiths and artisans, all specializing in different components of weaponry.
Where many employers would insist on a larger cut, Mr. Nott insisted on fairness.
He awarded performance bonuses for exceptional work and distributed the profits equally.
The practice worked overwhelmingly in his favor, as he had no issues with retention, and got richer by the minute.
Seth had shot some of his rifles while in the Army, and they were admittedly among the better ones.
The rifle that Mr. Nott presented had all the finesse of Bishop’s gun, but he clearly favored style over efficiency.
The jewels and gold encrusted handle weighed it down at the back end and Seth noticed the tremble in the barrel after each shot.
“…two hundred and seventy-five yards! They’re starting to warm up!”
“Designed that yourself, did you?” Bishop nodded to the gun. “In a barn.”
Frustrated, Seth took the cotton out of his ears and placed them in his pocket.
“I didn’t have the funds to outsource it,” Seth responded casually, adding a mental tally when Bishop flinched, confirming his theory. Aside from shooting his rifle, Bishop hadn’t been involved in the making of it at all.
“I’m surprised that Lord Bolderwood didn’t bend over backward to assist you.
He’s helped you with everything else. Raised you.
Sent you to Eton and the Academy! Paid for your commission, I’ve been told.
Invited you here against the wishes of His Grace’s representative, and seated you at the table in a higher precedence than a baron.
” Bishop’s face turned red and his eyebrows narrowed and he seethed, “All of that and Papa couldn’t buy you proper facilities? ”
Seth grit his teeth, but his voice came out cool, repeating the words with no emotional attachment as both men raised their rifles again.
“He’s not my father.”
Mr. Edgars blew his whistle, and the men took their shots.
Dropping it from his shoulder, Seth placed the butt of his rifle on the toe of his boot.
“Of course not.” Bishop clucked innocently.
“A ward, were you? You certainly have a habit of attracting generous benefactors. After you lose, where do you think that will leave the Coopers? It’s no secret that they’re destitute.
” Mock pity dripped from his voice as he continued, “They’ll be penniless by the new year. ”
Seth’s eyes traveled to the Coopers sitting with the Dorchesters. Cassandra was as beautiful as a lily in a white bonnet and mint green dress. Seeing her in brighter colors filled his heart with an unexpected lightness. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away and back to his next target.
The letter in his pocket could only be for Bishop.
Cooper made no secret of his disapproval of the man, and why else would Cassandra try to hide it?
He needed to stop. Conversing with her, holding her, dancing with her and then watching her walk away on the arm of another, knowing that it would never be him, was a new type of torture.
What was he doing?
Bishop caught the movement of his gaze, and a cruel grin crossed his features.
“In the many months that you shared a roof with Miss Cooper, did she ever mention me?”
“… three hundred yards!”
“I don’t see why she would have.” Seth chambered a round and snapped the rifle shut.
He set it down on the display table as a footman came by with a silver tray.
Droplets of perspiration eased down glasses of lemonade and collected at the base of the tray.
Moisture slid onto Seth’s leather gloves as his hand closed around a short glass.
The acidic tang of the drink was unpleasant even after being sweetened with honey.
Bishop waited for the footman to make his way to Mr. Nott before he spoke, conversationally, as if they were old friends meeting over a pint.
“If not for her brother, she would already be mine. What a lively young thing she was back then, a bit dull, but intelligent and eager to please,” he droned on like he was selling a barouche.
“Easy to train a girl like that. With a decent enough figure—and it has filled out considerably in our separation. I think I prefer her now, lush and thick, especially her thighs.”
Seth grit his teeth together to keep silent.
“I hear she’s searching for a savior, willing to put herself on the chopping block for the highest bidder.”
The gossips in Hollingsworth Manor worked fast. Of course, it didn’t help that Lady Dorchester was now flaunting around a list of suitors that even he could see. Seth knew that Bishop’s name was on it.
Bishop knew it, too.
“That’s hardly my business.” Seth finished his lemonade and placed it on the tray when the footman came back around.
Wiping his gloves on his chest to dry his hands, his fingers pressed against the small metallic cylinder underneath, warmed by his body heat.
Wait. Targets ready, both men aimed their rifles downrange and waited for Mr. Edgars whistle.
“She has changed, less talkative. At dinner she hardly made a sound.” Bishop’s voice slithered as he asked, “Is she quiet in the bedchamber, too?”
Mr. Edgars sounded the whistle.
Seth’s finger jerked against the trigger, his slick grip caused the rifle to crash into his shoulder with bruising force. He slammed his rifle onto the display table and turned to Bishop with a snarl.
“You dare—!”
“You don’t know!” Bishop said incredulously. “All of those long country nights, not a chaperon to be seen, and you didn’t sample the goods once?”
“Don’t insult her,” Seth snapped. “She isn’t like that.”
“They’re all like that, and the desperate ones are worse.” Bishop sneered. “I’d like to know what she’d do for a sterling. I bet I could—”
“Stay the hell away from her.”