Chapter 28
Dear reader, you may breathe again, for I regret to tell you that the present chapter contains no dubious medical apparatus or gentlemen of questionable morals demonstrating an alarming commitment to female pleasure—not yet, at any rate.
For now, we must return to polite society: that great theatre of manners, malice, matrimonial ambition, and outdoor refreshments.
We arrive, therefore, at Lady Malverne’s garden party, where Miss Charlotte Tolliver was expected to secure a husband and refrain from doing anything that might cause her mother to press a vinaigrette to her nose before luncheon.
Lottie had slept very little.
This was not, as her sisters had repeatedly implied, because she was heartbroken or lovesick, or any other condition that might be remedied by a proposal and a great deal of lace.
It was because every time she closed her eyes, she remembered Jasper Deverell’s hands, the heat of him in her palm, the rough break in his voice, and the expression on his face when she had said Marchmont’s name.
Worse, she could not forget that he had let her leave.
Lady Tolliver surveyed the lawns with a sigh so theatrical it might have hushed an opera house.
“I declare,” she murmured, in a tone designed to reach every titled person within hearing, “that this weekend will most certainly end in a Tolliver engagement. It is a good thing our third daughter has a sizeable dowry, is it not, Lord Tolliver?”
“Mm,” said Lord Tolliver, adjusting his spectacles with a vague smile, though he had heard not a word.
The Duke of Morleigh, who had been assigned by general family consent to the role of chaperone, gaoler, and moral barricade, merely arched one brow. Whether in censure or secret amusement, none could tell.
Lady Malverne’s gardens were arranged for maximum display, as always.
The lawns swept down towards a lake that glittered prettily in the afternoon sun.
White marquees fluttered, and footmen moved through the guests with lemonade, ratafia, and little cakes no one could eat without looking foolish.
Ladies drifted beneath parasols while gentlemen lounged and boasted.
At the far end of the lawn, however, all prettiness gave way to danger, for Lady Malverne had arranged a pistol-shooting contest. It was just as well, really, for the next contest in Lottie and Jasper’s most scandalous wager was pistol shooting.
“My dear duke,” Lady Malverne cried, approaching Morleigh with a magnanimous smile, “you must preside over the matter. A soldier’s eye, you know. We cannot have half the gentlemen of England disputing over whether they have struck the centre or not.”
Morleigh’s expression suggested he would rather inspect a battlefield wound. “With pleasure,” he said.
The gentlemen assembled upon the lawn were in high spirits. Pistols gleamed in their cases, the targets—round white boards set at a respectable distance—stood waiting, and a small crowd of ladies clustered behind the line of fire, their fans fluttering with as much excitement as anxiety.
“Do you hear that dreadful crack, Bernard?” Lady Tolliver murmured, one hand pressed dramatically to her bosom. “I am sure it will quite ruin my hearing.”
One young baronet fired first, managing to strike a respectable outer ring.
A colonel of dragoons followed, his shot nearer the centre, though not so near as his swagger suggested it would be.
Another gentleman, red-faced with effort, discharged his pistol only to pepper the turf three feet short of the mark.
Lady Tolliver gasped audibly. “Oh heavens. I knew this was a dreadful idea. Someone will be killed before luncheon.”
“Mm,” said Lord Tolliver, polishing his spectacles.
When Lottie stepped forward, a murmur ran through the assembly.
“Oh!” Lord Tolliver exclaimed, suddenly alert. “Is that our Charlotte?” He gave a proud nod, his voice carrying much farther than he realised. “She shall beat them all, you know. Always did have the steadiest hand.”
Lottie was sorely tempted to roll her eyes. Her father’s pride, though gratifying, had the unfortunate effect of painting her as a circus attraction about to perform a trick—a trick, incidentally, which she had every intention of performing—but one liked to be asked, not paraded.
Captain Sir Alistair Greaves of the Dragoons, whose moustache was waxed to points sharp enough to wound and whose uniform boasted every braid and button permitted by regulation, gave a most indignant snort.
“A lady at pistols?” he said to his companions, though quite loud enough to carry.
“She will topple backwards with the recoil.”
Lottie smiled sweetly. “Ten paces?”
Morleigh glanced at the target. “A little more than ten.”
“Do forgive me, Your Grace,” she said. “It looked so near from here.”
The captain scoffed. “You will find it no easy feat to strike the bull.”
Lottie looked at him with the mildest possible expression. “Then it is fortunate, sir, that I never aim for anything less.”
She raised the pistol, feeling the weight settle neatly into her hand.
It was not so very different from balancing a foil, nor from holding the reins when one’s horse had decided upon a gallop.
Her father had taught her how to shoot in the country as a girl, chiefly because Lord Tolliver believed every child ought to know how to defend a chicken coop from foxes, intruders, or, in one memorable instance, Benedict.
Captain Greaves leant a fraction closer to his companions, his smirk saying clearly, observe how swiftly she makes a fool of herself.
Lord Tolliver, bless him, called out, “Steady, Charlotte! Show them how it’s done!”
She fired, and the ball struck dead centre.
For a moment, there was utter silence, before Lord Tolliver clapped his hands together like a boy at a fair. “There! Did I not say it? Our Charlotte!”
Captain Greaves’s colour deepened. “A fluke, Miss Tolliver. Beginner’s luck.”
To prove, decidedly, that it was not, Lottie smiled, reloaded with enviable composure, and fired again for another centre shot. The third ball followed the first two with such precision that the poor white target looked to have sprouted a single black eye.
It must be noted that nothing in the world is quite so gratifying as the collective shock of a half-dozen men who, five seconds earlier, had been supremely confident of their superiority.
Captain Greaves looked as though he had swallowed a bee. “Impossible,” he said stiffly. “The pistol must be mis-sighted.”
“An interesting accusation,” Morleigh observed. “Given that Miss Tolliver appears to have sighted it very well.”
A laugh ran through the crowd.
The captain’s jaw tightened. “Then another round is required. With new pistols.”
“Is it?” Lottie asked.
“At once,” he said. “For fairness.”
“For your pride, you mean.”
His moustache seemed to bristle independently.
Before the exchange could sharpen further, Jasper Deverell stepped forwards from the edge of the gathering, all elegance and ease, as though he had been waiting for precisely the right moment to enter the stage.
Lottie’s pulse gave a treacherous leap.
Blast him. He looked disgustingly well.
He also looked at her differently, as though he had slept no better than she had, and as though some decision had been made in him, and it frightened him only because he meant to keep it.
Her stomach turned over.
“If Captain Greaves insists upon more science in the matter,” Jasper said, his gaze still lingering upon her a shade too long, “let us each take another turn and allow the targets to speak for themselves. Captain, I believe you are first.”
With a huff, the dragoon captain accepted the challenge and stepped to the mark. He produced two middling shots and one that nicked the edge of the bull. It was a respectable showing, but not close to victory.
Jasper took the pistol next. He did not hurry, nor boast. He simply sighted, fired—and struck within an inch of centre.
The second shot landed beside it. The third formed a neat little cluster.
The onlookers murmured in approval, though no one gasped as they had for Lottie. Men shooting well was expected.
“Excellent grouping, Deverell,” observed the duke gravely.
Jasper lowered his pistol and offered a small bow. “I thank you. Though I cannot pretend to rival Miss Tolliver’s performance. Hers was artistry.”
Lottie’s eyes narrowed. What was he about, complimenting her in public? It was bold of him, to say the least. Worse, it was kind.
She waited her turn before she took the pistol back from the footman. She fired, and the ball struck the centre so neatly that it might have been drawn there by appointment.
Captain Greaves made a strangled sound. “This is absurd. There must be some irregularity.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Jasper. “It is terribly irregular for a lady to be better at something.”
“It seems the contest now rests between Mr Deverell and Miss Tolliver,” said the duke. “Both have struck cleanly. A tie, if you will.”
Jasper inclined his head toward her, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Shall we settle the matter, Miss Tolliver?”
Lottie’s heart gave a small leap, though she raised her chin as though the suggestion bored her. “Naturally. I could not bear to be accused of victory without challenge.”
The duke’s voice carried across the lawn. “Miss Tolliver shall fire first.”
A rustle of anticipation swept the little crowd. Lottie stepped forward, pistol in hand. Her mother gave a strangled cry into her fan; her father murmured, “That’s my girl,” as though she were about to hop a hedge on horseback.
Lottie raised her chin, sighted, and pulled the trigger.
Crack! Dead centre.
The second shot—another clean bull.
By the third, her pulse was singing. She fired, steady and sure. The ball struck so near the others that the target looked, once more, to bear a single dark hole. The captain of dragoons swore under his breath.
Lord Tolliver clapped as though at a circus performance. “Ha! There it is! Three for three! Not a miss! Did I not always say she’d beat the lot of you?”
Jasper stepped forward to take his turn, calm as ever. He bowed his head slightly to Lottie before raising the pistol. “Well, Miss Tolliver, it appears you have set me a standard.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Did she imagine that gleam in his expression?
His first ball struck clean in the centre, to a murmur of approval, and his second, likewise, was dead true. Jasper lifted the third pistol, sighted the target, and, with the smallest twitch of his wrist, sent the ball sailing wide. It struck the grass a full yard from the board.
Jasper’s gaze caught hers as he inclined his head. “Congratulations are in order, Miss Tolliver. Never have I seen a steadier hand… nor a lovelier victor.”
“Thank you, Mr Deverell,” she said sweetly. “And I thank you, gentlemen. The victory is most gratifying.”
Indeed, the victory was not gratifying at all, for Lottie had seen Jasper’s hand move. The coward.
Jasper Deverell had thrown it. Her glorious, perfect, undeniable victory had been marred by gallantry. He had robbed her of the clean satisfaction of besting him! The thought made her want to shoot him somewhere tender.
She curtsied for the crowd, all serene elegance, while plotting precisely how she would ruin him; for a win is never so galling as when gifted instead of earned.
Still, Charlotte was a Tolliver through and through, and a Tolliver never wasted an advantage. Poor Mr Deverell—he had thrown away the match, and in doing so, delivered himself straight into Charlotte’s keeping, for the next forfeit belonged to her.