Lady Be Good (19 page)

“It’s a handsome rifle,” Christian said. Thinner than previous models, with a barrel encased in fine-grained wood. Whose opinion did Scott want? Palmer’s, or Major Stratton’s? And whose opinion was
he
voicing now? Only fools valued a gun for its beauty.

“Isn’t it?” It seemed that Mr. Scott sensed the impropriety of his unannounced visit. He atoned with an excess of enthusiasm. “The most beautiful gun in the world, we like to say.” With a flourish of his pudgy hand, he indicated the wood encasing. “No more singed hands. And a safety bolt, mind you. That will prevent any problems with her trigger.”

Why was it that guns were always referred to as female? Perhaps, Christian thought, because men wished to handle them as much as they feared them. He picked up the rifle, lifting and sighting a spot out the window.

“Sighted to two thousand yards,” said Mr. Scott helpfully.

“Indeed.” He turned the rifle and found himself looking through the sights into a window of the east wing, which extended out from the body of the house like the foot of an
L
.

Lilah stood at a window, staring out toward the fields. Was she thinking of him? Of his hand between her legs, and the hot sounds he’d drawn from her . . .

He gritted his teeth. Mr. Scott might be hoping for his admiration, but he would not appreciate such a visceral demonstration of it.

As Christian schooled himself, he became riveted by the details revealed by the magnified power of the scope. He could make out the fine details of the buttons at Lilah’s throat—gray, unadorned, she was wearing that wretched ash-colored dress again. Her lower lip looked full and tender, protuberant, as though she were pouting. The glossy dark tumble of her chignon was collapsing down her nape—a waste, when he was not nearby to run his fingers through it. She pressed the flat of her palm against the glass with great force, as though trying to push free.

She looked like a trapped woman. Glaring out at the countryside as though at distant salvation, denied to her.

How well he knew that feeling.

“How does it feel?” asked Mr. Scott.

Boredom and impatience and the uncertainty of his predicament probably accounted for most of his fascination with her. Animal lust explained the rest. So he told himself as he lowered the rifle.

“It’s weighted differently than the Martini-Henry,” he said. “Bit heavier.”

“Only by a few ounces. A negligible difference, I assure you.”

Christian turned back to eye the man’s rotund figure. He’d wager that William Scott had never trudged uphill in a driving rain, toting a full pack and a tent along with his rifle. If so, he would have known that a few ounces could matter.

But Palmer would not point that out.

Mr. Scott lifted his brows hopefully. “Have you noted the bayonet?”

Christian tossed up the rifle and caught it by the stock. From the corner of his eye, he saw Scott flinch.

Inventors and their children. He returned the rifle to the table with a show of conciliatory care. “New placement for it,” he noted. Formerly, the bayonet had been affixed to the side of the barrel, rather than beneath it.

“Precisely. Men complained that it got in the way when firing. Not that you had such trouble,” Mr. Scott added quickly.

Got in the way
. That was one way to put it. In the heat of battle, Christian had seen a man gored by one of his own panicking comrades. “Not so much trouble,”
he said dryly. He’d been drenched with blood before he’d managed to bandage Smaldon’s wound.

The memory darkened his mood. His time in the army had never seemed particularly savage. But of late, when these memories resurfaced, he viewed them with startled eyes, amazed at how casually he’d borne the carnage.

No going back
. Even his memories were holding him at a distance now.

“Well.” He felt suddenly exhausted. Ashmore had written—but without news. Nor had Christian’s men found any sign of Bolkhov, here or at Susseby. And so Christian waited, idle and useless as a decoy on hunt day. No wonder he felt rather hollow. “It’s a fine gun. But I’m no longer in the service.”

“My goodness, of course not.” Mr. Scott nudged up his spectacles with the tip of his thumb. “But your endorsement, my lord, would mean a great deal.”

“My endorsement.” He spoke the words flatly, not wanting to understand them.

“Yes, indeed. We hope to outfit the entire military with this model. But you know how Parliament balks at authorizing any
useful
expenditures. The safety of our fighting men is nothing to them, not when weighed against all manner of useless fripperies. The beautification of parks, and the building of grand thoroughfares and whatnot—”

He interrupted Scott’s fine, mounting sarcasm. “I am not political.” He said it very levelly, because he did not fathom why the proposition should suddenly touch off such anger. He’d been saddled with this position, this yoke that he’d not been born or trained to bear. His brother had welcomed and wanted it, but now
he
must
wear it, and it anchored him as solidly as iron.
My goodness
, of course he no longer served in the military. He was the Viscount bloody Palmer. He read parliamentary reports over lunch.

“Oh . . . yes,” Mr. Scott said hesitantly. “Of course, my lord. Only . . . have I mentioned the cartridges? I do think you’ll approve of them.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, as though to physically check his excitement. “Mind you, the Martini-Henry has its place still. We’d not propose to scrap them entirely. They never jammed on a man who knew how to handle a cartridge properly. But all the reports of trouble from the Sudan
have
put a crimp in our side. So we came up with a new type of cartridge—quite clever, really. Uniform to a millimeter. They’re interchangeable with a machine gun and a carbine to boot. Imagine the possibilities!”

“Marvelous,” Christian said. “Some very bloody times ahead.”

Mr. Scott blinked. “Indeed. But
we
shall do the bloodying. Our brave men will be safer, with this weapon at their disposal.”

He nodded. He would never argue against a better weapon.

“So . . . what do you say? Would you recommend it?”

“As I said. I have not yet taken my seat in the Lords. Once I have done—”

“But you certainly have Parliament’s ear,” Mr. Scott said. “And that of the general public. The world at large! We’re taking it on tour, you see—several military colleges in America have expressed an interest. An endorsement from the Hero of Bekhole would mean a great deal. We would be most grateful to have a letter from
you, to excerpt in our advertisements.” Scott offered what he no doubt considered to be a winning smile.

Christian nodded. The Hero of Bekhole, of course. He was not Geoff, and everybody knew it. Instead he would be cast as the smiling mannequin, whose hastily considered opinions might afford a prime quote for the sale of munitions. “I’d have to test it,” he said. “But it looks to be a splendid weapon, yes.”

“Yes! ‘A splendid weapon,’ exactly.” Beaming, Scott patted down his jacket. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a pen and paper handy? Or—would you prefer to send me a longer passage, with that bit included? And perhaps, if you permit it, we might include a sketch of you in our advertisements, an artistic rendering of the moment when you received the Victoria Cross?”

Now he was going to be turned into a bloody cartoon. “Why not?” And from there, soap boxes. Join the Everleigh Girls in hawking Pearson’s. Why bloody not, indeed?

Mr. Scott looked delighted. As Christian walked him out, he waxed poetic about his vision for the campaign. “And if I might suggest it, you could make mention in your letter of the advantage of the new cartridges—perhaps, if you agree, an observation of how handy they might have proved at Bekhole.”

Christian fought a bizarre urge to laugh. Seventy of his men had overcome three hundred of the enemy, soaking the vale with their blood—but yes, what a pity it hadn’t been even bloodier. He was grateful, when they entered the entry hall, to cross paths with Lilah, whom he called over to be introduced. Mr. Scott, forced to make courtesies that did not allow for mention of his rifle, showed himself out posthaste.

“Why is everyone wearing oak leaves?” Lilah asked, when the door at last closed.

Christian loosed a long breath, calling his thoughts back from some black churning place. “It’s Royal Oak Day.”

“Oh. Of course.”

She would not quite meet his eyes. A flush rode her cheeks, reminding him of pleasanter matters. What he’d done recently to make her blush like that.

“What is Royal Oak Day?” she asked.

He blinked. She couldn’t be serious. “Mobbing Day,” he said. “Patching Day. Shig-Shag Day, in some parts.”

She nodded solemnly. “Gibberish Day, in others?”

“Come now. The celebration of King Charles the Second’s escape from the Roundheads?”

She blinked. “Goodness. Time truly does stand still in the countryside.”

He looked her over. “Are you certain you’re English?”

She scowled. “I will not indulge in renewed speculation about my parentage.”

The banter was lightening his mood, at least. “King Charles hid up an oak tree at Boscobel House, to escape the opposing army.”

“How kingly.”

He smiled. “Hence the leaves. All good subjects wear a sprig of Royal Oak on May 29, to demonstrate their loyalty to the Crown. Is it not so in Surrey?”

She shrugged. “I don’t suppose anybody sees a need to demonstrate their loyalty in Surrey. It’s guaranteed. What happens to those who refuse to wear the leaves?”

“Nothing good,” he said. “Boys in these parts—in most parts, so I thought—will flay you with nettles if you don’t wear the oak.” He remembered his own
childhood. “Or pelt you with rotten eggs. I used to pilfer a baker’s dozen from the kitchens on May Day, just to ensure they stank properly come the end of the month.”

“Goodness,” she said. “A pity I don’t have any oak leaves at hand. I rather like this gown.”

She had recovered her composure, and her tartness was rapidly returning as well. He smiled at her to speed the process. “Yes, well, I think you’re quite safe indoors.” Though she’d been staring out that window earlier, as though she wished otherwise.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” she said. “The maids were muttering among themselves in a very dark tone earlier.”

“Then let’s fetch you a sprig.”

“Oh . . .” She cast a wistful glance toward the door. “I don’t know. I rather like breathing freely.”

She’d not set foot outside since her wheezing attack, then. No wonder if she felt a touch fidgety. God knew he’d been battling the sensation for days, despite his morning patrols. He started for the door. “Give it a try,” he said. “You may well have adjusted by now.”

Hesitantly she followed. She stepped outside after him, pausing on the porch to tip her face toward the sun. “It’s always so cold in the house.”

“No sneezing,” he observed. “Shall I give you a tour?”

Her eyes drifted shut. “Only if you promise not to touch me again.”

If she didn’t want him to touch her, she should know better than to close her eyes. Now, as he stared at her freely, all he could imagine was how she would look, exhausted from his attentions, tousled and flushed in his bed.

He had a broad window in his bedroom. The light
would fall across her in just this way, picking out the faint hints of freckles on the round crests of her cheeks. How far did those freckles extend? The blasted gray gown offered no hints, forcing his gaze upward again. She had a girlish fullness to her face, which made a provocative contrast to the self-possession of her bearing as she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

She’d known he was looking at her. She’d let the moment draw out, for some private feminine reason. The knowledge brushed over him like fingertips—stealing away his breath.

“Perhaps I’ve adjusted, after all,” she murmured. She took a deep breath to test the notion, then released it with a growing smile. “Yes, quite clear. I wonder if I dare . . .”

“I’ve no doubt of it.” He let go of the door, forcing her to make a split-second decision to leap clear of it. “Come along,” he said. “Even a city mouse deserves a holiday.” And her presence acted like a cure on the murky mood that had gripped him.

London still had wild places. In the north of the city, a great heath stretched for miles—once the hunting ground of highwaymen, now a holiday destination. Armed with a picnic basket, Lilah had once explored the heath with a group of Everleigh Girls, who had hoped for some wild adventure—perhaps to fight off a boar or two.

Alas, the only boars they’d encountered had been of the human variety, for crews of ill-bred mashers roved the fields—to say nothing of the endless stream of sheepish lovers, stumbling disheveled from the concealment
of the trees. In the city, even the wilderness had a crowd.

But rural Kent was different. Lilah walked for a half hour at Palmer’s side before sighting another human—a farmer driving his team of oxen through a far-off field of wheat. The sight drew her to a stop. Man and animals made a singular silhouette against the great open sky. So it might have looked centuries ago, on that day when King Charles had hidden in his oak tree.

Palmer leaned against the hedgerow, letting her look her fill as he shredded hawthorn leaves. The breeze lifted the pieces and carried them past her like confetti.