Scandals of an Innocent (18 page)

They hit the ground and rolled over, and all the air was knocked from Alice’s body and she lay still, winded, with Miles’s arms still wrapped close about her. Her body was sheltered beneath his and her face pressed against his coat. She could feel the hardness of his hands as he held her brutally tight. Every muscle in his body was tensed and waiting.

Alice threw back her head and drew in a deep, steadying breath.

“What on earth—”

“Keep still!”

Miles’s face, so close to hers, was dark and set. His eyes were blazing. Still half crouching, he drew her into the shelter of the carriage. The horses were spooked, stamping and blowing, but fortunately they seemed disinclined to panic.

“Don’t move!”

Miles let go of her briefly to peer around the side of the carriage and immediately there was another crack and a chip of paint flew off Mr. Haven’s beautiful livery. The bullet passed so close that Alice felt the air move with it. This time the horses whinnied and shied and the carriage creaked forward a few agonizing feet, exposing Alice to the gunman’s line of sight.
Another bullet followed swiftly, digging up the snow with a white puff, even as Miles caught her arm in a vicious grip and dragged her back behind cover, drawing her close once again to the shelter of his body.

“Damnation,” he muttered. “We are sitting ducks here.”

“Why is someone shooting at us?” Alice demanded. Her voice sounded high and thin. She was shaking uncontrollably. Everything had happened so fast that it seemed utterly unreal. Only the calmness of Miles’s reactions, the absolute steadiness she sensed in him, kept her from utter panic.

His arms were about her, immeasurably comforting. Extraordinarily, under the circumstances, she felt safe.

“I don’t think we have time to discuss that properly now,” Miles said, a thread of amusement in his tone. He pressed his lips to her hair and she felt the conflict in him—the need to take action versus the desperate desire to offer her protection. She remembered then his army training; his first instinct must surely be to give chase to the enemy and yet he had held back to defend her.

“I do not want to leave you, Alice,” Miles said, “but I need to try and work my way around to where he is shooting from or we have no chance of stopping him—”

“Go,” Alice said. Her voice came out as a thread of sound. She was trembling now with shock and cold and reaction, the snow clinging to her clothes, her bonnet squashed beyond recognition. She could see a smear of blood on the snow where her arm had rested. Her gloves were stained with it, too, and she put up her hand to her sleeve and felt the ragged edges of material around the bullet hole.

“You’re injured.” Miles’s voice sharpened and there was a note in it she had never heard before. “Alice—”

“It’s nothing,” Alice said, teeth chattering. “It barely grazed me. Go! Better to stop him than sit here like a couple of prizes in the shooting gallery. But for pity’s sake, take care—”

Their eyes met. Miles looked torn. They both knew that if the carriage horses were panicked and took flight before he had disarmed the marksman, Alice would be defenseless. Her fingers clung to his for a long moment and then she deliberately freed herself.

“Go,” she said for a third time.

“Vickery!” The shout came from behind them and they both spun around. Nat Waterhouse was galloping up on a bay stallion. He leaped down and grabbed the carriage horses, soothing the panicked animals until they quietened.

“I heard a shot,” he said tersely, over his shoulder. “What the hell is going on, Miles?”

“Someone has been using us for target practice,” Miles said, getting to his feet. “Thank God you’re here. At least that will have scared him off. I must get Miss Lister back to Spring House and call for the doctor before we can try to discover who has been shooting at us.”

“I am perfectly fine,” Alice said, scrambling to her feet and shaking the snow off her skirts with hands that still trembled a little. “I can walk back. You two must go and do…whatever it is you have to do. If you leave it too long he will have got away and no one will remember seeing anything.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Miles said. “What if someone tries to shoot at you again? You would be totally unprotected.”

“They won’t,” Alice said. Suddenly she felt exhausted and all she wanted was to be at home, to take refuge deep in her feather bed and sleep until she felt better. “I doubt I was the target,” she added. “Why would anyone shoot at me? I do not have a family curse hanging over my head.”

Miles and Nat exchanged a look.

“Miss Lister has a point,” Nat said. “Perhaps you were the intended victim, Miles.”

Miles shook his head. “He was not aiming at me,” he said. “Miss Lister—” there was unflinching determination in his tone “—I’m not leaving you to travel back alone. The idea is absurd.” His tone brooked no refusal.

“I’ll check out the tree cover to the south and see from where he was shooting,” Nat said. “I’ll send word to Dexter, too. Join us at the Granby once you have seen Miss Lister safely attended to.” He nodded to Alice, a smile in his eyes. “Your servant, Miss Lister. You are most indomitable, you know. Nine women out of ten would be having the vapors by now.” He raised a hand in salute, jumped up into the saddle and turned his horse to the south.

Miles scooped Alice up in his arms without another word and placed her in the carriage, arranging the rug about her as carefully as though she were made of spun glass. She watched him as, grim-faced and silent, he steered the chilled and skittish horses back into the town. Her arm had stopped bleeding now but it throbbed painfully in a way that set her teeth on edge. Miles insisted on carrying her into the house even though she told him quite firmly that she could walk. In the hallway, though, a diversion was created when Mrs. Lister heard the news and promptly fell into a swoon.

“A shame she did not see this in her tea leaves,” Alice said sotto voce to Miles. “She would have been better prepared.”

She saw him smile a little but the deep lines around his eyes did not ease and he seemed uncharacteristically stern. Whilst Marigold ran for the smelling salts and everyone fussed around Mrs. Lister, he drew Alice gently aside.

“You are sure you do not require a doctor, Miss Lister?” he asked.

“Good gracious, no!” Alice said, determined to remain strong. “Hot water and some clean linen to bind the cut and a glass of brandy will suffice.”

“You seem to be made of stern stuff,” Miles observed.

“It comes from being in service,” Alice said briskly. “I can deal with most emergencies.” She lowered her voice. “You do not think it could have been an accident, Lord Vickery? Someone out shooting at rabbits, perhaps?” She stopped as Miles shook his head. “No, I see you do not.”

“They would have to have been a lamentably bad shot,” Miles said. “We were several feet off the ground in that curricle and who ever saw a rabbit in midair?”

Alice sighed. “Then someone was attempting to kill either you or me, but that makes no sense at all. Who would do such a thing—and why?”

“I will come back and talk to you about it later,” Miles said. “I must rejoin Waterhouse and see what he has been able to discover.” He looked at her. “You are very valiant, Miss Lister, but you look exhausted, you know. You should rest.”

Alice
felt
exhausted though it was not particularly flattering to know that she looked it, too. The babble
of voices in the hall made her head pound. The graze on her arm throbbed painfully. Her soaked and freezing clothes clung to her, making her shiver convulsively. She felt a strong and most uncharacteristic desire to cry.

She put a hand on Miles’s arm. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said. “If you had not pulled me from the carriage so quickly—” Another convulsive shiver shook her. She looked at his face. He was watching her with a dark and unreadable expression, and suddenly the reaction and misery hit her at the same time. Of course Miles would want to save her life. She was worth a great deal of money to him. There could be no reason why he would protect her other than for his own gain. She was naive in the extreme to think that he had done it because he cared about her rather than her fortune.

“I suppose,” she added bitterly, into the silence, “that it was in your interests to save me. You have invested a lot of time and effort in claiming me.”

Miles’s gaze, hard and implacable, held hers for a long moment. “I have,” he said. His voice was rough. He pulled her to him and gave her a brief, hard kiss. There was anger in it and a savage desire, and for a moment Alice yielded helplessly before he let her go.

“Go to bed,” he said. “Tell your servants to open the door to no one you do not trust. I shall be back soon.”

Alice watched as he paused before the door, instructing the footman to carry Mrs. Lister into the parlor and Marigold to fetch hot water for Alice, and then he had raised a hand in farewell and was gone, and Alice climbed the stairs laboriously and slipped off her wet clothes. She bandaged her own arm because
Marigold was so upset that her hands shook too much, and Lizzie was so clumsy that when she tried, she tied the linen so tight that Alice lost the sensation in her arm altogether. Lizzie chattered and speculated about the shooting, and Marigold looked pale and anxious. Mrs. Lister demanded hot tea and as much seed cake as cook could provide in order to ward off the shock.

And all the while Alice thought of the tenderness that she had glimpsed for that split second in Miles’s eyes, and thought of the seductive attraction of his strength and protection. She remembered the steadiness of his arms as he had held her and the utter confidence she had had in his power to keep her safe. He had saved her life. He had risked his own life to protect her. If only he had offered everything to her freely. But she knew that she was in danger of seeing Miles with the same illusions that had been her downfall the previous year. His motives were not pure. Not in the least. He was driven by no more than self-interest, lust and greed. She must remember that before she wove the same dreams around him as she had done before and ended up even more hurt and betrayed than she had then. She had to remember that to Miles Vickery she was no more than the means to save himself from debt and disgrace.

I
T WAS SNOWING AGAIN
by the time that Miles reached the Granby—big white flakes this time that obscured the view and would, he knew, already have covered over any evidence of footprints on Fortune Row. In the private parlor he found Nat Waterhouse and Dexter Anstruther encamped before a roaring fire.

“Not looking quite your usual immaculate self, old chap,” Dexter said by way of greeting. “Nat’s filled me in on what has happened. You’re unhurt?”

“Completely,” Miles said. He stripped off his gloves and crossed to the fire to warm his hands.

“And Miss Lister?” Nat asked. “That looked like a nasty scratch on her arm.”

“She was cold and shaken but she refused to see a doctor,” Miles said. “She’s a most remarkable woman.” He saw Nat and Dexter exchange a glance. “What?” he demanded testily.

“Nothing at all,” Dexter said smoothly. “Do you need a drink?”

“Just coffee,” Miles said. “Strong.”

He took a cup and sank into one of the armchairs with a deep sigh. He had faced many situations in his career that were far more dangerous than the one that he and Alice had been in and yet in some obscure way
the incident had shaken him far more than it ought to have done. Alice’s tense white face was before his eyes; he could see the blood seeping from between her gloved fingers as she had tried to stem the flow from the bullet wound. She had been terrified and yet so calm, when many women would have succumbed to the vapors or worse. He had been right in thinking her valiant.

Would I had the right to protect her….

When he had seen that she had been shot, terror had grabbed him by the throat in a way he had never experienced before. He had known fear many times in his life. Only a fool or a madman would deny that they were afraid in battle or when they were on the wrong end of a gun. But the fear he had felt for Alice had been different. It had been a dread of losing something he had barely found, a horror that something immeasurably important was about to be snatched from him before he had even had chance to grasp it properly. It was probably a dread of losing Alice’s money, he told himself, but nevertheless a feeling stirred within him that was strange and unfamiliar. He cleared his throat abruptly and put down his cup with a sharp snap.

“Did you have a chance to discover any evidence on the Row before the snow came down again?” he asked Nat.

Nat nodded. “There were footprints in the snow around Seven Acre Covert. I took some measurements. He was a big man with a firm tread. There had been a horse there, as well. The distance from where your carriage was situated was about two hundred yards.”

“No great distance for an accurate marksman,” Dexter observed.

“He wasn’t very accurate,” Miles said. “He missed
three times.” He turned to Nat. “Would you have missed at that distance?”

Nat shook his head slowly. “No. Most trained riflemen would hit the target at that range.”

“As would plenty of countrymen accustomed to shooting game,” Miles said. “A farmer, say.”

Dexter’s blue eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?” he said softly.

“I’m thinking of Lowell Lister,” Miles said. “Whoever our assailant was, he was aiming at Miss Lister, not at me. I am sure of it. Who would inherit her fortune if she died?”

“Her mother, I imagine,” Nat said. “But surely you cannot imagine Mrs. Lister running around on Fortune Row with a rifle?”

Miles shrugged. “One forgets that Mrs. Lister was once a farmer’s wife. She can probably shoot.” He eased his shoulders back in the chair. “But no, I do not think she would be taking potshots at her daughter. But Lowell…” He sighed. “He stands to gain if Alice dies and Mrs. Lister inherits, and he does not want Alice to marry me….”

There was a short silence. “Lowell Lister always seems very fond of his sister,” Nat ventured. “Not that that proves anything, but—” he frowned “—you are
certain
the marksman was aiming at Miss Lister, Miles?”

“Well,” Miles said dryly, “he did wound her even if it was not fatally. That suggests she was his target.”

“How close were you to her at the time?” Dexter questioned.

“A proper distance.” Miles gave him an old-fashioned look. “What are you suggesting, Dexter?”

“Merely that if Miss Lister was in your arms it
might have been easier to confuse the two targets,” Dexter said smoothly.

“Well, she was not,” Miles said, with a ferocious glare. He remembered the shaking in Alice’s body as she lay beneath him in the snow and the momentary flash of terror in her eyes. The thought of someone threatening her life made the anger seethe within him.

“Entertain for a moment the idea that you were the target instead,” Nat said.

Miles shrugged again, a little irritably. “I’ve already thought about it and it makes no sense. None of my family want me dead. On the contrary they all want me to stay alive so that the Curse of Drum does not fall on Philip. As for the curse itself—” he paused, reaching for the coffeepot “—well, you know that I give that no credence.”

“Tom Fortune?” Nat suggested.

Miles shook his head. “Why kill me? Why kill any of the Guardians? He knows that if he removes all three of us the Home Secretary will only send someone else to recapture him.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. “It makes more sense, in fact—if it is Fortune—that it should be Miss Lister he was shooting at.”

“Because?” Dexter prompted.

“Because Miss Lister and Lady Elizabeth—” Miles glanced at Nat “—have worked out that Tom has escaped. Miss Lister asked me about it this morning. I suspect that Tom has contacted Miss Cole and if he thought that Miss Lister was telling me about it…” He spread his hands wide. “Well, you have a possible motive, I suppose.”

“No one saw a man fitting Tom Fortune’s description in the vicinity of the village this morning,” Nat said.

“I doubt anyone saw anything,” Miles countered. “Few people were out in the snow.”

“Lady Elizabeth and I saw no one,” Nat agreed.

Dexter swung around to look at him. “You were out riding with Lady Elizabeth Scarlet when this happened?”

“I was on my way back from escorting her to Spring House when I saw Miles and Miss Lister,” Nat said. “Miss Minchin does not ride,” he added, a shade of defensiveness in his tone as he caught the look Dexter gave Miles.

“Then she must be relieved that you have Lady Elizabeth to accompany you on your outings instead,” Miles drawled, taking pleasure from his friend’s obvious discomfiture.

“Leave it, Miles,” Nat snapped, “before I dissect your feelings for Miss Lister, which are nowhere near as straightforward as you appear to think.”

“Gentlemen,” Dexter said, a smile lurking in his eyes, “before you come to blows, did either of you see anyone else out riding this morning?”

“Miss Lister and I saw one other horseman,” Miles said. “A gentleman riding a black hunter.”

“Not exactly a detailed description,” Nat said. “There are half a dozen of those in Fortune’s Folly and Dexter is one of them.”

“I had Miss Lister in the carriage with me,” Miles said, glaring at him. “Do you think I was concentrating on anyone else?” He turned to Dexter. “I sent Chester to the livery stables to inquire if anyone had hired a hack like that this morning.”

“Good,” Dexter said. He seemed to be trying hard not to laugh at the overt aggression between his colleagues. “I think we need to interview Miss Cole and
see if it is true Tom Fortune has tried to contact her.” He rubbed a hand over his brow. “I know she will be reluctant but perhaps she can be persuaded to speak to Laura. They are cousins, after all, and Laura has always had a kindness for her.”

Nat nodded. “A good idea, Dexter.”

“Meanwhile you need to discuss with Miss Lister who would benefit from her death,” Dexter said to Miles, “and see if there is any other reason why anyone might try to kill her.”

Miles stood up, driving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t care for this,” he said. “If it is Tom Fortune who is behind this then all those women are in danger—Miss Lister, Miss Cole and Lady Elizabeth. There is no one with them at Spring House other than servants. One of us should be there to protect them.”

“You think that one of us should move in there?” Dexter raised his brows. “That would be highly irregular.”

“This is a highly irregular situation,” Miles pointed out.

“It would be better to move them all to a place of safety,” Nat said, “if we can get them to agree.” He looked at Dexter. “Could they stay with you and Laura at the Old Palace?”

“They could,” Dexter said. “There certainly is room, but I suspect you would have the devil of a job persuading Miss Lister of the need for it, and it’s hardly a place of safety. Spring House is more secure.” He turned to Miles. “I agree that it would be better if you can persuade Miss Lister to allow you to stay there, I think.”

“Oh, I will persuade her,” Miles said. He felt a little easier to think that he would be on hand to protect
Alice if anything happened. He turned to Dexter, slight color creeping up under his skin.

“I never thanked you and Laura for giving Mama and Celia and Philip refuge at the Old Palace,” he said gruffly. “Truth is that I never wanted them to stay but I am glad now that they are not out at Drum.”

“Don’t give it another thought, old fellow,” Dexter said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Laura’s blue-deviled that she is currently too sick with her pregnancy to go out much. She is enjoying the company.”

“The story of the shooting is bound to have traveled around the village by now,” Nat said thoughtfully. “How do we play it? As a bit of wayward target practice by some of the local youths?”

“That sounds ideal,” Miles said. “Let us dampen down the speculation. Now all I have to do is persuade Miss Lister of the opposite and that her life is in danger.” He saw Nat and Dexter exchange a look and raised his brows sharply. “What is it that you aren’t saying to me?”

“We did wonder,” Dexter said after a moment, “whether there was one other possibility that we have not already discussed.”

“Well?” Miles said interrogatively.

“You told me a while ago that you are blackmailing Miss Lister into marriage, Miles,” Nat said slowly. “People are notoriously dangerous when put under pressure in that way. You don’t need me to tell you that. Would Miss Lister dislike you enough and resent your hold over her sufficiently to kill you?”

“No.” Miles was shocked at how deeply and instinctively he repudiated the suggestion. He took a careful breath and tried to think dispassionately. “I
suppose that she has good enough reason,” he admitted. He ran a hand over his hair. “I cannot imagine that she would do it,” he said. “She is too good a person—”

“Are you sure?” Dexter probed. “If you are pushing her too hard…”

“No,” Miles said again. Agitated, he stood up abruptly and paced across the room. The thought of Alice betraying him in such a sickening way appalled him. “No,” he repeated. “God knows, I deserve it, but I still maintain that Miss Lister herself is the target, not I.”

“She could have paid someone else,” Nat pointed out. “Or it could be the work of Miss Lister and her brother together, perhaps.”

“No!” Miles almost shouted. He grabbed his coat, which was steaming gently by the fire, and shrugged it on. “I am going back to Spring House,” he said abruptly. “I will see you both later.”

There was a short silence after he had gone out. Then Dexter raised his brows at Nat Waterhouse and Nat smiled.

“I saw his face when he realized that Miss Lister was injured,” Nat said. “He’s in a devil of a mess.”

“He certainly is,” Dexter agreed, pouring more coffee.

C
ELIA
V
ICKERY WAS TAKEN
aback to recognize the gentleman who held open the door of the Fortune’s Folly Post Office for her with such exemplary courtesy.

“Mr. Gaines,” she said, “I did not expect to see you this morning. So few people venture out when it is snowing. Silly of them, of course, for what harm can a few flakes do, but even so…”

She was chattering. She was aware of it. She,
who was known for a glacial
froideur
when confronting the opposite sex, she who could reduce young men to stammers and then pitiful silence, was stuttering herself. Remembering the ball the previous night and the way in which she had importuned Frank Gaines for four dances, she felt an uncharacteristic mortification wash over her. He must imagine that she had taken too much rum punch—or that she was so desperate to engage the interest of a man that she would throw herself at his head. And now for him to find her here! Had he arrived a minute sooner she would still have been in the process of dispatching her parcel and
that
would have been very hard to explain. Had he seen the address, he might guess…

“Lady Celia.” Gaines bowed. “May I escort you anywhere? The Pump Rooms, perhaps?”

“Gracious, no!” Celia exclaimed. “I am not so feeble as to require spa water to bolster my constitution.”

“I am sure you are not,” Frank Gaines said, falling into step beside her. She became aware once again of how very tall and powerfully built he was. His broad shoulders practically blocked out the light. “In that case,” he said, “I wonder whether I might beg a word with you, Lady Celia? In private?”