Page 31 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

M eredith hurried down the backstairs to Mr. Ashcroft’s office. Gone. She spun around. “Oomph.”

His hands landed on her upper arms. “Steady there, my lady.” Immediately, his hands fell away and, stepping inside, he closed the door. The latch sounded loud and, after the morning she’d endured, ominous.

A frisson of fear trickled through her. “Oh, Mr. Ashcroft. You startled me. I-I was looking for you.”

“I have grave news,” he said. He pulled a pistol— her pistol—from his pocket and held it out to her, ivory grip first.

Slowly, she took the cumbersome pepperbox revolver, her insides quivering with sudden violence. She forced herself to wait to hear what he had to say. She hadn’t long.

“Pender’s been shot.”

Black edged her vision, and she swayed. “No,” she whispered.

“Where are your smelling salts?” he demanded, guiding her into the closest chair.

“No… salts,” she gulped out. “How… when… who…” She couldn’t seem to grapple her words into anything remotely intelligible.

“I heard the shot and found him face down in the muck. His horse remained nearby. That says a lot for a man.”

She stared at him uncomprehending. “Is he…”

“He’s alive,” he said grimly. “The shot went clean through his shoulder. He’ll live, the lucky bastard—er, pardons, my lady. He claims he didn’t see anyone. But…”

Meredith blinked and looked down at the gun.

It was covered with bits of mud and leaves.

After a stunned moment, she pulled back the hammer to half-cocked, freeing the barrels to rotate.

With a practiced twist, she gently spun the barrel cluster.

The metallic sound of the rotation was soft.

Then, one by one, she checked each chamber as there was no convenient loading gate like newer models.

In the fourth chamber she found a small percussion cap had fallen away.

“One shot fired,” she said, surprised at the steadiness of her words.

She ran a fingertip over the opening at the muzzle of each barrel, feeling for residue and the absence of a ball, confirming the round spent.

She lifted her eyes to his. “Did…” She swallowed. “Did you try to kill my husband?”

His lips tipped slightly. “As tempted as I might be with his arrogance, rest assured, I did not.”

“Then, who?”

“It could be anyone,” Mr. Ashcroft said.

“The village has run rampant with tales of his confrontation with Thornfield regarding the Trenwith child’s death.

Usurping a man’s authority before others would not go over well with someone of Thornfield’s temperament.

Especially one who is so accustomed to having those about him bend to his will without so much as comment or question.

Your husband—and you, I might add—have done just that. ”

Meredith’s gaze fell to the revolver again.

And again, she pulled the hammer back from its half-cocked position, feeling the tension in the mechanism, then carefully guided the hammer forward, maintaining steady pressure with her thumb to prevent the weapon from firing just as she’d been taught.

If done clumsily or too quickly, the hammer could snap forward and strike a loaded percussion cap, discharging it unexpectedly.

The soft click sounded, indicating the hammer had settled in place. She gave the barrel cluster one last spin to confirm everything had aligned.

“You’ll need to be careful reloading that monster. It’s too wet to work properly and could misfire,” he told her.

Meredith rose on unsteady legs. “I remember.”

“You were a good student,” he said with a sharp nod.

“I’d like to see my husband as soon as possible.”

“All right. I’ll cart him home. I take it you would like to keep the duke from learning of these latest developments?”

“Most definitely.” Slipping the gun within the thick folds of her heavy skirts, she slipped out and hurried up the servants’ stairs to her bedchamber to hide her precious cargo, noting a sense of relief at being out of that stuffy office.

As much as she respected and appreciated Mr. Ashcroft’s assistance over the past three years, she hated admitting that her husband’s suspicions were playing havoc with her own instincts and sense of practicality.

*

Lucius tipped back the finger of whiskey he’d found in a cupboard under the chipped crockery in Ashcroft’s kitchen.

The blasted bottle likely belonged to Lucius anyway.

He sat back with his booted feet atop a small table near the fire, though he was hot enough with the fury roaring through his veins.

The door flew back with the vigor of a gusting wind and Ashcroft entered. “Ah, it’s only you,” he said.

Ashcroft stomped his feet on a woven rug just inside the door and glanced up. “So, you’re alive.”

Lucius held up his glass and wriggled it back and forth, brought it to his mouth, and took another slug.

Ashcroft’s eyes held a wariness Lucius took great satisfaction in. “You sure it wasn’t you who took the shot at me?”

“I’m sure.”

He set aside the glass. Exhaustion hit him with the force of a hackney head on.

Lucius brought his booted feet to the wood planked floor with a heavy thunk .

“Are you drunk?”

“I am indeed.” He stared at Ashcroft. Something vague tugged at him but the instance withered away before he could grasp it.

“Your wife is concerned for your welfare. I’m here to whisk you to safety.”

Lucius rubbed his forehead. “Concerned, huh?” God knew it was more than he deserved. He came to his feet. “All right.”

After Ashcroft stuffed him in a soft white shirt Lucius would never consent to being seen wearing in London, they were off.

The walk to the Keep was brutal. Ashcroft guided them through the trees to the cliffs where the wind blew in great bursts, nearly knocking him off his feet. If not for Ashcroft’s quick reflexes, he likely would have been tossed over the cliff and out to sea.

“Why are we going this way?” Lucius shouted.

“It’s a shortcut to the steward’s office,” Ashcroft shouted back.

They reached the door and Ashcroft leaned Lucius against the castle wall like a broom. “Wait here.” He slipped inside but was back within an instant with Bartlett.

“Evenin’, milord. I’ll have you right as rain before you know it.”

“I would appreciate you not mentioning rain.”

Bartlett’s teeth flashed in a quick grin as he went to Lucius’s good side.

“God, I’m starved,” he muttered.

“A good sign, I assure you.” Ashcroft poked his head in the door again, then back out, nodding at Bartlett.

They entered the Keep and Lucius gripped the railing, pushing Bartlett aside then made his way slowly up the stairs with the footman right at his side.

“I’ll wait in my office,” Ashcroft said in a low voice at the first level.

Another one and a half levels up, and Lucius sweating profusely, he and Bartlett entered the family floor. Perspiration lined Lucius’s forehead and left him feeling clammy. “Help me to my wife’s chamber,” he growled. Sheer determination and Bartlett’s grip were the only things holding him up.

“Yes, my lord.”

Outrage stole through Lucius’s blood by the time the master chambers came into sight. Graham stood in Lucius’s doorway. “My lord,” he said softly, then glanced over his shoulder and back. “It’s Lady Pender—”

“I’m on my way to see her now.”

“She’s here, my lord, in your chamber.” Graham stepped aside so they could enter.

The chamber was hot and stuffy. “I need food.”

Meredith hurried to him, clutching his black silk banyan to her chest. “I’ll help his lordship,” she told Graham. “Make certain no one knows Lord Pender has returned.” She stopped and faced his valet directly. “Am I clear on this?”

“Yes, my lady.” Graham disappeared, leaving Bartlett behind.

She turned back to Lucius and worked the button at the top of his shirt. “Assist Graham, Bartlett. Bring hot tea with lots of sugar. If anyone asks, inform them that Agnes is not feeling well and that I’m with her. Oh, and go to my chamber and let Agnes know her role in this fiasco.”

With an incline of his head, Bartlett, too, disappeared.

“Oh, dear. I fear you may be feverish,” she murmured.

The attention was… unexpected, and… nice.

“Mr. Ashcroft says you don’t know who did this abhorrent act.”

“No. The shot knocked me clean off my horse.”

“I suspect it was that horrid Basil Thornfield.”

“Just tear the shirt.” He spoke sharply.

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“I have scissors in my sewing basket. I’ll hurry.” She dashed to the door and was gone.

But Lucius wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight. For some unfathomable reason, he needed her and followed more slowly. He reached the arch of her sitting room door.

She spun around with the scissors in her hand. “Oh! You startled me.”

“I’m standing right here, there’s no need to run. You’re likely to trip and stab yourself in the chest. Then where would we be?” He tried lightening his tone to teasing, but it still sounded much too harsh.

Meredith scowled in that adorable way she had. “That’s a perfectly morbid thing to say. Come this way, near the light.”

He did as she bade, stopping before her.

He closed his eyes and drew in the fresh scent of violets.

The scissors snipped, and the shirt loosened from his shoulders.

His eyes snapped open to see her dainty fingers clasping the parted cut as she ripped it apart.

The action sent an oddly erotic thrill rippling through him.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, goodness.” Hot breath feathered his bare chest where the bandage didn’t cover. She pulled soft lawn — lawn ?—from his free arm. His other arm remained folded against his body.

“I fear your shirt is beyond repair.” She set the scissors on the table next to the lamp.

Fire surged through his blood, keeping the words from penetrating his brain. Then they did. “The shirt belongs to your Mr. Ashcroft. How much are you paying the man?”

“The regular amount,” she said frowning. “I sent a note to Mr. Oshea asking for the recommended wages. He actually responded to my missive,” she chastised smartly.