The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (27 page)

"I'm sorry, you are preparing to retire." Diana took another step backward. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You don't know how to dance?"

She shook her head, her dark eyes big in her blushing face. She really was a pretty thing. "I would have asked the major, but dancing cannot be easy for him with his injury."

"You didn't learn at finishing school?"

She shook her head in tiny movements, as if suddenly afraid to admit to anything.

William stepped out into the passage and pulled his door shut. That had to be more proper than standing in his bedroom, even if she had brought a chaperon. Not much of a chaperon, because what could a little boy do if he attempted any impropriety?

Her tongue seemed to break free at that moment. "I don't know how to do any of the proper dances. Aunt Felicity tells me I can't waltz until I'm approved for Almack's, so I shouldn't have to learn that yet, but if you could show me how to do some of the steps, so I don't make a complete fool of myself...I should hate to embarrass Aunt Felicity. She is going to so much trouble for me, and I was afraid to tell her I don't know how to dance. I thought, I thought...if you wouldn't mind helping me..."

"She missed her lessons at school a lot on account of being sick a lot," said Charles.

"Yes, they thought dancing might be too strenuous for my weak constitution." She stared straight into his eyes.

If she had a weak constitution, he was a monkey's uncle. Still, he didn't really care what she had done to get out of her dancing lessons at school. Perhaps the dancing master had scheduled his terpsichorean tutoring first thing in the morning and she had preferred to feign illness rather than rise early.

"I thought Charles could count for us..." She searched his face with nervous eyes. "...since we don't have any music." Her eyes dropped to the carpet, and she backed up more. "Oh, never mind. Forget that I ever asked. I'm sorry."

"I should be happy to help."

"Really?" she asked, as if she didn't quite believe her good fortune.

"When and where do you propose we start?"

"Um, now, and we could use the ballroom. I mean, we should use the ballroom, shouldn't we?"

"And it is where?"

"Upstairs."

On the third floor, where he was warned not to set foot. He was torn.

"Aunt Felicity is in her study. She usually spends several hours in there."

Bedford had seen Sheridan take a book downstairs after dinner, so he supposed that there would be no interference on that front. "Very well, let me get my shoes."

Miss Fielding reached out and grabbed his arm. "Uh, mayhap you shouldn't. We, um, we wouldn't want to be too noisy."

He supposed if he didn't need shoes—she was probably wearing slippers that would be noiseless—he didn't need a neck cloth either. He didn't think it would be too outrageous if he requested a kiss from his student. Payment of sorts for lessons taught.

When Charles deserted them later in the midst of their giggles as he attempted to teach Diana the patterns of a country dance, he knew the kiss was inevitable, and he began to anticipate, with a bit more fervor than he should, the moment he would claim her lips.

* * *

Tony settled into the rose drawing room with his new book on poisons. Felicity had withdrawn to her study and her work. Her parents as well as Bedford and Miss Fielding had gone above stairs to retire, he presumed.

Pulling a footstool over, he placed his aching leg on it and opened his book.

Half an hour later his head was swirling with thoughts of arsenic, hemlock, henbane, and puffer fish. Tony hadn't quite realized there were so many poisons available, or that so many of the purges and emetics that physicians prescribed could actually kill someone over time.

He was going to have to try to figure out a poison based on what their suspects had available to them and the symptoms the deceased had suffered over the course of their illnesses.

Which suspects, though? Perhaps he should start in the neighborhood. All of the possible culprits had lived in or close to the Lungren estate at one time. Certainly all of them, including Mrs. Lungren, had at the time the first Lungren male fell ill. Poison, especially a course of poison specifically engineered to kill each male family member in succession, had to be administered by someone close—someone with opportunity, access to poison, and a reason to kill.

What reason? And if it was Mrs. Lungren, was there even a reason that made sense to a sane person?

The door clicked open, and a little boy peeked around the edge. "What are you doing?" asked Charles.

"Reading and trying to puzzle something out."

"Really? I like puzzles." Charles crossed the room, his pale blue eyes bright and curious.

"Do you? I don't think this is a puzzle for a youngster, though."

"Is it about who tried to shoot Mr. Bedford?"

Tony patted his good leg. "Yes, that is part of it."

Charles scrambled onto his lap and settled into the crook of Tony's arm without hesitation. He looked at the book that Tony held closed with his finger in the middle, holding his place. "P-o-i-s-o-n. What does that spell?"

"Poison."

"What does that got to do with Mr. Bedford being shot?" Charles was altogether too earnest.

"We suspect the person who tried to shoot Mr. Bedford might have poisoned some other men first."

"Capital," said Charles, with far too much enthusiasm.

"Go get a storybook, and I shall read that to you."

Charles thrust out his lower lip. "You could just read to me from this." He tapped the book in Tony's hand.

"It's really very boring, and your mother would skin me alive if she knew I was discussing any of this with you."

"Yes, mama is that way. She always thinks she can keep all the bad stuff away by not telling me. But I like to know the bad things before they get me. I'm bound to find out about it."

"She knows that you'll learn about it eventually. The trouble is, there is a lot of wickedness in the world, and mothers just want to protect their babies from it as long as they can."

"Papas are different."

"Not really." Just less well equipped for dealing with youngsters.

"Mama reads to me from boring books. She explains about businesses and how to make money, and she makes me listen to the reports the managers send us." Charles's hopeful gaze focused on the book. "I don't like businesses much. When I get old, I just want her to keep taking care of them."

"Charles, you'll have to relieve your mother of the work when you're old enough to do it. You'll be a wealthy man, and you'll need to look after your assets."

"But she
likes
doing it. She's happy when she works on the businesses. She gets really happy when she makes a change—well, she's nervous about it at first but when it makes things better, she's very full of herself."

"Interesting." Felicity liked running the businesses? "But you know, Charles, you are very young, and you might find such work enjoyable when you grow up."

He shook his head. "I want to be a Robin Redbreast when I grow up, and solve mysteries. I'm very good at figuring things out, you know."

"So I've heard."

"Yes, well, I figured out that there is something odd about my cousin Diana. I don't know what it is yet, but I don't think she was at school the whole time she was in Switzerland. I think she runned away or something, except I can't figure out how she got the letters Mama sent her."

"Really?" said Tony, taken aback by the imaginings of the little boy. Although there was something not entirely innocent about Felicity's just-out-of-school niece.

"Sometimes I just have to ask the right questions." He held out his little hand palm up. "And I just haven't thought of the question yet."

That was the trouble. Tony wasn't even sure he was asking the right questions about Lungren's murder.

"Diana lies a lot."

"How can you tell?"

Charles unconsciously plucked at Tony's sleeve and kicked a little foot back and forth. "Different ways. When I lie I want to go like this." He clapped a hand over his mouth and screwed his eyes shut. "But old people know you are lying if you do that. But I think they must still want to do it, too, because they do this." Charles blinked his eyes several times and put his fingers to the side of his mouth. "Or sometimes they itch their nose."

"Scratch their nose," corrected Tony. "I hope you don't lie very often."

Charles shook his head. "Mama says it is bad. But sometimes when I lie it takes too much time, because I have to think too hard what to say. So I say um more. 'Specially if is a story lie."

"How do you know they aren't trying to remember something?"

Charles shrugged. "It's different. Like when my nurse tells the cook she didn't take his pastries or touch his fruits when I watched her reach me an orange, she always does this." Charles heaved an exaggerated breath.

"How do you know these things, Charles?"

"I also figured out that you must be my real papa, because Mr. Merriwether wasn't, you know."

Tony wondered whether he could dissemble. Especially since the precocious child had just told him he could easily spot a liar. "I suspect so."

Charles expelled a big sigh, as if he'd been holding his breath. Tony pulled his son against him and kissed his forehead.

"How does one get a son? Because I know you weren't married to my mama, and she had to marry Mr. Merriwether."

Tony grinned. "That one I'm not answering until you're older."

"Very well..." Charles made it sound as though he had long pondered the question. "I shall just have to figure it out on my own."

Tony heard the long case clock downstairs chiming eleven times. "You should be in bed."

Charles squirmed to the edge of Tony's lap, then paused. "You can tuck me in and read me a bedtime story."

"I can't. I'm not allowed on your floor."

"Oh." Charles looked thoughtful. "Can you tell me if making a baby involves kissing? Because I think Mr. Bedford is going to kiss Diana. And she said I shouldn't leave them alone, but it was boring just watching them dance."

Now what predicament had he gotten himself into? Tony might as well kill Bedford himself if he was going to compromise Felicity's niece before she had a chance to start her season.

Chapter Seventeen

Meg knew Mr. Bedford was going to kiss her. She could see it in the way his sea-blue eyes fastened on her lips. She didn't care. More than she not caring, she wanted him to. She hadn't thought, after the last time with the captain on board the ship, that she would ever want that again, but she did.

However, she was supposed to be an innocent young miss, who'd never been kissed before, let alone done, well, everything there was to do. She tried to remember how she had responded when she'd been an innocent, and then she decided she'd never been an innocent. She didn't want to pretend to be naive now. So when his lips found hers, she threaded her arms around his neck and arched up against him.

She could taste his surprise, but then it melted into eagerness as he slowly and patiently deepened the kiss, with such a coaxing sweetness and consideration for the maidenly sensibilities she should have had. All the while he held her tight, not crushingly so, but with the perfect blend of firmness and cradling.

That was before his hands began to stroke her back with a slow patience that made her melt. Her legs felt boneless as he tried to pull his hips back from hers, while he continued to kiss her again and again. She pushed harder against him, letting him support her. Enjoying, for once, a man trying to tempt her instead of expecting her to do all the work of seduction.

He stroked the outer curve of her breast, slowly, oh, so exquisitely. She wanted to twist so his hand cupped her breast, but she trusted that if she waited he would get there, and the wait was perfect torment. She pulled his head down, putting more pressure in her kisses. His thumb slid underneath, and a moan of impatience slipped from her lips.

He slid his hand down, away, and she could have died with frustration. Her nipples almost hurt. What was wrong?

Men liked her breasts. If they weren't too rough, she even liked it when they fondled and suckled, and—oh, dear God, he had started the same slow attention to her other breast, with his other hand.

Her breath was coming in little pants. His patience and slow concentration on her arousal undid her completely. She couldn't remember ever wanting a man's touch so badly.

She could no longer return his kiss with any semblance of control. He pulled back, and his eyes, his beautiful eyes, watched her as he skimmed his hand over her breast, his palm dragging against the tightened tip, sparking liquid fire to race through her veins.

She shuddered and closed her eyes, her knees buckled with pleasure more intense than she could have imagined.

"Miss Fielding, I..."

Miss Fielding?
Meg swung away, gasping, her knees weak, her heart all aflutter. What had she done? She wasn't supposed to behave like Meg Brown, the occasional prostitute. She was supposed to be a respectable young miss, who wouldn't consider letting a man hold her too tightly on a ballroom floor. "I should not have allowed you to do that."

Then she remembered Charles. Had she behaved like a slut in front of Diana's little cousin? Blimey, she had practically been rubbing against Mr. Bedford. She spun around, looking for the young imp. "Charles?"

"He left some time ago."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have encouraged you so." Meg paced across the wide-open floor. "I didn't...realize we were alone."

She folded her arms across her stomach. She had tossed poor Diana's body over a railing, denied her the opportunity to be buried by family, slept with that disgusting captain, all for the opportunity to marry into the gentry, and she was throwing it all away for an interested-in-bedding-her-but-not-wedding-her gentleman. "I didn't expect it to feel so good."

"Miss Fielding..." He sounded breathless.

The way she was. She couldn't look at him. She knew that he wasn't the least bit interested in offering her marriage. He was much more interested in her aunt. She had seen the calculating way he looked at Felicity. Not that she minded particularly. She understood the desire to better one's situation through any possible means.