“The baron fell asleep at his desk.” He stepped across the room to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. “The man has the most tremendous snore I’ve ever encountered. I half feared he’d bring the roof down on our heads. The place is falling to ruins.”
“I rather wondered.” She sighed deeply. “She speaks so little of it.”
“Well, she needn’t speak of it at all much longer.”
“You’re certain this will work?”
“Of course. How can you doubt it?”
“How can you not?” she asked on a snort. “It was a very near thing the last time.”
“Nonsense. It was fated.”
“It was luck.”
“That would be fitting, wouldn’t it? Do you know, of all the missions I’ve had a part in, I think this one may prove to be my favorite?” He took in her narrow-eyed glare. “Er, second favorite.”
Twelve
Whit had always been proud of Haldon Hall—even when its master had been a keen embarrassment. Its elaborate design, the extensive grounds, and—and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it—the sheer size of the manor, had always been a source of pride for him.
On occasion, however, he was forced to concede that certain tasks would be a trifle easier if his home wasn’t quite so grand. Tasks like hunting down Evie for his mother. His cousin had promised to assist with decorating the ballroom that morning, but had yet to arrive. Whit could empathize with her reluctance, but a promise made was a promise kept at Haldon.
It took quite a bit of time to track her down, but eventually he heard her voice float through a window from the western side of the lawn. He made his way to a door leading outside, opened it…and froze.
Whit had never considered himself a coward. There were, however, a whole list of terrifying things a man could—and should, really—be able to go his entire life without witnessing. And the women of his family throwing daggers was most decidedly one of those things. In fact, he rather thought it should be somewhere near the top of the list.
But there they were—Evie and Mirabelle standing before a makeshift target while Sophie instructed them on the fine art of knife throwing.
“Pay attention to your lead foot and take care to aim it in the direction where you’d like the knife to go.” She stepped forward and with one swift and—he might admit in the very distant future—graceful move, had the knife slicing through the air to stick dead center in the target with a solid thunk.
“Mother of God.”
“Oh, hello, Whit.”
His sister’s voice jarred him out of his wide-eyed stupor. He whipped his head around to find her sitting next to Alex, a small traveling chess board spread out between them.
“Sophie’s giving lessons on knife throwing,” Kate informed him as she angled her bishop forward two spaces. “Isn’t it exciting?”
As a rule, Whit preferred to react to unsettling situations in a manner that befitted a man of his stature. And, as a rule, men of his stature did not pale and stammer.
But sweet hell, Kate throwing knives?
“Are you…is she…for pity’s sake, Kate.”
She turned cool blue eyes on him. “Have you always thought me an idiot?”
He blinked, remembering the conversation he’d had with their mother on the back lawn not long ago, and how swiftly he’d been maneuvered into that trap. He took what he hoped would prove a settling breath.
“No.” He made the mistake of glancing again at the knives. “The possibility has only just occurred to me.”
“Does it look as if I’m participating in the lesson, or does it appear, perhaps, as if I’m enjoying a game of chess with Alex while we watch?”
He didn’t bother to hide a wince. “Point taken, Kate—”
Kate sniffed and turned back to the game. “Clumsiness isn’t synonymous with idiocy, you know.”
“I know, and I apologize.” He stepped over to plant a soft kiss on her cheek. “It was ill done of me.”
“As for the rest of you…” Whit turned to Alex, steadfastly ignoring the amused glint in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re allowing this.”
“I can’t believe you expect me to argue with a group of armed women,” Alex countered.
“I don’t expect you to argue. I expect you to disarm them.”
“Ah, don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Well, you’re here now.” Alex waved his hand at him. “Have at it.”
He turned, intending to do just that, but when he opened his mouth, he met three pairs of annoyed eyes, and decided instead to hold out his hand in silent demand.
No one moved.
“The knives please, ladies,” he prompted.
“You’ve known him longer,” Sophie said to the others. “Is he being brave, or merely stupid?”
“That would depend, wouldn’t it?” Mirabelle replied.
“On what?”
“On whether or not we skewer him.”
“I vote you make him stupid,” Kate piped in. “He called me an idiot.”
Whit shot a sharp look at his sister. “Stay out of this, Kate. No one here will be skewered, because, in a moment, I’ll be holding all the knives.”
“Just not in his hand,” Evie added.
“You,” he shot at Evie, “are supposed to be helping Mother with preparations for the ball.”