Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

“Of all the—Lady Harcroft, you’re the gang of ruffians?”


She didn’t seem to be hearing what he said, which was just as well, because his world had narrowed to the ice-cold beat of his pulse. Her shoulders squared, and she brought the barrel up to point directly at Ned’s chest.

“You realize that was a joke. About bringing you to justice.” It didn’t seem funny anymore. It didn’t even seem embarrassing. It was just absurdly frightening.

“Mr. Carhart.” Lady Harcroft’s voice trembled, where her hands had not. “I am sorry. Truly.”

“Wait. No.”

But she’d already squeezed her eyes shut, and before Ned could throw himself out of the way, she pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER NINE

THE HAMMER HIT THE PISTOL with a metallic, percussive click. The sound echoed about Ned—but it was quieter than the explosion of black powder he’d expected.

She stared at him down the barrel of the firearm, her eyes widening. “Damn you, Kate.” Her voice was low. “Don’t come any closer, Mr. Carhart. Or I’ll—” She grimaced. “I have a knife.” Her voice quavered up on the final syllable, as if she were on the brink of asking a question.

Ned was not so distracted by his unexpected survival as to overlook the singular fact that Lady Harcroft had cursed his wife.

“This is not what it seems,” he said.

She glanced across the room—no doubt searching out a grubby knife she could use on him.

“I’m here to help,” Ned continued. He stepped into the room, brushing aside the cloths that hung from the line. They were an infant’s napkins, he realized. By the state of their dampness, they’d no doubt been cleaned down at the stream a half mile away in the early morning.

“Did Kate send you? She promised not to tell.”

“Kate…” Ned glanced at the firearm she clutched. Come to think of it, that was his pistol. He’d brought it back with him from China and had tossed it in a cabinet. He’d hoped never to see it again.

“Kate,” Ned continued dryly, “has been sending you assistance, courtesy of me, for a very long while.”

Lady Harcroft met his eyes. “Tell your wife that next time, she needs to load the gun.”

Ned stepped forward. He’d only seen Lady Harcroft before in her husband’s company. This woman—short but stately—did not seem anything like the pale, sickly shadow he’d met at Harcroft’s side.

Now, as he walked toward her, her knuckles whitened on the pistol. She hadn’t lowered it yet. Instead, she clutched it wildly, as if she might wring some use out of it, even after she’d fired.

“Are you planning to bludgeon me with that?” He smiled to show he was joking.

She hesitated, which meant that she might have been.

Ned shook his head and reached to pluck the weapon from her hands before she embarrassed them both. He’d meant to make a joke about her shoulders becoming weary. But as he extended his hand, she flinched backward, her arm flying between them. He froze, midreach; she looked up into his eyes in horror.

She must have seen the shock in his own eyes.

He’d not wanted to think of it. In the frozen aftermath of nearly being shot, he’d not sorted out the implications of her presence. Lady Harcroft wasn’t insane. She hadn’t been abducted. But she was frightened. And when he’d reached for her, she had brought up her hand to protect her face.

Kate was involved. Kate had separated Mrs. Alcot from her husband. Lady Harcroft was here, on Ned’s property—on Kate’s property—flinching from him as if she expected a blow.

Oh.

God.

It made an awful, horrific sense out of everything—Harcroft’s comments last night, Kate’s reaction at meeting Ned last afternoon.

Lady Harcroft’s flinch betrayed more than a thousand bruises. Someone had hit her, and often enough that even friendly gestures now seemed menacing. Ned moved back, giving her room.

“God,” Louisa choked, letting the firearm finally fall. “I am so stupid.” And she burst into tears.

Ned had no idea what to say in response. He didn’t dare come forward and comfort her, not when a mere reach toward her gave her such a start. Instead, he could do nothing but slip a handkerchief from his pocket and slide it down the table toward her. She sat down and cried in the most ladylike manner, choking back her obvious sobs, dabbing at her eyes with the cloth he’d given her. Ned waited in uncomfortable silence.

“If I weren’t such a wretch, I would not be here. If only I hadn’t let it come to this. If I’d had the strength to…to…” She gave a quiet hiccough and winced again.

“To what?” Ned enquired mildly.

“To stop this whole thing, before it even started.” She set her jaw. “If I were not such a weakling, none of this would ever have happened. You knew me. I was such a timid, foolish—”

Ned held up one hand, interrupting the flow of self-berating before it could get started. “You’ve used the word this a great deal here. By this, are you referring to Harcroft’s treatment of you?”