Aveline reached out and shook Stratford’s outstretched hand.
This was her wager, blast them! “Gentlem—”
Aveline squeezed her arm and lowered his head. “Don’t make this worse than it is,” he whispered.
Liliana slumped. He was right.
“I don’t know what lies between you, but if you don’t wish to spend the next two weeks with Stratford, I suggest you make certain we win,” Aveline said, and turned her toward the shooting line.
The crowd followed, silent and rapt, as if watching a carriage wreck. Servants rushed to set up two new targets.
Liliana’s stomach turned over. There was more than her feminine pride on the line now.
Dear God, she absolutely had to win this wager.
Chapter Eight
“D
o you agree, gentlemen, that these weapons are of similar make and quality?” A blond gentleman, who had been introduced to Liliana as Viscount Holbrook, stood between Stratford and Aveline as each man weighed two matched pistols. After examining one, Stratford traded it to Aveline for the other.
Liliana fidgeted, shifting her weight from foot to foot as both men nodded and handed the weapons back to Holbrook.
“In the interest of fairness, Aveline, I must inquire as to your shooting ability,” Viscount Holbrook stated. Being met with silence, he clarified. “What I mean is, do you feel you are on par with Stratford?”
Liliana looked to Aveline, who had elected to remove his jacket but retained his waistcoat and neck cloth. In his buff-colored leggings and burgundy-striped vest, Aveline radiated sheer elegance, even while rolling up his puffed sleeves. Dear Lord, how could a town gentleman have a chance against a military veteran like Stratford?
Aveline regarded Holbrook with hooded eyes.
“I am a decent shot,” he answered vaguely.
A decent shot? Liliana nearly groaned. Her chances could be up in smoke before the hammer was even cocked. Aveline’s bland smile did nothing to reassure her. She prayed his relaxed attitude was the benefit of confidence and not a product of his lack of stake in the game.
“I will admit that I have yet to hit the center with a flintlock pistol, m’self,” he added, sounding unconcerned.
Holbrook nodded. “Stratford, as you will be firing the unaltered weapon, first choice is yours.” He flipped the guns in his hands and held both curved burl-wood handles toward Stratford.
Debating only a moment, Stratford chose the pistol on the left. He walked over to the firing line without saying a word, determination lining his features.
He hadn’t once looked at her since making his ridiculous demands, while she’d caught herself staring at him numerous times. She hated to admit it, but it rankled.
Holbrook drew her attention.
“Miss Claremont, do you require time and, or, er”—Holbrook flushed, likely not sure how to phrase the question—“tools to make your modifications?”
Her chest tightened as seemingly every other eye on the estate turned to her as well. There were some, like her aunt, with faces pinched in disapproval, but many showed rampant curiosity.
It took all of her willpower not to pull a silly face at the lot of them. Did they think she’d file off half of the barrel or something? An irrational smile threatened as she visualized herself manically sawing through metal as all and sundry looked on.
“Just a few moments,” she answered, motioning a passing maid. How she wished she wore one of her own dresses. She always carried her tinderbox in the oversized pockets. Liliana sighed. Regardless, she could still win. She’d just have to substitute.
Liliana whispered to the girl, then started over to where Aveline stood, checking his munitions. He held the gun out as she approached. “How do you intend to alter this weapon?” he asked.
Liliana waved it away. “I won’t touch the gun,” she said, “just the powder. Be sure to clean the pan, flint and frizzen very well. Leave no residue—wipe it with a moist cloth, then a dry one if you have to—and load the ball as you normally would. I’ll put in the powder.”
Aveline contemplated her, his sharp green gaze assessing. Then he started brushing out the pan with quick, efficient flicks.
Liliana cut her eyes to Stratford, who methodically cleaned his own weapon.
What had prompted his rash terms? He couldn’t truly want to spend time with her…could he? Was it wounded pride that demanded her presence, or had he known what she was about all along? He could see winning this wager as the perfect way to keep her underfoot and unable to investigate.
His wooden expression gave no inkling.
The maid appeared and handed Liliana a wrapped handkerchief. Thin lines of confusion marred the girl’s face. Liliana didn’t blame her. All she had time for was a parlor trick at best. She wasn’t even sure it would work.
Liliana unwrapped the contents, then laid the handkerchief out on the judging table and removed her gloves. She measured a portion, crumbling a bit of the gritty crystalline substance with her thumbnail, and began crushing it with a spoon the maid had provided. What she wouldn’t give for a mortar and pestle—the finer the grain, the faster it would burn. Still, this should do.
“What’s that?” Aveline asked.
Liliana smiled. “Magic.” She finished grinding, then scooped the handkerchief up with the powder inside. She walked over to Aveline. “All right, now, fill the pan not quite a third full with the priming powder,” she instructed. The spoiled-egg odor of sulfur tickled her nose. “Be careful not to add too much.”
Aveline quirked a black brow at her but followed her command wordlessly.
“Perfect,” she whispered as he finished. “If you wouldn’t mind?” she prompted, indicating the prying eyes of the crowd around them. Aveline understood and shielded their actions from the others with a turn of his body.
“Thank you,” Liliana murmured, then took a pinch from the handkerchief and sprinkled it into the pan. She cocked her head and debated, then added half a pinch more. She plucked a pin from her hair and gently stirred the powder mix. “That should do it,” she said.
Please, please, please, this had to work.
Aveline furrowed his brow but took his place at the firing line, where Stratford already waited.
Stratford turned and looked at her then. The gaze he fixed her with melted her to the spot. She knew he intended to win, and his look promised retribution when he did.
Liliana drew in a thready breath as he turned his attention back to his target.
“Shooters ready?” Holbrook’s voice queried. The crowd quieted.
Stratford and Aveline both squared themselves to their targets.
Liliana’s heart thumped hard.
“Aim…”
She firmed her jaw. This was the moment. The moment where she’d be made a fool or be proven right. And likely still be considered a fool, by male and female alike. She frowned. Well, better a vindicated fool. “Aim true,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on Aveline’s back.
“Fire!”
Two distinct shots rang out, one just before the other. Liliana resisted the urge to whoop. Though it was impossible to gauge with the naked eye, in her heart she knew Aveline’s weapon had fired quicker. If his aim was good, they should win out.
Servants ran out to retrieve the targets. Liliana stepped up to Aveline’s side, squinting as she watched the boys. She held her breath.