The Second Shot (The Dueling Pistols) (2 page)

That night had been one of the most special in her life, and he cheapened it by revealing that it was nothing more than a sexual encounter to him. She hated him for that. If he thought she would fall back into his arms, he was sadly mistaken.

She would not make that blunder again. She searched desperately for an expression to mark her vehemence. Not unless pigs flew—that was it. She would sleep with him again when pigs flew. Tony was a nasty piece of work, and she had been too naive to realize it years ago. "Well, it has been lovely seeing you again, Major. I—"

"I arrived home yesterday. I was delayed in Brussels." He had finally deigned to answer her first question.

He wasn't going to let her walk away. Fine. A jolt of fresh anger stabbed her. She'd just chat him into madness. He'd always detested idle prattle.

"I hear Brussels is packed with tourists. My niece was to visit there and see the battlefield at Waterloo before she returned home. But she took ill and had to book passage on a ship directly bound for England." She opened her fan and began waving it. Why did they keep these assembly rooms so warm?

"She wouldn't have enjoyed it. It is a gruesome place." He looked away.

Felicity waited, caught uncomfortably by the odd matter-of-fact tone of the conversation. She was thinking of pigs, and he was talking of war, however indirectly. "Well, then—"

"I thought only of home."

There was something so stark in his words that she wondered if that battle—the whole ghastly war—had robbed Tony of compassion. She fought the urge to lay her hand on his arm. He may be a hard, ruthless man now, but there had been moments of tenderness before. She couldn't have been so wrong about him then. "Well, you are home now."

"Not for long." His eyes held hers steadily. "What niece?"

"My niece by marriage, Diana Fielding." What did he mean,
not for long?
Was he blatantly implying he wanted only a night with her, not even an affair of some duration? The tips of her ears grew hot, but she struggled to talk as if he were any other acquaintance. "She attended finishing school in Switzerland and is finally coming home after a dozen years there. She should have come home sooner but for the war. Now I shall give her a season. I'm quite looking forward to her arrival."

"When?"

Tony couldn't be interested in this. Felicity glanced over her shoulder, looking for friends to lend their support. But both women she had been chatting with had discretely moved across the polished wood floor. Her return to society was too new to have reformed deep friendships. She needed the kind of friend who would intervene after a pleading glance, but she didn't have that. Nor would she if Tony shredded her reputation. "Her ship is due to arrive two days hence. I'm sure she is a lovely girl. She writes me the sweetest letters."

Tony's gaze dropped, and Felicity realized that her agitation was making her breathing rapid and her chest was rising and falling in a distracting cadence. Underneath it all was this spreading heat that her fan was doing little to combat.

Tony latched on to her elbow, and Felicity nearly squealed in alarm. Her heart pounded harder, if that was possible. With a firm and sure grip, he tugged her across the floor.

Memories of the last time she'd seen him, his naked body bathed pale gold by the moonlight, rose unbidden in her mind. His touch, then so firm and purposeful, yet tender. By the time she realized he was forcing her to go with him to some unknown destination, it was too late to refuse.

"Tony, where are you taking me?" she hissed.

"It must be cooler by the windows, or there might be a balcony. You are overheated."

She yanked her arm free of his grip and nearly smacked herself in the face. Quite likely she hadn't needed to pull so hard, as his grasp wasn't tight enough to be bruising—just controlling. However, she might need the smack to bring her to her senses. What was she doing, letting him lead her off to a garden path? "No."

"No?" He seemed taken aback as if no one ever told him no.

"That's right, no."

"No, it isn't cooler by the windows?" He faced her with a deceptively placid expression. "Or no, you are not overheated?"

"I don't wish to be dragged across the room like a half-wit."

"I wouldn't have bothered with a half-wit."

"If I am overly warm, I should prefer something to drink." She wagged her fan faster.

He leaned close to her and whispered, "Are you overwarm?"

Felicity realized that she'd made a poor choice in words. "Overwarm" could mean too daring, which was not her meaning at all and not quite what she had said. She snapped her black-edged fan shut with an attempt at nonchalance. "Not in the least."

She wished he would take his low voice and his tall, lean form elsewhere. The challenging lift of his eyebrow invited her to remember that night long ago in far too much detail. She needed to find a balcony or a cool drink.

Alone.

Before she melted into a complete idiot and forgot the damage that one wonderful night had done to her life.

"Shall I fetch you a glass of lemonade?"

"That would be lovely, Major." Did he remember that as her preference? Or was it just a lucky guess?

He bowed and then limped away.

A half hour later she still didn't have her glass of lemonade, and Tony was nowhere to be seen. And where was the surprise in that?

* * *

Suicide.
It couldn't have been suicide. Tony stared across the dimly lit drawing room at the body stretched out on the trestle table, brought in by the undertaker. Yet there was no doubt that his captain, who had survived six bloody years in the war to defeat Napoleon, was dead. Over thirty thousand men had fallen at Waterloo. Captain Lungren hadn't suffered a scratch. Had he returned home only to blow his brains out?

It didn't make sense.

Tony hadn't believed Lieutenant Randleton until they had arrived at Lungren's estate. Randy had waylaid him after he walked away from Felicity at the ball. His reddish-brown hair mussed as if he dragged his fist through it, and his freckled face creased with concerned when he gave Tony the awful news.

"If I had been here, I could have prevented this," Tony said to Randleton.

"What could you have done?"

Tony rubbed his face. He'd lost control of his men and his command once they'd returned home. If they had been in camp, he would have known if Lungren was in the doldrums. "Talked to him, put his mind at ease. I am sure I could have done something."

Across the room Lungren's three dark-haired sisters huddled together like a row of black crows on a hedgerow, fluttering and swarming around the emaciated undertaker and a barrel-shaped Lord Carlton, the local MP.

A wave of pity washed through Tony. The women hadn't even had time to leave off their mourning for their father and two older brothers, and now they would continue without a head of the family.

Why had Lungren done himself in? "It doesn't make sense."

"He didn't seem the type, did he?" Randy shook his head and seemed to take great interest in rubbing his toe across a bare spot in the faded rug.

What had happened? What had prompted a vital young man, full of life and with a bright future, to this end? "Had you seen him? Did he seem of sound mind?"

"I saw him last week. He seemed fine, as carefree as ever. He was off to stake his fortune with Bedford. Joked about how he actually had more than captain's wages with which to wager."

"Who is Bedford?"

"William Bedford, of the Devonshire Bedfords. Bit of a Captain Sharp, I've heard. He and Lungren got along famously."

"Birds of a feather?"

"I should think so. They seemed rather fast friends." Randy scanned the gaggle of women. "Should we do something for them?"

"We ought to marry them," muttered Tony, mulling over what could be done to assist the family of his captain.

"Good God, no!"

"Then marry them off. Find suitable candidates." Tony turned to his lieutenant.

"Not me." Randy backed away, shaking his head.

"Come, now. I'm sure they're not so bad when they're not dressed in black and all Friday-faced." Really, Lungren's sisters, while not diamonds of the first water, weren't hideous either.

"Your command doesn't extend so far as to include telling me to marry anyone."

"Oh, give over, Randy. I'm just roasting you. But seriously, we should make sure that they are settled properly since Lungren isn't here to do it."

"I don't think that Lungren would have put much effort into seeing them settled."

"The matter wouldn't have been so urgent if he were here to head up the household, now, would it? Besides, Lungren was most resourceful. If his sisters wanted for husbands he would have scrounged up a willing sacrifice or two."

"He needed three. He couldn't have persuaded that many men to agree to marriage."

"Now there is just you and me."

Randy cocked his head, regarding Tony skeptically. "You have first choice, sir, but count me out."

"I can't marry. I'm bound for India once this leg mends. Wouldn't be much of a life for a wife." The thought of having Felicity in his arms every night crowded out his thoughts. No. He wasn't going to offer marriage to anyone, not while he still craved her. And all he could have with Felicity was her in his arms, but he'd count that enough. It wasn't as if he still wanted to marry her, anyway.

Across the room one of the sisters raised her hand in front of her mouth and choked on a sob. Another spun away from the group. Only the glassy-eyed eldest stood her ground, but she swayed back and forth on a nonexistent breeze. They were in shock, reasoned Tony.

He and Randleton had grown far too inured to death. They were here to help, not make light of the situation.

The undertaker pursed his lipless mouth.

Tony strode forward. "What is it?"

"It is customary for the family to wash and dress the body. I am not in the habit of—"

"Now, now," Lord Carlton, with the assurance of long-held authority, cut him off. "Just because the lad did himself in doesn't mean these young ladies should suffer for it."

"We'll take care of him." Tony turned to the glassy-eyed sister. It was something they could do.

Tony turned to his lieutenant and issued a one-word command. With the ease of many years of working together, Randleton began arranging the furniture so that they would be able to wash and dress the body in something other than the stained breeches and blood-soaked linen shirt Lungren wore.

Addressing the eldest sister, Tony removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. "Miss Lungren, I'm sure he has his uniform. Bring it to me."

The undertaker looked as if he might object to a suicide being buried wearing a uniform of His Majesty's army, but Tony quelled his objection with a single glance.

Lord Carlton reached out to steady Miss Lungren, and she jerked away, giving Tony an abrupt, tight-lipped nod. "I'll get it."

In a far gentler manner than Tony managed, Randy sent the other two sisters off to fetch basins, washrags, soap, and towels.

"You will be back with the casket in the morning, sir." Tony made sure his tone to the undertaker implied an
or else.
"Captain Lungren was a worthy soldier and served his country well."

The undertaker touched his forehead in a gesture of abdication and slouched off to take his leave.

"He's a bit squeamish about suicides." Lord Carlton said. "But I'll see to it—he'll do what needs to be done."

Tony glanced at the bullet wound in the forehead of his former captain. "Will there be an inquest?"

"I see no need. I'll have the doctor fill out the death certificate. No need to drag these poor gels through any more hell. What with their unfortunate mother and everything else." Lord Carlton shook his head. "Two brothers and a father taken by wasting diseases, and now a third brother dead by his own hand. Perhaps the losses were more than the captain could bear."

"An inquest would settle any doubt," said Tony.

"There is nothing to settle. He was alone in the library. The servants were all in their hall having supper. No one else in the house but his sisters, and they were in their rooms."

Tony rubbed his forehead. He had no real reason to object to the baron's conclusion. Tony had just thought his men were safe, their futures secure, once they returned to England.

Lord Carlton had drawn himself up but slowly relaxed when Tony made no further objection. "I'll just take my leave of the family. It's getting quite late."

Lord Carlton was no doubt anxious to return to his fire. He'd had the situation well in hand when they arrived. He seemed a capable man, perhaps a bit used to having his way, and not willing to expend a great deal of effort to confirm what on the surface seemed obvious.

Damnation, if Tony hadn't lived and fought by his lighthearted captain, he wouldn't have questioned the foregone conclusion either. But he still wondered how could Lungren have sunk so quickly and totally into despair?

He walked the middle-aged gentleman to the door, assuring him that he and Randy would see to the deceased and put themselves at the service of Lungren's sisters.

When Tony returned to the drawing room, his lieutenant was alone with the body. Randy had begun the task of washing away the dried blood from Captain Lungren's wound. "Major Sheridan..."

The formality of Randy's addressing him by his rank made Tony brace.

"... would you take a look at this?"

Tony stepped forward and clearly saw the oblong, not round, not star-shaped wound. The world tilted under his feet. Reaching out, he braced himself against a chair back. He drew himself up. A superior officer never showed weakness, never admitted to pain. He had to remain in charge of himself and his men no matter what the circumstance.

He heard himself asking the question and watched Randy raise the head so they could both confirm what the shape of the wound already told him. The bullet had not followed the course it should have taken if Lungren had pulled the trigger.

Randy angled his finger to the wound. "There aren't the powder burns I should expect. Didn't Casey—"