The countryside here would never be a genteel, well-mannered thing.
The officers stood up, rifles in hand, their preparations complete. Lord Milmouth finished directing a pair of grooms to set up a wooden target a good one hundred and fifty yards down the lawn. A square piece of paper with an inked circle drawn in the middle fluttered on the target. Nearby, spare sheets of foolscap rested on a small table, a rock on top to prevent them from blowing away.
Miss Crowley and Miss Anne Forsyth clapped in eagerness.
“I am utterly breathless with anticipation,” Miss Crowley said, hands clasped to her ample bosom. Isla was beginning to think the motion deliberate. What better way to direct a gentleman’s attention to said bosom?
Captain Balfour sent the girl a fleeting smile that set her to blushing. Isla gritted her teeth.
Ridiculous.
Lord Milmouth waved from down the field that all was ready and began walking toward them, feet striding wide as he paced the lawn. He stopped before reaching the gentlemen.
“Fifty paces,” his lordship called and directed a groom to place a marker.
His lordship repeated the process, coming closer to them. “One hundred paces.”
A groom placed a marker.
Lord Milmouth paced out three more markers—one hundred and fifty, two hundred, and two hundred and fifty paces.
“Do we need more than this?” his lordship asked as he rejoined their group.
Colonel Archer shrugged. “Let us see how we get on. I know Balfour is frighteningly accurate, even at three hundred paces.”
Three hundred yards?Isla thought. Though she didn’t wish to doubt Captain Balfour’s abilities, most of her sided with Gray. How was such a feat even possible?
“Grayburn.” Colonel Archer nodded to Isla’s brother. “We shall give you the first go.”
“Thank you.” For his part, Gray shrugged out of his greatcoat and tight-fitting tailcoat, handing them to the waiting footman who, in turn, then handed him the prepared rifle.
“Ladies, you would be advised to back up and give the gentlemen space. We should hate for any accidents to occur. The bridge shall give you a decent vantage point and is about halfway along our shooting gallery.” Lord Milmouth pointed to the arched bridge over the lake and the steps leading to it. “Also, I brought this to assist you in verifying our aim.” He handed a spyglass to Isla. The metal barrel felt cold in her hand.
With gasps of excitement, Miss Crowley and Miss Anne Forsyth all but ran to the bridge. Isla and Miss Forsyth followed in a more decorous fashion.
By the time Isla gained the bridge, the men had walked up to the closest mark—fifty paces. Squinting, Isla noted that the sheet of paper tacked to the target had the number fifty written across the top in black letters.
Ah.
So they were to use a different target sheet for each range, likely comparing the accuracy between distances.
Gray lifted the gun to his shoulder and took time to line up the shot before pressing the trigger. The gun bucked in his hands, a sharpcrackringing out.
Isla lifted the spyglass to her eye, bringing the target into close focus. A hole punctured the foolscap just outside the black center. A groom darted forward and wrote on the target with a pencil—a letter G, it appeared—indicating where Gray’s shot had landed.
Isla handed the spyglass to Miss Forsyth, indicating the ladies should cycle through turns just as the gentlemen did.
Lord Milmouth was next. His shot landed on the edge of the black circle.
Captain Ross shot, his bullet piercing the target dead center.
Everyone clapped, and even Gray lifted an impressed eyebrow.
The grooms marked the location and then placed a tuft of cotton in the hole, stopping it up.
“Oh! The cotton will show the men if the next shooter hits the center, as well,” Miss Anne Forsyth said.
As if hearing her words as a challenge, Colonel Archer took aim and fired. His shot knocked the cotton plug out of the hole, enlarging it and shaking the foolscap. Once again, grooms marked the shooter and stuffed the center of the target with another bit of cotton.
