Adding to the irony, if he were correct, he had been shot by one of his father’s dueling pistols. He recognized the woman in Devonshire’s arms from the miniature his mother had given his father’s solicitor. She was the Lady Montgomery, Donald’s fiancée, and the woman his mother insisted he marry.
He swayed again and sank into a chair that rocked back and forth precariously until settling into place. He could rush Devonshire, yank the pistol from his grasp, and shoot him. He doubted that he’d be charged. This was his home. He was the Duke of Conclarton and he had surprised his brother’s fiancée in the arms of his cousin. It was a crime of passion, for bloody sake.
He weighed his chances of overpowering the bugger who was pointing his father’s pistol with one hand and gesturing to the Lady Montgomery with the other. Impeccably dressed in black tails and breeches, silver waistcoat, and elaborately arranged cravat pinned in place by diamond pins, his attire seemed more suited for an audience with Queen Charlotte than a tryst. But then, Devonshire had always flaunted his wealth and handsome appearance to his advantage, a trait that had earned him the fickle attention of theton.
Devonshire and Lady Montgomery were locked in an argument of some sort. Robert could not tell if she wanted Devonshire to finish him off or drop the weapon.
Robert had disarmed men before, in barroom brawls and on the battlefield. He wagered his chances of yanking the pistol from Devonshire as better than average odds. His cousin was more bark than bite and had never been reliable in a fight. Devonshire was a coward, more prone to run than stay and finish what he had started.
A surge of anger at the betrayal of Donald’s memory had coursed through Robert’s veins at sight of Lady Montgomery in the arms of his cousin, but that had now cooled, replaced by a dark hole of despair. Energy drained from his body, and his arms and legs were numb.
He had not known Lady Montgomery other than from the likeness in the miniature his mother had sent to the solicitor. His mother had claimed it was a love match between his elder brother and Lady Montgomery. Seeing the lady with Devonshire belied that theory. Or was a woman’s love that fleeting? A fine debate on the merits of each tumbled around in his head like pebbles caught in a windstorm.
Did he want revenge, then? And what would that look like? More death. More lives destroyed.
Leaning forward in the chair, he supported his head in his hands. His mind was in a fog. He no longer knew what he wanted. Yes, he did. He wanted to lie down and close his eyes. He was so tired. Weary of battle. Tired of the knowledge that those you loved could die before their time.
He watched dispassionately as Lady Montgomery pulled the bell cord, and he heard Devonshire shout some obscenity. The sound seemed to come from a great distance away.
A ridiculous thought sprang from his memory. He remembered when the bell cords had been installed in the castle. They worked via a series of copper wires, springs, and pulleys to pass the vibration from pulling the cord to the bells in the servants’ quarters. Ingenious. Extravagant. A device designed so that the privileged did not have to wait for their every whim to be fulfilled.
The pain in his shoulder throbbed, banishing the memory. Devonshire had shot him, and from his feral expression meant to finish the job. Did Robert care? He was not certain.
The door banged open. A woman, with hair that cascaded down her back in crimson waves, burst through the door, holding a pistol. She had removed her dark green traveling coat and wore a high-waisted, ice-blue frock that flowed over her curves like silk. His breath quickened. He recognized her instantly. She was the lady from the carriage—the Lady in Green and more lovely than he had remembered.
The room stopped spinning as he drank in her beauty.
She glanced toward him as though in slow motion, her eyes widening in recognition. Then she looked toward Devonshire and Lady Montgomery as though assessing the situation.
She seemed to have made a decision, and instead of lowering her weapon she kept it focused on Devonshire. “Drop your weapon.” Her voice was steady and her grip on the pistol confident.
“Who are you to order me about?” Devonshire said, with an arrogant lift of his chin.
“I am a person who never misses,” she said, her voice as cold as steel. “That is who I am.”
Robert saw the determination in his cousin’s expression falter. But war had taught Robert a valuable lesson. When an enemy was cornered, they were unpredictable. Devonshire would shoot the lady who Robert now regarded as his rescuer, then turn his weapon on Robert to finish the job. Devonshire was a viscount. His power and position would protect him, and with both the lady and Robert dead, no one would dispute the story, as there was no certainty of being able to rely on Lady Montgomery.
A sudden surge of protectiveness for his rescuer gave him renewed strength. Robert pushed to a standing position and moved between the Lady in Green and his cousin. He did not doubt her capable of pulling the trigger, but even the most seasoned soldier might hesitate, and Robert did not want to take a chance that she would be caught in the crossfire.
“Stay where you are,” Devonshire shouted toward Robert as he gripped the pistol with both hands to steady it, then addressed the lady who held the weapon. “This thief entered my room with the intention of robbing me.” His voice quivered as he widened his stance. “I was defending myself and the Lady Montgomery.”
“Are you a thief?” She said to Robert suddenly with the lilt of a smile in her voice.
He applauded the lady’s calm demeanor. He would wager this was not the first time she had held a pistol or encountered danger. Not only was she kind to strangers, she was fearless and brave. Intrigued by the combination of the lady’s virtues, he shook his head to indicate that he was most certainly not a thief.
“I would know your name, brave lady,” Robert said, weaving as though he were as drunk as a wheelbarrow.
She chuckled, shaking her head. “You are a strange one. You were shot, you are bleeding out on the carpet and moments away from being rendered unconscious. And oh, yes, your assailant is holding a pistol pointed at your head.” She paused to widen her smile. “Remarkable. You are either the most fearless man I have ever met or the most foolish. Do you really want to know my name?”
“It is of the utmost importance to me.”
She laughed outright. “My name is Madeline. Miss Mercer. And yours?”
The oddity of them asking for each other’s names, for all the reasons she mentioned, caused him to smile at their circumstances. He tossed her name into his thoughts. He had never paid a mind to names one way or another, but at this moment he decided that he very much liked the sound of hers.
But before he could respond, Winfield entered, without knocking, in a great show of concern. He was holding a candle and accompanied by a footman who carried a pail of water in each hand. “Lord Devonshire,” Winfield said, his normally placid expression creased with worry lines. “Begging your pardon, milord, but I was unaware you had arrived. Derby and I were bringing His Grace water for a bath when we received word that someone in the Old Duke’s rooms had pulled the bell cord. Then we heard gunfire.”
The footman set the pails of water on the floor as his gaze found Robert’s and Miss Mercer’s. His bushy eyebrows seemed to disappear into his hairline as he leaned over and whispered to Winfield.
