“Sounds like a way to spoil a child.” LeBeau took a swig.
Is that what he’d done with Thea? Devon swallowed his smirk. “In some cases, perhaps. But not in my sister’s, and maybe not in Miss Beth’s either. A spirited young woman needs something to work toward, a goal.”
“Do you consider yourself an expert on the fairer sex, Lieutenant?” LeBeau handed the flask his way.
“No, thank you, sir. I still have shots to fire. And no on the second account, as well. I’m no expert. Just on my sister.”
“You had a wife.”
Sure way to rattle his concentration, ten times worse thanthe brandy. “My wife was a different sort. Sweet, demure…” He rubbed his palms on his trouser legs and slipped his revolver from his holster. “But you asked about my sister. My stepfather persuaded her with new dresses, a trip to New Orleans—” Drew her into the planter culture so tight, Devon hardly recognized the young woman she became. “And a horse.” The horse. That was the only gift worth having, the one in which he could still see the girl she had been.
“A horse is the last thing my niece needs.” LeBeau chuckled. “But dresses, a trip after the war?—”
“All of those fancy frills wouldn’t mean a thing to Miss Beth. But a horse would be a different story.”
Lebeau’s eyebrows cocked. “Are you insane? Give her a horse, and she’d run off the first time our backs are turned.”
“Well, then, something more permanent, something that’d give her a reason to not escape.”
George ran up to them, grabbing his battered slouch hat to keep it from slipping off his head. “Mighty fine shootin’, Massar. Three in that there bull’s eye.”
LeBeau grinned. “Better get to it, Reynolds.” He nodded toward the target and slapped Devon on the shoulder. “If you want to give up now, I’ll only have you work three days without pay.”
Devon ran his finger along his steel barrel and spun the chamber. It’d be prudent to allow his host to win. But he wasn’t going to leave Morning Fawn up there another night to a dinner of laudanum. If the LeBeaus could see her at the table behaving like a reasonable person, they’d be less likely to force-feed her that poison. Could Morning Fawn behave herself? The question rolled around in his head as he lifted his revolver, steadied his right hand with his left, and inhaled.
He squinted through the sight.
A mockingbird whistled from the field.
Devon cocked the hammer, squeezed the trigger, and fired.
CHAPTER 7
Morning Fawn dragged her feet on the stairs as she followed behind Jim the butler and Lucy. Were they supposed to be her guards and stop her if she did something wild and insane like bolt for the front door and steal another horse? Her uncle had some nerve sending a message that she had one hour to make herself presentable and meet him in his office. As if he were a king. She ground her teeth and stuck a loose strand behind her ear. Lucy had tried to talk her into pulling her hair back in a chignon, but a simple ribbon had been Morning Fawn’s limit of cooperation.
Still, the summons to leave the attic was unexpected.
As they reached the painted-tile foyer, Jim, with LeBeau’s hand-me-down suit hanging off his pole-bean figure, pivoted and lumbered toward Uncle Robert’s office door.
Lucy hung back and sidled up to her. “Reynolds had something to do with your uncle sending for you.”
“He did?”
“Yup. The lieutenant met me on the second-floor landing as I headed up to your room. Wanted me to tell you to please behave.”
“He said what?” Morning Fawn stopped walking, barely keeping her voice to a whisper.
“For your own sake. That’s what he said.” Lucy gnawed her lip. “And I think he’s right.”
Morning Fawn shot her a glare. “Don’t you dare go agreeing with that man.” She stomped ahead past the closed parlor door. Reynolds had a lot of gall. Telling her what to do as if she didn’t have any sense.
He’d seen her under the influence of laudanum. No wonder he thought her incompetent. But why should he care what happened to her?
He’d taken the nails out for her. Why?
Jim opened the brass-handled door, and Morning Fawn followed.
Her uncle stood by the expansive window which looked out upon the shrubs and the dormant garden, Aunt Judith’s glory when it was in full bloom. His smooth, pale hands rested on the top of his cane. From what Morning Fawn had seen, it was more like a scepter she’d read about in the stories on his shelves than an aid for walking.
