If he was destined to meet his end with a ball between his eyes, it wouldn’t be in the kitchen of his childhood home before he’d even had his morning coffee, nor would it come at the hands of this . . . this . . . well, he didn’t have the vaguest idea who she was, or what she was doing in his house.
“Don’t trifle with me, sir.” She inched closer, close enough so he could see her long, slender finger on the trigger. “It would be a great pity if I were obliged to shoot you.”
She didn’tsoundlike a murderess. Her voice was husky but sweet, and not at all the tone one might expect of a murderess. “Indeed, it would, but you’re not going to do it.”
At least, he hoped not, especially if Ambrose had been the one to teach her how to shoot. The man had been a liar and a degenerate of the first order—a trickster at best, a charlatan and thief at worst, but there was no denying he’d been an excellent marksman.
She shifted but remained hidden in the shadows, and the dainty hand holding the pistol didn’t so much as twitch. “You appear quite confident of that, but it’s not the sort of thing one wishes to be mistaken about, is it?”
“No, but I’m not mistaken.” He leaned a hip against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the housekeeper here? A maidservant?”
“You’re rather inquisitive for a man with a pistol aimed at his head.” She tutted, a soft click of her tongue. “Presumptuous, as well.”
“I do beg your pardon, miss . . . miss . . .” He raised an eyebrow inquiringly, but Ambrose’s serving maid, or cook, or whoever the devil she was didn’t deign to offer her name. “Perhaps I should explain. I was invited here. Surely, you don’t intend to shoot a guest?”
She let out an incredulous laugh, the sound far sweeter than a lady with a pistol in her hand had any right to produce. He squinted into the darkness and caught a glimpse of a small, straight nose and a curved cheekbone, but otherwise, she was merely an indistinct shape in white.
Well, aside from the pistol pointed at his head.Thatwas distinct enough.
“Invited? I rather doubt that.”
“I have a letter that proves it. May I fetch it?” He reached a hand toward his coat pocket.
“No, I’d rather you didn’t move, if you please. Who wrote the letter?”
“Ambrose St. Claire, of course. Who else?”
Ah, now that got her attention. She didn’t move, or venture into the light, but the air between them changed, grew charged, the sudden deep hush crackling with tension. At last, she said, “Ambrose is dead.”
He was, yes, and not a single bloody moment too soon. “I’m aware of that, madam. An unfortunate accident, I believe. Pity. But this is his house, or it was.”
Except it hadn’t been, had it? It hadn’t been Ambrose’s house at all, no matter if he’d been living in it these past nineteen years. Ambrose St. Claire was no better than a poacher with a brace of pilfered pheasant hidden under his coat. He’dstolenthis house right out from under Max’s father, and by the looks of things, he’d taken bloody poor care of it.
“It was his house, yes, but it’s mine now, and I certainly didn’t invite you here.”
“Yours?” Like bloody hell it was. Hammond Court was the one remaining piece of his family’s legacy that he had yet to reclaim, the missing jewel in the Grantham family’s crown. It had eluded him for years, and he’d be damned if he’d let it slip through his fingers now.
“Mine, yes, and I don’t want you here.”
“I rather assumed that, madam, given you greeted me with a pistol in your hand.”
“Are you complaining, sir? Because it might just as easily have been a ball between your eyes. If I were you, I’d consider myself fortunate, given I would have been well within my rights to shoot you.”
“Shoot me? On what grounds? Just because I—”
“Kicked my door down, and broke into my house? You’re an intruder, sir.”
It wasn’therhouse, damn her, and he’d only kicked the doorknob, not the door, though admittedly he’d left it a trifle mangled. “I beg your pardon. I was under the impression the house had been abandoned.” Anyone would have thought so, given the decrepit look of the place. Half the windows were cracked, for God’s sake.
“It hasn’t been,” she said, her voice flat.
“Yes, well, I see that now. But be that as it may, Ambrose must have wanted me here, or else he wouldn’t have invited me to come. One would think you’d choose to honor his wishes in that regard. Or do you mean to disregard the final, dying request of your, er . . . employer? Friend? Distant uncle, or second cousin, perhaps?”
Alas, the woman was too clever to be goaded or tricked into revealing herself, and his questions were met with a deafening silence.
“I’ve come all the way from London at Ambrose’s summons, madam. You might at least agree to have a look at the letter,” he said when the silence continued to stretch between them. “You’ll see it’s written in his hand.”
There was another long, fraught silence, then she jerked the pistol toward the kitchen table. “Very well. Sit down, and take care to remain still, if you please.”
