Excerpt: 1812, June, To Wed a Proper Lady

Aldridge was approaching, his long-limbed prowl deceptively fast. “Excellent shooting, Winderfield. I apologise for my principal. I knew the man was an ass. I did not realise he was also a coward.”

Drew inclined his head just enough to not be openly insulting. “I told him to stand still,” he said. “Did I at least remove the fob?”

Aldridge laughed. “You did. And a shaving of shirt and skin along with it. Nothing worth bellowing over.” He nodded cautiously to James. “My lord. I will be reporting to His Grace that his pet is a disgrace. I agreed to be his second in order to see fair play, but I regret the choice.”

Fair play? With a sharpshooter hidden in the woods? Did Aldridge know?

On the whole, James thought not. By reputation, the man had the morals of a tom cat, but also was known for honesty in all his dealings. He might be the son of Sutton’s enemy, but that did not mean he was his father’s pawn.

James watched the marquis closely as he said, “Were you aware of the sharpshooter in the woods, waiting to kill my brother when my cousin took his shot?”

He could swear Aldridge’s reaction was not feigned. The man took a sharp breath and paled, his hazel eyes blazing. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous. “I was not.” He turned to Yousef and held out a hand. “I take it, sir, I owe you thanks that my honour has not been trampled by that treacherous pond scum. My father shall hear of this, too.”

Yousef turned the words over in his mind, his hesitation obvious. He must have decided, at least tentatively, in favour of Aldridge, for he met the man’s hand with his own. “Tell your father that my lords are not easy to kill, and that the least injury will be met with retribution beyond imagination.” Both men looked at James at the same moment, the expression on the dark bearded face and the visage of the fair English lord so similar as to give them an uncanny resemblance.

“You think I was the target?” James asked. Shooting him made more sense than shooting Drew, but— “Weasel would have been a pariah, had he succeeded. Drew’s death might have been passed off as an error by a nervous idiot—he was only a fraction ahead of the signal. But mine? I was on the side of the field, well out of the line of fire.”

“Which makes it more likely that the plot was Ha— someone else’s,” the marquis observed, his tone arctic.

Any thoughts James had about the man’s complicity melted in the face of his clear disgust. “It did not succeed,” he pointed out.

“Indeed.” Aldridge paused, pursing his lips. “For the sake of my nerves, Elfingham, I beg you to continue to be careful. I shall go and browbeat the Weasel. I shall send you a note if I discover anything to the purpose.”

They watched him re-cross the field to the knot of men who were loading Weasel Winderfield into his carriage.

“An interesting man,” Drew observed.

“Honest, I think,” Yousef said.

“He has that reputation,” James replied, adding, “as his father does not.”