Chapter Twenty-Six

      Aunt Lucy watched with interest as Eleanor examined the muff pistol purchased by Matthew. Surprisingly, her aunt had raised not a single objection to her having the weapon—a circumstance that made Eleanor even more fearful for her safety. Even Aunt Lucy thought her in enough danger to warrant having a weapon to hand for protection. When would this nightmare end? But...the end of the threat to her life meant the end of her association with Matthew. He had made that abundantly clear. Unconsciously, she sat straighter, lifting her chin. He must never know how his earlier words had plunged ice into her heart.

      ‘I say we should confront that weasel now, Damerel—you and I together. What do you say?’ Hugo had returned with a packed valise, his valet in tow, and an eagerness to act.

      He was talking about James. The truth tore at her. The truth she could no longer deny.

      ‘We have tried before,’ Matthew said. ‘He will only deny it and we have no evidence. We must get hold of that fellow who accosted the servant girl. That is the only way we might get evidence.’

      Eleanor concentrated on the pistol, its curved walnut grip smooth under her stroking thumb. The pistol blurred and she blinked hard to prevent her tears from spilling. What a fool she was. Of course Matthew did not care for her. Who would? Her mother hadn’t. James didn’t—he was prepared to kill her, for goodness’ sake.

      Why should I care? She was at the pinnacle of her success, fêted as the Catch of the Season and her ultimate ambition was within her grasp—Emily Cowper had dropped her a hint just the other day, saying that her approval for Almack’s was all but secure.

      ‘Will you teach me to shoot this?’ she asked Hugo, uncaring that she interrupted his quiet discussion with Matthew and Sir Horace.

      ‘I am flattered you should ask, m’dear, but I’m afraid I won’t have the time. We’ve come to the conclusion that, if confronting Weare is not the answer, he must be tailed, at all times. Sir Horace and I are to organise it, as Damerel has so few acquaintances in town. But never fear, I shall be back to escort you this evening and I told Pacey to place me in the next bedchamber to yours, so you may sleep easily tonight.’

      Eleanor and Aunt Lucy exchanged startled looks. This brisk-talking, resolute gentleman was nothing like the nonchalant and care-for-nothing Hugo they were familiar with, the man who never stirred himself on anyone else’s behalf.

      ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘although it pains me to admit this, Damerel was always a far better shot than I. He will teach you.’

      Not the news she wanted to hear, but she acquiesced, determined not to reveal any hint of dismay. From now on, she must look upon Matthew as a dear friend. Nothing—and never to be—more.

      Hugo and Sir Horace said their goodbyes and left.

      ‘Well, Mr Damerel? Where do you suggest we go to practise? To the park?’

      ‘First, I shall teach you how to care for it and load it. Then...’ he hesitated. ‘I fear it will be too public in the park—you will not want to attract attention. And you will be very exposed. What about here? Not indoors, but outside in the back yard?’

      ‘It is not very big. Will there be room?’

      His lips twitched. ‘It’ll be big enough for our purposes. This—’ he plucked the pistol from Eleanor’s hand, leaving a trail of tingles where his skin brushed hers ‘—is not designed for long distances.’

      She tried to bite back her gasp of consternation.

      Matthew crouched beside her chair. ‘Are you certain you want to do this?’ he asked. ‘Now Alastair will be here overnight, and Weare will be followed, I doubt you will ever need it.’

      He touched her hand. She raised her gaze to his, searching his expression. Compassion and concern: emotions prompted by fondness for a close friend.

      ‘I hope I will never have to use it,’ she said, ‘but I want to learn. I will feel safer.’

      ‘Very well. I suggest we go outside and begin.’

      ‘Aunt Lucy. Will you come, too?’

      ‘Oh, no, my pet. I can think of nothing worse than all that noise. Take one of the footmen with you—I am sure that will suffice for the proprietaries.’

      Outside, Matthew showed Eleanor how to load the gun by unscrewing the short barrel, seating the gunpowder and the ball and carefully screwing the barrel back in place, first ensuring no powder had spilt on to the threads. He showed her the action of the sliding safety catch and explained how to carry the pistol in the half-cocked position to prevent accidental discharge. She repeated the actions several times until she was confident. By then Timothy had joined them, carrying a tightly stuffed sack.

      ‘What is inside it?’ Eleanor asked, eyeing the sack with horrified fascination as Timothy placed it on an old stool brought outside from the pantry, the garden wall behind serving to prop the sack upright. That, according to Matthew, represented her attacker. The man she would have to shoot if ever he got close enough to her to threaten her life. She swallowed down the sour bile that flooded into her mouth. She must not flounder at the thought of shooting into a sack. If she could not do this, how could she ever defend herself?

      ‘Old rags and the like, milady. Mrs Pledger gave them to me.’

      Matthew stood behind her. Close behind her. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe...his scent and his heat enveloped her as he lifted her arm to demonstrate how she should aim at the target.

      ‘Close your left eye.’ His voice in her ear, the rumble of his words vibrating through his chest, through her muslin dress and reverberating through her body, deep into her core. She sucked in a breath, willing her hand not to shake. ‘Steady now.’ He covered her white-knuckled hand where she gripped the pistol, his fingers gentle; reassuring. ‘Relax.’

      It was easy for him to say, nigh on impossible to do. She tried to breathe more evenly; tried to relax her arm and fingers.

      ‘Aim for the centre of the sack. Gently now. Squeeze.’ His breath tickled her ear, causing a ripple of gooseflesh down her neck. Her arm jerked as she pulled the trigger.

      Bang! Smoke puffed from the pistol and Eleanor stifled her scream as the recoil vibrated up her arm. She had braced herself for the noise, but had not realised the power of the kick of such a small weapon. She swallowed hard; turned to Timothy, who held the powder flask and spare balls; began to reload.

      ‘I will do better this time,’ she announced, to no one in particular, and took her stance as Matthew had showed her.

      Matthew moved behind her.

      ‘No.