a complete ninny of myself with a man who’d told me only the night before that he wasn’t interested in me, a man who’d actually accused me of calculated impropriety and extortion. And I’d almost let him kiss me. Well, what else should he expect, after I’d spirited him up to my bedroom and told him I envied his freedom to keep a mistress? Good God, how incredibly stupid could I be?
I didn’t trust myself this close to him. Flustered, I gathered up the blackmail letters, my hands shaking. “Perhaps you’d better go.”
“If you like.” His jaw clenched. “I’ve already seen what I came to see.”
“I’ll show you out.”
“I can show myself out.”
“No, you can’t. Our footman will see you if you try to leave by the front door, and I’ll need to lock the back door after you.”
His lips tightened to a grim line. “Fine.”
Tucking the letters back into my sash, I marched him out of my bedroom and down the stairs—well, if you can call creeping cautiously on tiptoe a march. We slipped to the back door together and I all but pushed him out into the April air. “Good luck with figuring out who really killed Sam.”
He gave a contemptuous grunt. “The same to you.”
Overbearing nincompoop. He hadn’t even bothered to keep the sarcasm from his voice. I decided I’d better wait at the back door until he’d scaled the garden wall, just to make sure he was well and truly gone. I stood watching through the half-open door as he sauntered past the colorful banks of new spring blooms toward the locked gate.
And that was how I heard not just the crack of the gunshot, but even the whine of the bullet that hit him.
Chapter Seven
Barbara
He lurched and fell backward on the garden path, and in the same instant, I let out a stifled shriek and launched myself out the door. When I dropped down on my knees beside Ben’s body, he was on his back, staring with blank, open eyes at the sky above. The wound was to his right temple, and blood was already trickling back into his hair. I would have screamed, if I hadn’t been struck dumb with horror. I even had the wildly unbefitting thought I should have kissed him when I had the chance.
Then he lifted a hand to his head. “Ow.”
I nearly fainted with relief. “Ben! You’re alive! Can you speak?”
He sat up slowly, his hand pressed to his temple. “Of course I can speak. I was only stunned for a moment, that’s all. What hit me?”
Outside the garden gate, neighbors and passersby were exchanging excited calls, wondering at the report. Thank heavens the spring foliage screened us from view—and thank heavens anyone from inside the house would have followed the crack of the gunshot rather than looking in our direction. “You were shot.”
“Oh.” He spoke in the same equable tone as if I’d told him he’d missed tea. “In that case, I suppose I was lucky. The dashed ball must have just creased my skull.”
“Are you sure? Let me see.” I pulled his hand out of the way to get a good look. As far as I could tell, he was right. It was only a flesh wound. Still, there was a surprising amount of blood. It was already beginning to drip down over one eyebrow.
He sat patiently with his elbows on his bent knees as I examined his head. “Did you see who shot me?”
His dark hair was thick and soft, and I had to resist a powerful urge to run my fingers through it as I traced the wound. “No, it came from outside the garden gate. But Manton’s shooting gallery is only a few doors away, so it must have been a stray—”
I stopped myself, but Ben said what I was thinking. “You don’t really believe this was an accident.”
“No, not really. But never mind that now. You need medical attention. This is bleeding badly.”
“I’ll be fine. Head wounds always bleed like the very devil.” Calmly, he took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it to his temple. “Of course, if my mother gets wind of this, she’ll have an apoplexy.
I didn’t trust myself this close to him. Flustered, I gathered up the blackmail letters, my hands shaking. “Perhaps you’d better go.”
“If you like.” His jaw clenched. “I’ve already seen what I came to see.”
“I’ll show you out.”
“I can show myself out.”
“No, you can’t. Our footman will see you if you try to leave by the front door, and I’ll need to lock the back door after you.”
His lips tightened to a grim line. “Fine.”
Tucking the letters back into my sash, I marched him out of my bedroom and down the stairs—well, if you can call creeping cautiously on tiptoe a march. We slipped to the back door together and I all but pushed him out into the April air. “Good luck with figuring out who really killed Sam.”
He gave a contemptuous grunt. “The same to you.”
Overbearing nincompoop. He hadn’t even bothered to keep the sarcasm from his voice. I decided I’d better wait at the back door until he’d scaled the garden wall, just to make sure he was well and truly gone. I stood watching through the half-open door as he sauntered past the colorful banks of new spring blooms toward the locked gate.
And that was how I heard not just the crack of the gunshot, but even the whine of the bullet that hit him.
Chapter Seven
Barbara
He lurched and fell backward on the garden path, and in the same instant, I let out a stifled shriek and launched myself out the door. When I dropped down on my knees beside Ben’s body, he was on his back, staring with blank, open eyes at the sky above. The wound was to his right temple, and blood was already trickling back into his hair. I would have screamed, if I hadn’t been struck dumb with horror. I even had the wildly unbefitting thought I should have kissed him when I had the chance.
Then he lifted a hand to his head. “Ow.”
I nearly fainted with relief. “Ben! You’re alive! Can you speak?”
He sat up slowly, his hand pressed to his temple. “Of course I can speak. I was only stunned for a moment, that’s all. What hit me?”
Outside the garden gate, neighbors and passersby were exchanging excited calls, wondering at the report. Thank heavens the spring foliage screened us from view—and thank heavens anyone from inside the house would have followed the crack of the gunshot rather than looking in our direction. “You were shot.”
“Oh.” He spoke in the same equable tone as if I’d told him he’d missed tea. “In that case, I suppose I was lucky. The dashed ball must have just creased my skull.”
“Are you sure? Let me see.” I pulled his hand out of the way to get a good look. As far as I could tell, he was right. It was only a flesh wound. Still, there was a surprising amount of blood. It was already beginning to drip down over one eyebrow.
He sat patiently with his elbows on his bent knees as I examined his head. “Did you see who shot me?”
His dark hair was thick and soft, and I had to resist a powerful urge to run my fingers through it as I traced the wound. “No, it came from outside the garden gate. But Manton’s shooting gallery is only a few doors away, so it must have been a stray—”
I stopped myself, but Ben said what I was thinking. “You don’t really believe this was an accident.”
“No, not really. But never mind that now. You need medical attention. This is bleeding badly.”
“I’ll be fine. Head wounds always bleed like the very devil.” Calmly, he took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and pressed it to his temple. “Of course, if my mother gets wind of this, she’ll have an apoplexy.
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