Eleanor said. ‘So that you have written proof, should anyone ever mention it,’ she added, to Matthew.
Hugo shrugged. ‘I can try,’ he said. ‘Lucas keeps himself to himself these days, but I shall use my best powers of persuasion. I will fetch my belongings and then, dear cousin, I shall write to my brother.’
‘This is so exciting,’ Eleanor said after Hugo had left.
She gazed up at Matthew with glowing eyes and Matthew’s heart sank. Did she not know him at all?
‘You can reconcile with your family,’ she continued, ‘and take your rightful place in society with no fear of those past lies lurking in the background to sully your name.’
She was all eagerness, her wealth and position giving her the confidence that her vision of the future was a rosy certainty. He knew what she felt for him: it radiated from her eyes whenever she looked at him, even when she was angry with him. And his feelings, also, had grown far beyond the initial attraction and the subsequent lust. But he would not allow those feelings to turn to love. She deserved better than him. She deserved to take her rightful place at the pinnacle of society. It had been her goal in coming to London and she was on the brink of achieving it.
‘You forget, my lady,’ he said. ‘I have neither the desire nor the intention of taking any place in society. I have a life of my own and to that I shall return once the danger to you is past. Come, we should rejoin your aunt.’
He hardened his heart against the flash of hurt in her eyes. He could protect her from her unknown assailant, but he could not protect her from the pain of his snub.
It is for the best. But...if only...
No. Regret was pointless. He had kissed her. Twice. Those kisses burned in his memory. He should have resisted her. He should never have called upon her once they returned to London.
How easy it was to be wise after the event.
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
