Lord Bolderwood’s gaze narrowed in on Seth. “I expected more from you, Mr. Reeves.Succinctlyexplain why a duke would want your rifle.”
Where would he start? His prepared speech was now worthless with Lord Bolderwood’s patience spent. There was no hiding that their rifle looked like they soldered metal together until it resembled a musket. What it lacked in appearance it made up for in the only thing that mattered.
Performance.
“Speed and accuracy.” Seth waited for Lord Bolderwood to nod before he continued. “Our rifle can shoot up to four rounds per minute. Instead of fumbling with a ramrod and measuring out powder, our rifle allows for the insertion of pre-measured cartridges. All in one. It loads from the breech.” Seth held up a brass encased round for inspection. He chambered the round and closed the rifle with asnap. “On the inside, our barrel allows the round to spin, increasing its range. We’ve tested it against moving and stationary targets, with an accuracy of three hundred and fifty yards, confidently. Perhaps more, with our other invention—”
“This is absurd,” Mr. Edgars cut him off. He winced as his shin bumped against the table, causing the tea pot to wobble. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this rubbish. Gentlemen, we are wasting ourtime. I doubt thatfarm guncan shoot fifty yards. It’ll explode as soon as you pull the trigger.”
“I’m prepared to give a demonstration,” Seth offered.
“This isn’t a hunting rifle.” Mr. Edgars scoffed. “His Grace wouldnotapprove.”
“If I may,” Cooper cut in. “Mr. Edgars, you are correct in the impression that this isn’t a rifle fit for a duke, but His Grace isn’t only looking for a hunting rifle, is he?” Cooper turned to Lord Bolderwood, speaking to him directly, “Perhaps he would be interested in something durable. Multipurpose. Cost effective?”
“Cost effective!” Mr. Edgars barked a laugh.
“A duke doesn’t have to count pennies, Mr. Reeves.” Mr. Hughes guffawed. “Why would cost matter?”
But the fawn-like young man at the edge of the sofa’s eyes lit up and honed in on the rifle.
“In case it needs to be replicated.” Seth kept his face impassive as his eyes locked with Lord Bolderwood’s. The Earl’s expression remained firm, but there was an almost imperceptible raise to his eyebrows that Seth recognized as interest.
We’re in.
“Three hundred and fifty yards?”
“Yes.”
“Prove it.”
Chapter Three
Cassandra’s eyes trailed up to her canopy, and she counted embroidered roses on green vines.One… three….Hours had passed since the Earl and his pack of solicitors left the estate. Following tea, the Earl went to the barn, stayed for no longer than a half an hour, and left.Fourteen… eighteen….Matthew and Mr. Reeves had not emerged from the barn, and had their meals brought in. Matthew had said nothing.Thirty-two…. Wait. Thirty-two or thirty-three?She flipped her pillow over for the fifth time, tried to settle into it, scrunched her eyes closed, but it was no use. Cassandra turned onto her side and stared at the light seeping in beneath her bedchamber door.
They must have lost.
The household had been on edge all day. Morale plummeted as the day drudged on into the evening, worse when the house turned in for the night and there was no news. They must have lost, because Matthew would have certainly said something. Maybe he was up in that barn with Mr. Reeves trying to figure out how.
And what of Mr. Reeves? Under the tree, what had that been? With his eyes half-lidded, bracketing her in his arms, it almost felt as if he would kiss her—she shoved her heated face into her pillow. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—didn’t mean anything. He didn’t have any desires for her. Matthew had sent him after her for her own safety, and once they were on the ground, he must have wanted to make sure that she was well. That was why he held onto her hips, to ensure thatshe was steady on her feet. He had believed her concussed, after all.
Who wouldn’t?
After he finished toying with her, Mr. Reeves would return her page. Of that, she was certain. And she was moderately confident he wouldn’t read it. He wasn’t cruel, but he gotbored. He was often finding small ways to amuse himself. In the same manner that he gossiped with Caroline, or the pranks that he and Matthew would play on each other, or how he would quarrel with Cassandra for no apparent reason other than his enjoyment. He failed to take anything seriously, unless it was his work. But this? Mr. Reeves would enjoy having something over her for a short while, but would ultimately do the right thing. It didn’t mean anything.
But Matthew’s silence did.
She huffed and got out of bed. There was no point in fighting it. Sleep would not come. She wrapped her dressing gown around herself, bundled a blanket in her arms, laced up her boots, walked down the stairs, and for the second time that day, opened the door to the backyard. An evening chill teased the air. The wind had eased, somewhat. A gentle breeze lapped at the bottom of her nightgown, beckoning her forward with the sweet scent of flowers and earth.
The gate to the kitchen garden groaned as it opened, sliding a worn path through the grass. She closed it behind her, careful not to disturb the vines of peas braided through the fence. Padding through the walkway in between rows of carrots and turnips, she reached the center of the garden. A wrought-iron bench welcomed her with looping arms and a whimsical backrest of butterflies and daisies.
Her father had built it for her mother as a wedding gift. There were so many memories in this small space. Every summer, she would help her mother tend to this garden. Now Cassandra tended to it alone.
A familiar wash of grief came over her as she sat on the bench, legs curled beneath her. She blinked away the pin-prick of tears welling inher eyes and took a hiccuped breath. She huddled in the blanket and pulled it tight. Wrapped in warmth, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the golden hue of marigolds from below, and the blue light from the hint of a moon above. A crescent sliver of light clinging to the shadows of the sky, as if it too were hiding.
“Can’t sleep?” Matthew called out gently, emerging from the dark. He was down to his shirt-sleeves and his formal trousers from that afternoon, but he had abandoned his coat and shoes. His bare feet fell silent against the ground as he approached and sat next to her on the bench. He brushed his hands through his hair, braided his fingers behind his neck, and directed his gaze to the stars above.
“I knew I would find you here,” he said. “You always come out here when you need to think.”
