A black-garbed figure halted in the lamplight, face raised.
“Dair?” Miles’ arm dropped and he strode forward, joined him in the citrine light. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
“On my way to see you. Heard a shot from Portman Square,” he wheezed. “Thought it was the Horse Guard barracks, then saw a chap running from the mews so I followed but lost him in St George’s.”
Lynch grunted. “Wot did he look like?”
“Cloaked. And it’s dark, for hell’s sake.” Dair grabbed hold of Miles’ arm. “That shot was meant for you, wasn’t it?”
He nodded, acrid pistol smoke still lingering in his nostrils. “Damn right it was. If not for Lynch’s shout…”
“Whoreson,” muttered Dair.
“Oy!”
“Not you, Lynch, my fine fellow.” Dair peered into Miles’ face. “You look fit for the grave, Cousin. No offence. Let’s repair to the study. I could do with a tipple to recover.”
As could Miles. It had been one hell of a day but… “We need to search for the bullet.”
“I’ll do it, C’tain,” said Lynch. “I heard the direction of shot. Just need ter send a message to Dempster at the Wellington as he’s there buying a pint with my name on it.”
Miles nodded his thanks. “If you’ve no luck with the bullet in this dark though, get yourself to the pub. We’ll search in the morning.”
With a tip of cap, Lynch turned for the shadows and Miles turned to his cousin.
“Whisky,” they said in tandem.
“Gotany of that fine Glenlivet left?”
“No, you’ve quaffed it all.” Miles stared at his reflection within the mirror above the fireplace, the heat from the hearth warming his bones.
An inch to the left and Lynch would have been laying him out for a burial shroud.
An inch to the left and this whoreson would be congratulating himself on a clean shot.
An inch to the left and Jeremy would be earl.
An inch to the left and Verity would be in black. At least, he hoped she would.
For a soldier, the thought of death ought not to unnerve him. He’d lived beside bullet, smoke and fallen comrades for six years. Yet this was not the impersonal nature of war but a considered and deliberate attempt on his life. And tonight, in one brief moment, the difference between life and death had been no more than that inch to the left.
It focused one’s thoughts rather.
Dair lifted one of the decanters to the candlelight. “Still, this cheap Lowlands Bladnoch stuff will serve until you smuggle down some more.”
“Cheap? It’s taxed to the bloody hilt.” Miles turned as Dair unstoppered the decanter.
His cousin handed over a brimming glass before his breath released in a whistle and he seated himself on the settee. “How many attempts is that now? He…or she is making a damn poor job of it.”
Was he jesting?With Alasdair, it was often difficult to tell. “Which is worthy of a toast, is it not?”
“Of course.” And Dair tipped his glass towards Miles’ own.
A dull throb started to build behind Miles’ eyes and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “At first, I passed the mishaps off as ill luck since arriving in London, but when those thugs attacked me, I started taking precautions, considered anyone who might wish me ill.” He exhaled slowly. “I admit, I still deemed it could all be coincidence but tonight proved once and for all that someone wants me dead and they no longer have the patience to disguise it as an accident.” He swivelled for the mirror once more, wondered what the hell to do next.
Dair’s reflection scrunched a nose. “Might be prudent to stay away from the ladies for a while. In fact, everyone.”
Miles scowled. “I had the same thought.” And slugged back half the whisky in a single gulp, which failed to deaden the acute pain at the thought of not seeing Verity.
