Lady Tolliver gasped audibly. “Oh heavens. I knew this was a dreadful idea. Someone will be killed before luncheon.”
“Mm,” said Lord Tolliver, polishing his spectacles.
When Lottie stepped forward, a murmur ran through the assembly.
“Oh!” Lord Tolliver exclaimed, suddenly alert. “Is that our Charlotte?” He gave a proud nod, his voice carrying much farther than he realised. “She shall beat them all, you know. Always did have the steadiest hand.”
Lottie was sorely tempted to roll her eyes. Her father’s pride, though gratifying, had the unfortunate effect of painting her as a circus attraction about to perform a trick—a trick, incidentally, which she had every intention of performing—but one liked to be asked, not paraded.
Captain Sir Alistair Greaves of the Dragoons, whose moustache was waxed to points sharp enough to wound and whose uniform boasted every braid and button permitted by regulation, gave a most indignant snort. “A lady at pistols?” he said to his companions, though quite loud enough to carry. “She will topple backwards with the recoil.”
Lottie smiled sweetly. “Ten paces?”
Morleigh glanced at the target. “A little more than ten.”
“Do forgive me, Your Grace,” she said. “It looked so near from here.”
The captain scoffed. “You will find it no easy feat to strike the bull.”
Lottie looked at him with the mildest possible expression. “Then it is fortunate, sir, that I never aim for anything less.”
She raised the pistol, feeling the weight settle neatly into her hand. It was not so very different from balancing a foil, nor from holding the reins when one’s horse had decided upon a gallop. Her father had taught her how to shoot in the country as a girl, chiefly because Lord Tolliver believed every child ought to know how to defend a chicken coop from foxes, intruders, or, in one memorable instance, Benedict.
Captain Greaves leant a fraction closer to his companions, his smirk saying clearly, observe how swiftly she makes a fool of herself.
Lord Tolliver, bless him, called out, “Steady, Charlotte! Show them how it’s done!”
She fired, and the ball struck dead centre.
For a moment, there was utter silence, before Lord Tolliver clapped his hands together like a boy at a fair. “There! Did I not say it? Our Charlotte!”
Captain Greaves’s colour deepened. “A fluke, Miss Tolliver. Beginner’s luck.”
To prove, decidedly, that it was not, Lottie smiled, reloaded with enviable composure, and fired again for another centre shot. The third ball followed the first two with such precision that the poor white target looked to have sprouted a single black eye.
It must be noted that nothing in the world is quite so gratifying as the collective shock of a half-dozen men who, five seconds earlier, had been supremely confident of their superiority.
Captain Greaves looked as though he had swallowed a bee. “Impossible,” he said stiffly. “The pistol must be mis-sighted.”
“An interesting accusation,” Morleigh observed. “Given that Miss Tolliver appears to have sighted it very well.”
A laugh ran through the crowd.
The captain’s jaw tightened. “Then another round is required. With new pistols.”
“Is it?” Lottie asked.
“At once,” he said. “For fairness.”
“For your pride, you mean.”
His moustache seemed to bristle independently.
Before the exchange could sharpen further, Jasper Deverell stepped forwards from the edge of the gathering, all elegance and ease, as though he had been waiting for precisely the right moment to enter the stage.
Lottie’s pulse gave a treacherous leap.
Blast him. He looked disgustingly well.
