The Baskerville Tales (Short Stories) (14 page)

Then he turned toward the cry. It was Imogen, followed by Poppy. His heart squeezed. Imogen was out of breath, obviously exhausted from running. Poppy’s eyes were huge. “Stop it!” Imogen screamed, the words ripping painfully from her throat.

“Unfair! You spoiled my shot,” Smythe snapped at her. “You startled me!”

“Good!” The wind tore at her unbound hair, and she clawed the pale strands away from her eyes. “This is sheer folly! What makes you think I want this?”

Then Harris and Whitlock were beside the women in a moment, keeping them from coming one step closer.

“Get them out of here!” Bucky ordered, his voice cracking the air. This wasn’t something they should see, especially not a fourteen-year-old girl. He moved to run toward them, but Whitlock stopped him with a look.

“Once begun, the contest must be finished or you forfeit,” said his second. “Don’t step away from your mark.”

He should have damned the whole affair and walked away, but Imogen’s distress triggered something inside him. Suddenly, revenge was the only thing he was made for. Rage swamped him, sending a shudder through his body.
Smythe shot at me
. A primitive need to kill vibrated through every bone and muscle. “Very well. Ready yourself, Captain.”

Bucky raised his weapon and carefully took aim. At this range, he could not miss. He was just too good a shot, and the look on Smythe’s face said he knew it.

“Bucky!” Imogen wailed. “You’ll hate yourself if you do this!”

“Perhaps.”

He could hear Poppy sobbing. The girl’s daydream visions of heroism had no doubt crumpled the moment the horror of men shooting at each other had become real. Imogen grabbed her sister to her, letting Poppy bury her face against her shoulder.

Coolly, Bucky fired. The bullet streaked through the air with a peculiar whine that made the seconds raise their heads. Friction caused the false casing of the bullet to fly apart, baring the real ammunition an instant before it struck Smythe squarely on his pretty blue coat. Scarlet paint splattered everywhere, covering him in splotches from his swollen nose to the toes of his shining boots. He spluttered furiously, trying to wipe the splatters out of his eyes without actually soiling his hands.

Bull’s-eye
. However angry he was, there was no way Bucky was going to kill Smythe,
but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t shoot him.

“That is explicitly against the Code Duello!” Smythe roared, flicking paint from his fingers. “Not sporting at all!”

Bucky gave a chill smile. “I’m a toymaker, not a peacock in a pretty coat.”

But Smythe was casting a horrified look at Imogen, who was swaying as if her limbs had turned to rubber. Then she burst into a slightly panicked hoot of laughter.

Poppy broke free of her sister’s grasp. “What’s going on?” And then—ever unrestrained—she guffawed at the sight of Diogenes Smythe. She was quickly—and loudly—joined by the two seconds.

Smythe turned beet red and cast a murderous glower at Bucky, who shrugged. He knew the paint would make Smythe furious, but that tended to happen when you taught a pompous ass a lesson.

“You’ll never hold your head up after this, Penner,” growled Smythe. “Polite Society doesn’t take to this kind of knavery.”

“Perhaps we should both keep quiet,” said Bucky, “unless you truly want the world to know how fetching you look in scarlet. Are we done here?” He wanted to be at Imogen’s side.

“Hardly!” Smythe muttered between clenched teeth. “I get a second shot.”

Imogen’s laughter halted as if she’d been choked.

“Oh, come on Smythe!” Whitlock called out. “You’ve lost this one no matter what you do.”

“Hardly.” Smythe raised the pistol.

Bucky’s mind skidded, not quite believing Smythe would push the point. They had been friends, so he had spared the captain, and that should have been good enough. Bucky had shown
his courage—and yet he wouldn’t shoot a man in cold blood. It might be contradictory and illogical to some, but there it was.

But now he wondered if he could repeat the trick of standing still under fire. Imogen’s cry had saved him last time. If that bullet had been a bit to the left, it would have struck him in the heart.

This can’t be happening
. It seemed so wrong that a sense of superstitious luck rose up in Bucky, making him almost giddy. He had survived once; he would survive again. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. His muscles almost shook with the painful need to run away. Only sheer stubbornness was keeping him in place.

He cast a glance at Imogen, hoping almost wistfully to see his bravery acknowledged, but her face was turned away. Whitlock was holding her back with a firm hand on her upper arm. Harris was restraining a squirming Poppy. Maybe the women thought they could throw themselves in the path of the gunfire, but that wouldn’t work. Smythe was determined to get his pound of flesh. And then Imogen caught his gaze with hers. Her face was stricken, filled not with adoring wonder, but pure, white-lipped dismay.

As Smythe took his aim, Bucky’s gut churned. In that instant, his brain split between the deadly pistol and what he saw on Imogen’s face. Both fought for control of his instincts, and both had the ability to destroy him.

His jaw clenched as her words came back to him.
What makes you think I want this?
Clearly, she knew the fight was about her. And in that instant, he understood how Imogen would be devastated if someone died in her name. She would never forgive herself, however little blame she might bear.

Fool!
He’d only thought about risking all to win her, to get back at Smythe for hurting
her. He hadn’t considered that he was about to do far worse. Perhaps he would be branded a coward, but his name was worth far less than her happiness—even if the sacrifice ultimately meant losing her.

So he ducked. The bullet whistled over his head to fly harmlessly into the trees. And then, because Bucky was still a fallible mortal, he brought up his own weapon and plastered Smythe with a second dose of red paint. It exploded in a shower of brilliant red droplets all over the captain’s outraged person.
If you get another shot, so do I
.

At the sound of Smythe’s snarl of rage, the two seconds released the women and came running. Poppy and Imogen exchanged a glance and hurried after them.

“Damn you, Penner!” Smythe raised the pistol for a third shot, but Harris wrenched it from his grasp. “You have made mockery of this contest from the start,” the captain roared.

“You will
never
show your face in Society after this. I will see that you’re drummed out of every club in London.”

“Simmer down, Smythe,” Harris said impatiently. “You were a damned idiot to start this in the first place. Unless you want the world to know you were prepared to shoot a more or less unarmed man over a bit of paint, I’d keep your mouth shut.”

And then Imogen was at Bucky’s side, clutching him to her as if he were about to vanish. “You ninny, what did you think you were doing?” she whispered in his ear.

“I love you,” Bucky said so softly that only she could hear his words.

“I love you more,” she murmured as sweetly as the morning birdsong all around them. Her lips brushed his ear, the words a gossamer secret. “But I think I might strangle you.”

“I deserve it.”

“He’s a coward!” Smythe exploded bitterly. “I am the real gentleman.
I
followed the
code. But he gets away with it because he is such a fine, amiable fellow.”

“Penner spared your life,” Whitlock said. “He’s the better shot. If those had been real bullets, you would be dead.”

“Perhaps we should all go for a nice, calming cup of tea,” suggested Harris amiably. “I think the thread of reason is getting frayed.”

Imogen had barely set Bucky free when Stanford Whitlock took her hand in his and bowed over it. “The best man won both in love and in war. Happily, I shall tell the surgeon he is not needed today.”

With another bow, he turned and, with the help of Lieutenant Harris, escorted the fuming Smythe from the field of honor. “No decent club will let you through the door after this!” the captain barked as they stepped beneath the trees and disappeared from view.

“Admit you lost, Captain Smythe!” Poppy declared, ostentatiously turning her back on the man and folding her arms. “Or at least strive for a graceful defeat.”

A sudden gust of wind rippled through the trees and tossed the ends of Imogen’s shawl. She clutched Bucky’s hand, turning him away so that they could talk without Poppy hearing every word. “What do you think you were doing?” she asked between clenched teeth.

A sudden awkwardness seized Bucky. He squeezed her fingers. “I won’t shoot a man dead simply for being a dolt.”

“I’m glad, but that’s not what I meant. You took a terrible risk
because
he was a dolt.”

“I tried to avoid that, but he brought his lucky bullets. I couldn’t say anything without giving away the game.”

“Game?” she said acidly.

“Poor choice of words.” Bucky cast an apologetic look her way. With her hair down
around her ears, she looked almost as young as Poppy. “I tried to adhere to the accepted code of honor, but I’m afraid proper gunplay isn’t to my taste. I’m not a soldier or a pirate or—sadly—even a real highwayman.”

“Yet you do a very good impression of one.” Imogen held his look, relief in her gaze.

But Bucky pushed on, suddenly so tired that he wasn’t sure he would make any sense. “The truth of the matter is that I would rather make children’s toys than anything else. And that’s the problem with being who I am.”

“What is?” Imogen asked.

“Everyone understands what an officer does, and they love him for defending home and country. But the few who know what I can do with a toolbox and a bit of wire believe that I’m either a harmless lump or a slightly dodgy crank, as if I might build a time machine or a flame-belching dirigible when no one is looking.”

“Would you?” asked Poppy hopefully as she appeared at Imogen’s elbow, her expression as wide and open as a curious puppy’s.

“Go away,” said Imogen.

“No,” the younger girl replied, “this is too interesting.”

Ignoring the interruption, Bucky studied Imogen’s face, looking for some sign of her thoughts. The sun caught her hair, giving it a silver sheen. “Will you still let me walk out with you? Even if I did duck that bullet? Even if I just want to make wind-up ducks?”

“Yes,” she said simply, the corners of her mouth curling up. “You did the bravest thing of all. You refused to do what was expected of you. I need someone with that kind of courage at my back. And I like your ducks better than anything. They make children happy.”

He saw there was more that she didn’t say—about the risk he took, about the fact that he
had frightened her. He was grateful that she let it go, and just let himself drown in her beautiful gray eyes.

“Are you going to kiss now?” Poppy broke in.

“Go home, Poppy,” Imogen said in a distant voice. She looked like she wanted to be kissed, and badly, but a little sister was the antidote to private bliss.

“I think I deserve to see the end of this,” Poppy insisted, tugging at Imogen’s sleeve.

“I’ve put considerable effort into the outcome.”

Bucky was still holding the pistol with the paint-filled ammunition. With a small, apologetic smile to Imogen, he broke away and raised the pistol in Poppy’s direction. The girl shrieked, whirling around to dart through the long grass of Field’s Green. One hand clutched her bonnet, the other hauled her skirts out of the way of her pumping feet.

Bucky loped after, running slowly enough that she soon got away. After a dozen yards, he stopped, aimed high above Poppy’s head, and delivered a paint-blob just far enough ahead that she jumped a foot when it struck a nearby tree.

“I’ll get you for that!” she called over her shoulder, but she kept running.

Bucky wondered how many threats he would inspire that day. They really were mounting up rather quickly.

Imogen slipped her arms around his waist from behind, leaning into his back. “Where were we?”

He turned, tossing the gun aside and taking both her hands in his. “I was about to ask you to marry me.” His heart leaped in shock. He hadn’t known he was going to say it until he did, but now that the words had flown, nothing else mattered.

“Bucky!” she swallowed hard.

“Say yes,” he begged, falling to one knee. He suddenly felt like he might explode, or catch fire, or expand to the size of an ocean. There would be problems—her father, for starters. Eloping meant social ruin, and it would be another whole year and a bit before Imogen would be twenty-one and could make her own choices. Even then, marrying against Lord Bancroft’s wishes would carry a price. But that gave Bucky plenty of time to make his case. He might be reasonable and amiable, but he was also as stubborn as only the grandson of a blacksmith could be—and he was prepared to scale a wall with a knife in his teeth the instant Imogen gave a sign that it was the moment for him to play the necessary rogue.

Nothing could happen until he had her promise. But with that, he would have the strength to move mountains.

“Marry me, my love, and you will always have a champion. There will always be someone to light the fire, or burn your toast—because I know you like it that way—or to bring you tea, or to find your shawl. Someone will always care that you enjoyed your dinner. You will never fall asleep in a cold bed or wake alone in an empty one.” Bucky warmed to his theme, pulling her closer so that her skirts brushed his knees. “And when there is an unkind word or a disappointment, I will be there, ready to hold you. And if anyone truly hurts our family, I will rain such wrath on them as this Empire has never seen.”

She laughed shakily. “With a gun that shoots paint?”

“If necessary. I also have expertise with rotten fruit.”

Imogen’s gaze was wide and luminous in the morning light. “And they say there is no romance at Horne Hill.”

“Seriously, Im,” he said, his palms starting to sweat. “You would make me the happiest man who ever walked the earth.”

“Then I suppose I must,” said Imogen, blinking back what he prayed were tears of joy. “I shall. Yes.”