Chapter Twenty-Five
In Manton’s gun shop in Davies Street, after a careful selection, Strathairn chose a small muff pistol, its silver handle decorated with delicate filigree work. He weighed the small gun in his hand. Like all of Manton’s, it was superbly balanced. In the shooting gallery upstairs, he greeted two men who practiced their marksmanship, shooting at paper wafers attached to cast-iron targets in the acrid smoky air. Although too small for his hand, the flintlock pistol proved efficient as Strathairn fired two shots into the target. It would serve its purpose.
Downstairs, he paid the gun dealer and placed it in his coat pocket. In the street, he glanced at his watch. Nearly two o’clock. The Brandreth’s would be receiving. A hackney trundled past, and he stepped out onto the road to hail it. He directed the jarvie to St. James’s Square.
On the way, his thoughts drifted to the many arrangements being put in place at St. Paul’s Cathedral. While desperate to catch Moreau, he fervently hoped the blighter wouldn’t choose Maria’s wedding to unleash his mayhem.
In St. James’s Square, the whole family had arrived for the wedding, but Sibella came alone to the salon dressed in a severely cut gray gown, her hair dressed in a simple style which emphasized her high cheekbones and delicate features. He drew in a breath; unadorned, she was even more beautiful.
“I’m alone today. Mother and Maria are shopping, and Chaloner and Lavinia have taken the children for ice cream at Gunter’s.”
“Good. I need to talk to you.”
She pressed a nervous hand to her high collar.
“Not about us. That can wait,” he said quickly, dismayed to find relief in her eyes. “I would like to know how you are, however.”
“The strongest emotion is relief, John. And gratitude. I must thank you for coming to my aid.”
“You did remarkably well on your own.”
“Chaloner has read the letters. He’s quite shocked.”
“So he should be,” he said dryly.
“You weren’t too hard on him, were you?”
He shook his head. “I treated him with kid gloves. I hope to have him as my brother-in-law one day.”
“John I can’t…”
“No. Not the right time. I accept that.” He drew the small pistol from his coat pocket. “I want you to take this with you to the cathedral.”
She inhaled sharply and waved it away. “I hate guns. I accept the necessity of them, but I don’t like shooting things. When I ride to hounds, I’m never at the kill.”
“This is important. You may need to defend someone you love.”
Her finely arched dark eyebrows drew together. “I certainly hope not.”
“Shall I show you how the pistol works?”
She shook her head. “With four brothers as well as my father, I could hardly avoid an understanding of how guns work.”
“However, a little practice might be in order. Come with me,” he said. “Well go outside via the kitchens.”
On the way to the servants’ entrance, Stathairn purloined two empty glass bottles from the bemused cook.
They left the house and made their way to an area of lawn adjoining the kitchen garden where Strathairn set up the bottles on the garden wall. He walked back to where Sibella stood and loaded the gun.
“Is this entirely necessary, John? Isn’t it a matter of just squeezing the trigger?”
He laughed. “It’s more complicated than that as you will soon find out.” He took her arm and drew her back. “Perhaps we should try from a distance of fifteen feet. Don’t worry if you miss the bottles. Practice makes perfect.”
She eyed him. “Do you really think I’m so helpless?”
“Not at all, it’s a skill to be learned like any other. Let’s get to it.”
He took her hand and pressed the weapon into her palm, resisting the urge to pull her toward him, and folded her fingers around it. Then he raised her arm toward the first bottle. “Keep your arm straight and your head steady.” He stepped away.
Sibella fired the pistol. The glass exploded, shards flying into the garden. A flock of birds erupted from a nearby tree.
Strathairn gave a bark of laughter. “Well done.”
“Isn’t that enough?” she asked, handing him the firearm. “Shall we go inside?”
“Not yet. Beginners luck perhaps.” He reloaded it and handed it to her. “One more bottle.”
“I think I’ve got the hang of it, John.” Sibella raised the pistol. The second bottle shattered. She turned to him with an amused expression. “Do I need any more practice?”
He grinned at her. “You’ll do just fine. I only hope you’re never angry with me. Before we go inside, I’ll reload it and show you how to put the safety catch on. That’s if you need to be shown?”
A smiled teased her lips and she nodded. “Please do.”
They walked back to the house where the kitchen maids were clustered around the door, staring out.
“Nothing to worry about,” Strathairn said. “Just a bit of practice. Not that her ladyship needs it.”
The maids retreated, tittering among themselves.
“Tuck this into your reticule,” he said when they were alone. “You can give it back to me after the wedding if you don’t wish to keep it.”
She laughed, the old Sibella making a brief appearance. “I think I will keep it, thank you. It makes me feel safe.” She eyed him anxiously. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks, will you, John?”
To know she cared warmed him. “I have no intention of being shot by some madman. But I can’t be everywhere at once.”
She examined the finely made little firearm, turning it in her hands, then moved away to place it carefully on a table. “You must guard the regent, of course.”
He came to stand beside her and tipped up her chin with a finger. “I’d rather guard you.”
“Don’t worry about me. You must rid us of this fiend.”
“I have every intention of doing so,” he said. “I’d hate to ruin the wedding celebration, but we must take precautions, you do understand?”
“Yes, of course. We are all very grateful.”
“I must go.”
“Stay safe, John,” she said, her voice soft.
He attempted to judge her mood and took her hands to press a kiss into each palm. “I hope to see you soon.”
She rubbed her arms. “Don’t say it like that. It’s as if the Fates will decide.”
“I don’t believe in fate.”
Damn it all, he couldn’t leave her like this. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he held back. Instead, he took her slender shoulders in his hands and lowered his head to cover her mouth with his. She murmured a half-hearted protest, but he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. At the touch and scent of her skin, he felt more alive than he had in weeks. Her objection turned into a soft moan, and she kissed him back, driving him to deepen the kiss.
Sibella’s hands flattened against his chest and she pushed him away. Her green eyes had darkened, the pupils dilated. She drew in a ragged breath and touched her bottom lip with her tongue. “We mustn’t.”
From somewhere, he found the strength to release her and made for the door. “Don’t forget the gun,” he said over his shoulder.
An hour later, intent on visiting his wounded comrade, Miles Irvine, Strathairn drove to Pinkerton’s Stepney house. His partner had decided to retire and become an apothecary after he married the doctor’s daughter.
Irvine rose to greet him, leaning heavily on a crutch. Although obviously still in some pain, he appeared contented, surrounded by books on herbs and potions.
After they settled in the small modestly furnished parlor, Strathairn acquainted Irvine with the latest developments. He then asked for a more detailed description of Moreau. “He’s like a phantom,” he said. “You’re the only one who seems to have set eyes on him.”
Irvine eased his sore leg on a cushion. “A giant of a man, more broad than tall, long hair, black as a sweep’s. I’m afraid that’s all I can give you.”
“It will help,” Strathairn said.
Irvine looked doubtful. He shook his head. “Better if I could be there.”
“Well, you cannot,” Strathairn said. “And really, why would you?” With a grin, he jerked his head toward the kitchen where Irvine’s intended sweetly sang as she prepared their coffee.
*
At Brandreth Court on the morning of the wedding, a welcome late summer burst of sunlight cheered everyone. While returning again and again to Strathairn’s kiss and the fear she held for him, Sibella visited the cook, ensuring the food prepared would satisfy the dietary requirements of her brother Bartholomew, his wife Emily, and their three children. They had arrived from Yorkshire the previous evening.
The wedding breakfast was to be held in the ballroom with music and dancing. Sibella walked through the reception rooms taking in every detail of the gleaming house, scented with fragrant blooms sent up from the hot houses at Brandreth Park. After the housekeeper assured her everything was progressing smoothly, Sibella sought Maria in her chamber.
Maria stood before the Cheval mirror, her eyes shining while her maid knelt at her feet, fussing with the hem of her wedding gown. The white-figured gauze over a slip of white satin, was ornamented with rows of broad silver lace, the white satin sleeves slashed à l’Espagnole. Their mother’s lustrous oriental pearl and diamond necklace and earrings decorated her throat and ears.
“You look divine,” Sibella said, her throat tight with emotion. Her younger sister was to be married, and would leave their home to begin her new life with Harry. It was thrilling, but she would be sorely missed. “Your wedding gown rivals poor Princess Charlotte’s. Harry will be struck dumb at the sight of you.”
Maria giggled. “As long as he can manage to say I do.”
“How long will you be away in France?”
“A sennight. We are to stay at the Le Meurice on the Rue De Rivoli, right in the heart of Paris. The hotel has just been built.”
“Sounds divine, dearest.” Sibella moved toward the door. “Everything is in readiness downstairs. I must go and dress.”
An hour later, Sibella picked up the skirts of her white crape frock and stepped into the waiting carriage with Maria and her mother, who was dressed in ruby silk. Behind them Chaloner and Lavinia, with their son, Freddie, entered their carriage along with Bart and Emily. Sibella smiled encouragement at her beautiful sister as the coachman directed the horses to walk on.
Her stomach tightened with nerves when the carriage rattled through the streets toward St. Paul’s Cathedral as pedestrians stopped to stare.