Henry leaned back and looked up into his face. "I have had Giles' room prepared for you," she said. "Come, I shall take you there. I must change, too, into a riding habit." To her immense relief, he released her and stood back to allow her to lead the way.
Less than an hour later, Henry and Cranshawe were on horseback, trotting toward the lower meadow. Henry had selected a russet-colored riding skirt because it had large pockets that hid the bulge of the loaded dueling pistol. But she could feel it bumping against her leg as she rode.
"Is it not as lovely and as secluded as I promised?" she asked gaily as they rode the horses single-file through the gap in the hedge into the daisy-strewn grass of the meadow.
Cranshawe smiled appreciatively at her and followed her lead as she dismounted from her horse and tethered it. "Indeed it is, Henry," he said. "I could hardly have discovered a more charming love nest. Come here."
She laughed. "The other side will be better," she said, away from the horses and with a more open view of the sky." She picked up her skirts above her ankles and began to run lightly across the grass. Cranshawe followed.
"Oh, what is that?" Henry asked, suddenly stopping in her tracks. She pointed to – a piece of paper fluttering against a stone in the middle of the field. "Do go see, Oliver.''
. "For you, tonight, anything, my dear," he replied, and changed direction to rescue the sheet of paper. He picked
it up and read it, his back to Henry as she continued on her way across the field until she came to the fence.
"What is this?" he asked incredulously, turning with the paper in his hand. He found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol held by a very determined-looking Henry.
"Read it more carefully, Oliver," she said coolly. "Perhaps it will make more sense a second time."
"What is going on here, Henry?" he asked, eyeing the gun. "You are not intending to fire that thing, are you?"
"Indeed I am," she replied, "and I would advise you to stay very still if you value your life."
"Little fool!" he exclaimed. "You would not dare. Murder is a hanging offense, you know."
"Oh, but I do not intend to murder you," she said, "as you would know if you had read more carefully the note that you hold. I am going to shoot you in the arm, Oliver. I am a good shot, I assure you. I shall hit the mark if you do not move. If you do move, of course, I might kill you by accident. That would be a pity, would it not?"
"This is madness, Henry," he said impatiently. "You know that sooner or later I shall have my way with you. Why make it harder for yourself? Now give me the gun." He took one purposeful step in her direction.
"Take one more step, Oliver, and I shall shoot you in the leg," Henry said calmly. He noticed that the barrel of the pistol angled downward very slightly. "I do not want to shoot your arm, you see, until you have signed that note."
"You will give me that pistol, Henry, right now," Cranshawe ordered, red with fury, "and be thankful if I end up making love to you tonight instead of thrashing you within an inch of your life, as you deserve." But he did not move.
"Be careful, Oliver," Henry replied, "your charm is slipping. Now, if you look at that note in your hand, you will be able to confirm that it says you were shot in the arm by Henrietta Devron, Duchess of Eversleigh, while you were trespassing on her brother's estate and attempting to seduce her. You will note also that there is a space at the bottom for your signature. If you look on the ground, you will find a container of ink and a pen beside the stone that was holding down the paper. You see, I think of everything. Now, will you please sign it so that we can get the shooting over with?"
"You are mad," he said. "What is the purpose of this, pray?"
Henry smiled grimly. "You see, Oliver," she said, "you will be returning to London with your arm in a sling. You would be the laughingstock for a long time if it became known how you received your injury. I shall have it in my power to prevent or to provoke that ridicule."
"Very neat," he declared, a ghost of his old smile playing about his lips. "Your silence in return for mine, is that it?"
"There is a brain behind the charm, I see," was the answer he received.
"I shall not sign, of course, he said, the smile becoming firmer.
"Then I shall have to put a bullet in your leg," Henry announced coolly. "The left one, I believe, just below the knee." She raised her left hand to steady the wrist of her right.
"All right, you minx, you win this round," Cranshawe said hastily, "but it will go all the worse for you, Henry, when I finally get you within my grasp."
"Perhaps, but you will need two sound arms for that, Oliver," she replied, lowering her left hand again.
Cranshawe searched around on the ground until he found the items she had described. He dipped the quill pen in the container and hastily scratched his name on the paper, using his knee as a desktop.
"Here is your paper," he said, holding it out in her direction. I am going to turn and leave, Henry. I trust that you have enough gallantry not to shoot a man in the back.''
"I shall still be aiming for your right arm between shoulder and elbow, Oliver," she said, quite unperturbed. "Of course, it is always harder to hit a moving target with accuracy. I advise you to stand absolutely still."
Again her left hand rose to steady her wrist. Cranshawe did as she bade him. A cold sweat broke out on his face.
"Don't shoot, your Grace!" a voice yelled frantically from the gap in the hedge. The gun dropped a few inches as Henry, unnerved, glanced across the meadow to see James Ridley rushing in her direction, having dismounted while his horse was still in motion. Oliver Cranshawe moved at the same moment but stopped abruptly again when she brought the gun jerking back into line with his body.
"Don't move!" she directed him coldly. "Mr. Ridley, you are far from home. May I ask what brings you here?"
"We heard this morning that you were here, your Grace," he replied, hurrying closer. "Then we found out that Mr. Cranshawe was on his way here too."
"We?" asked Henry.
Her answer came in the form of a loud bark from the other side of the hedge, followed by voices.
"Where did he disappear?" called a high, piping voice that was unmistakably Penelope's.
"Into the meadow, silly. I hope Trevors was right. He said they came this way. Let's go, Pen." The voice was Philip's.
"Wait for Manny. She's all tired out from running," yelled Penelope.
A few moments later, there was a new invasion of the field. Brutus was in the lead. He rushed first to Henry in an ecstasy of recognition, and then to Cranshawe, who was still stranded, motionless, in the middle of the meadow, his attention fixed on the pistol. Brutus seemed unable to make up his mind if this person was friend or foe. He settled the problem for the time being by flopping to the ground and fixing Cranshawe with an unwavering stare. He panted heavily and occasionally growled.
Philip, Penelope, and an exhausted-looking Miss Manf6rd came next.
"Henry!" Penelope yelled.
"Oh, I say," said Philip, "a gun. Are you going to shoot him, Henry?"
"Oh, bless my soul," Miss Manford gasped, "are you safe, dear girl? Please put down the gun. There is no need to kill Mr. Cranshawe, indeed there is not. Mr. Ridley is here to protect you."
"Come, Henry," Cranshawe coaxed, his voice not quite under control, "you really must do as you are told. There are witnesses now, you know."
"Yes, but friendly witnesses," she replied, and I have not changed my mind. I want you to sweat and squirm for a while, Oliver. Maybe you will have an inkling of what I have been through in the last weeks. Don't come any closer, please, Mr. Ridley. You will be close to my line of fire if you do."
"Really, your Grace, I sympathize with your feelings," Ridley said calmly. "I know much of what he has made you suffer. But nothing can be gained from bloodshed and violence. Give me the gun." He held out his hand slowly, but he did not move from where he stood, about twenty-five feet from Henry.