Page 46 of Presenting Miss Letitia (Once a Wallflower 1)

He wished to quell the man’s doubts, but unable to do so, could only thank him for the wine and leave. With a pat of his horse’s neck, Brandon mounted and set out along the road toward Swindon. He glanced up at the sun. Past noon. While he wouldn’t ride his horse into the ground, he hoped to catch up with Marston before nightfall.

Brandon had been riding for two hours when the terrain changed into the rolling verdant hills of Wessex Downs and its grazing sheep.

As he rode down a hill, he spotted a rider about a half mile ahead of him. Marston, at a slow trot. This was open country, with very few trees. Marston wouldn’t hesitate to take a shot at Brandon, so he held back, steeling himself to be patient.

Dusk was a mere hour away. Brandon, waiting for better cover, kept Marston in view. If he noted Brandon’s presence, he made no sign of it. Long shadows rippled across the hills as the day drew to a close. Brandon dismounted when his horse began to tire, and led him by the rein. He expected to lose sight of his quarry and would have to make up ground tomorrow. But rounding a bend in the road, he found Marston bent over his horse’s hoof. The animal had lost a shoe. He swung around and saw Brandon approaching.

“I’m not here to kill you, Marston,” Brandon called. “I witnessed Fraughton’s attack on you. It was self-defense. I can vouch for that.”

“Forget it, Cartwright.” Marston shook his head. “Even if you do mean it, you can’t help me.”

When Marston raised his gun, Brandon threw himself to the side. The explosion ricocheted around the hills as the scorching heat of the bullet grazed his arm.

Marston threw down his gun and began to climb the rocky hill.

“Devil take it!” Brandon tied a handkerchief around his arm and went after him. It would be even more difficult now to overpower the big man. “Don’t be a fool, Marston, there’s nothing around here for miles!”

Marston ignored him. He must have been aware that Brandon could easily pick him off. As if he had some clear objective, he climbed strongly, while Brandon followed, his wounded arm sending a protest with each movement.

Marson stopped beside a large cluster of rocks. Fearing he had a knife, Brandon took cover behind a rock. “Give yourself up, Marston,” he yelled.

“Go to hell,” Marston cried. He climbed onto a large boulder that jutted out from the cliff and stared down at Brandon as if inviting him to shoot him.

Brandon warily emerged from his cover and continued up the incline, still hoping to take him alive.

With a shout, Marston suddenly leaped headlong into the air, his arms flailing. He came crashing down, limb over limb, sending dirt and rocks flying, then lay twisted and still at the bottom of the cliff.

Brandon, cursing loudly, descended as fast as he could. On reaching the inert man, he bent over him, aware of what he would find. Marston’s blank gaze stared up at him.

Brandon’s veins flooded with ice and he shivered. The awful moment when Freddie Maxwell fell from the church tower, flashed vividly into his mind’s eye. Freddie laughing at Brandon, suddenly cold sober, urging him to give it up and come down.

Brandon sank to the ground and buried his head in his arms, deeply shaken.

Chapter Seventeen

Letty feared she might faint. It had been a long time since she’d eaten. She’d barely touched her breakfast and was far too nervous to eat a bite of luncheon.

With Arietta beside her, she waited in the presentation drawing room of St. James’s Palace for her name to be announced by the Lord Chamberlain. How did women in the last century manage these hoops every day? She placed a hand to the headdress of ostrich feathers, fearing it had not been secured well enough. She was so tired. She’d been made to stand for hours, for no one sat in the queen’s presence.

When her turn came at last, Letty managed her deep curtsy to the queen without mishap. The queen deigned to speak to her, asking how Letty liked London, and was she enjoying the balls?

Letty answered her with a smile, and they chatted for several minutes. Heaven knew what the queen would think had she learned the truth. With a deep breath, Letty arranged her train over her arm and began to back away. She had gone a few steps when the ostrich feather headdress shifted alarmingly. It moved forward onto her forehead and would soon fall over her eyes. With a flood of warmth to her face, her smiled plastered on her lips, she continued her retreat, step by careful step, her breath shortening. Then, reaching the door, with a gasp of relief, she turned and entered the antechamber where she pushed the offending headdress back into place.

“That went extremely well,” Arietta said with a smile. “The queen seemed to enjoy your conversation. I don’t know why you were so worried. I told you it would!”

Still shaking, Letty stifled a giggle.

The next day, she accompanied Arietta to Hookhams Lending Library in Old Bond Street, to purchase tickets for the opera the following week.

“On Wednesday, we will attend a dance at Almack’s,” Arietta said as they partook of luncheon in Grillion’s hotel dining room. “And tonight, we have a musicale. The Willard’s niece is an aspiring soprano.”

“How pleasant,” Letty said, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. She doubted she’d find Brandon at a musicale.

Brandon arranged for Marston’s body to be placed in the care of his saddened cousin. The local apothecary treated the powder burn on his arm with basilica powder and bound it up, then Brandon rode back to London. Willard was in his office in Whitehall.

“You look done in, my boy,” Willard said, as Brandon took the chair opposite him. “I’ll send for coffee. I am eager to hear more of your news. And I have some interesting news of my own to impart.”

Brandon, his back stiff in the chair, related the facts about Marston’s death. “I am sorry I could not bring him back to London as you wished,” he said, his voice a low growl. The weight of the man’s death still weighed heavily upon him. He put it down to his failure to carry out Willard’s orders and bring Marston back alive.

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