her other than for his own gain. She was naive in the extreme to think that he had done it because he cared about her rather than her fortune.
“I suppose,” she added bitterly, into the silence, “that it was in your interests to save me. You have invested a lot of time and effort in claiming me.”
Miles’s gaze, hard and implacable, held hers for a long moment. “I have,” he said. His voice was rough. He pulled her to him and gave her a brief, hard kiss. There was anger in it and a savage desire, and for a moment Alice yielded helplessly before he let her go.
“Go to bed,” he said. “Tell your servants to open the door to no one you do not trust. I shall be back soon.”
Alice watched as he paused before the door, instructing the footman to carry Mrs. Lister into the parlor and Marigold to fetch hot water for Alice, and then he had raised a hand in farewell and was gone, and Alice climbed the stairs laboriously and slipped off her wet clothes. She bandaged her own arm because Marigold was so upset that her hands shook too much, and Lizzie was so clumsy that when she tried, she tied the linen so tight that Alice lost the sensation in her arm altogether. Lizzie chattered and speculated about the shooting, and Marigold looked pale and anxious. Mrs. Lister demanded hot tea and as much seed cake as cook could provide in order to ward off the shock.
And all the while Alice thought of the tenderness that she had glimpsed for that split second in Miles’s eyes, and thought of the seductive attraction of his strength and protection. She remembered the steadiness of his arms as he had held her and the utter confidence she had had in his power to keep her safe. He had saved her life. He had risked his own life to protect her. If only he had offered everything to her freely. But she knew that she was in danger of seeing Miles with the same illusions that had been her downfall the previous year. His motives were not pure. Not in the least. He was driven by no more than self-interest, lust and greed. She must remember that before she wove the same dreams around him as she had done before and ended up even more hurt and betrayed than she had then. She had to remember that to Miles Vickery she was no more than the means to save himself from debt and disgrace.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS SNOWING AGAIN by the time that Miles reached the Granby- big white flakes this time that obscured the view and would, he knew, already have covered over any evidence of footprints on Fortune Row. In the private parlor he found Nat Waterhouse and Dexter Anstruther encamped before a roaring fire.
“Not looking quite your usual immaculate self, old chap,” Dexter said by way of greeting. “Nat’s filled me in on what has happened. You’re unhurt?”
“Completely,” Miles said. He stripped off his gloves and crossed to the fire to warm his hands.
“And Miss Lister?” Nat asked. “That looked like a nasty scratch on her arm.”
“She was cold and shaken but she refused to see a doctor,” Miles said. “She’s a most remarkable woman.” He saw Nat and Dexter exchange a glance. “What?” he demanded testily.
“Nothing at all,” Dexter said smoothly. “Do you need a drink?”
“Just coffee,” Miles said. “Strong.”
He took a cup and sank into one of the armchairs with a deep sigh. He had faced many situations in his career that were far more dangerous than the one that he and Alice had been in and yet in some obscure way the incident had shaken him far more than it ought to have done. Alice’s tense white face was before his eyes; he could see the blood seeping from between her gloved fingers as she had tried to stem the flow from the bullet wound. She had been terrified and yet so calm, when many women would have succumbed to the vapors or worse. He had been right in thinking her valiant.
When he had seen that she had been shot, terror had grabbed him by the throat in a way he had never experienced before. He had known fear many times in his life. Only a fool or a madman would deny that they were afraid in battle or when they were on the wrong end of a gun. But the fear he had felt for Alice had been different. It had been a dread of losing something he had barely found, a horror that something immeasurably important was about to be snatched from him before he had even had chance to grasp it properly. It was probably a dread of losing Alice’s money, he told himself, but nevertheless a feeling stirred within him that was strange and unfamiliar. He cleared his throat abruptly and put down his cup with a sharp snap.
“Did you have a chance to discover any evidence on the Row before the snow came down again?” he asked Nat.
Nat nodded. “There were footprints in the snow around Seven Acre Covert. I took some measurements. He was a big man with a firm tread. There had been a horse there, as well. The distance from where your carriage was situated was about two hundred yards.”
“No great distance for an accurate marksman,” Dexter observed.
“He wasn’t very accurate,” Miles said. “He missed three times.” He turned to Nat. “Would you have missed at that distance?”
Nat shook his head slowly. “No. Most trained riflemen would hit the target at that range.”
“As would plenty of countrymen accustomed to shooting game,” Miles said. “A farmer, say.”
Dexter’s blue eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?” he said softly.
“I’m thinking of Lowell Lister,” Miles said. “Whoever our assailant was, he was aiming at Miss Lister, not at me. I am sure of it. Who would inherit her fortune if she died?”
“Her mother, I imagine,” Nat said. “But surely you cannot imagine Mrs. Lister running around on Fortune Row with a rifle?”
Miles shrugged. “One forgets that Mrs. Lister was once a farmer’s wife. She can probably shoot.” He eased his shoulders back in the chair. “But no, I do not think she would be taking potshots at her daughter. But Lowell…” He sighed. “He stands to gain if Alice dies and Mrs. Lister inherits, and he does not want Alice to marry me…”
There was a short silence. “Lowell Lister always seems very fond of his sister,” Nat ventured. “Not that that proves anything, but-” he frowned “-you are
“Well,” Miles said dryly, “he did wound her even if it was not fatally. That suggests she was his target.”
“How close were you to her at the time?” Dexter questioned.
“A proper distance.” Miles gave him an old-fashioned look. “What are you suggesting, Dexter?”
“Merely that if Miss Lister was in your arms it might have been easier to confuse the two targets,” Dexter said smoothly.
“Well, she was not,” Miles said, with a ferocious glare. He remembered the shaking in Alice’s body as she lay beneath him in the snow and the momentary flash of terror in her eyes. The thought of someone threatening her life made the anger seethe within him.
“Entertain for a moment the idea that you were the target instead,” Nat said.
Miles shrugged again, a little irritably. “I’ve already thought about it and it makes no sense. None of my family want me dead. On the contrary they all want me to stay alive so that the Curse of Drum does not fall on Philip. As for the curse itself-” he paused, reaching for the coffeepot “-well, you know that I give that no credence.”
“Tom Fortune?” Nat suggested.
Miles shook his head. “Why kill me? Why kill any of the Guardians? He knows that if he removes all three of us the Home Secretary will only send someone else to recapture him.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. “It makes more sense, in fact-if it is Fortune-that it should be Miss Lister he was shooting at.”
“Because?” Dexter prompted.
“Because Miss Lister and Lady Elizabeth-” Miles glanced at Nat “-have worked out that Tom has escaped. Miss Lister asked me about it this morning. I suspect that Tom has contacted Miss Cole and if he thought that Miss Lister was telling me about it…” He spread his hands wide. “Well, you have a possible motive, I suppose.”
“No one saw a man fitting Tom Fortune’s description in the vicinity of the village this morning,” Nat said.
“I doubt anyone saw anything,” Miles countered. “Few people were out in the snow.”
