Chapter 16
T here was a certain irony, Clarissa mused, in the fact that she had been tasked with protecting Oliver Baxter’s life.
Because here she was, tempted to strangle him herself.
She knew that not all marriages were happy. Of course, she knew that.
But dear God—in Oliver Baxter’s eyes, his wife could do nothing right. Why on earth had he married the woman if he was only going to berate her at every turn?
She had honestly thought that watching over Mr. Baxter would be a privilege. He was widely respected for his intelligence, and he was a champion of a number of political causes that meant a great deal to her. He had sounded like just the sort of man she admired.
But after seeing how he treated his wife, Clarissa found that she no longer cared whether he was a steadfast champion of parliamentary reform. He wasn’t a good person, full stop.
And who was a good person? Again, Clarissa could not believe she was thinking this, but Rupert Dupree! Clarissa had to own that she had been wrong about him. Not that this was through any fault of her own. She couldn’t have known that he wasn’t the author of that horrible letter.
But now that she had met him, she knew Rupert to be kind, thoughtful, and good-humored. The unassuming way he had declined to drive himself and the easiness with which he had admitted Rosalind was a superior whip stood in stark contrast to her husband’s petulant behavior.
Just listen to him now, peppering Rosalind with questions about her favorite childhood Christmas traditions. He was obviously trying to cheer her, and it seemed to be working.
A fortnight ago, Clarissa would have sworn that intelligence was the most important trait she wanted in a husband, if she were ever to marry.
It seemed she had been mistaken. Kindness was far more important than intelligence.
Not that she was thinking about marrying Rupert Dupree!
She sneaked a glance at him. The easy grin on his face was both natural and appealing. In fact, with such an expression on his face, he looked remarkably handsome.
She forced her eyes straight ahead. Dear God, what was wrong with her? First, she was thinking that Rupert would make a good husband, and now she was finding him handsome! What was next? Daydreaming about kissing him like a lovestruck girl?
Out of the corner of her eye, she peered at his lips. They looked… soft.
Would he taste the same way he smelled? Like almond biscuits? She had noticed his sweet scent again when he sat next to her in the sleigh.
And he was rumored to be outstanding in the marriage bed. Surely, that would extend to kissing…
Just then, Rosalind fumbled her shears with her gloved hands and dropped them in the snow. She launched into an anxious apology that was entirely disproportionate to the ‘offense,’ if one could even call it that—a habit, Clarissa had no doubt, she had developed as a result of her husband’s excessive criticism.
Begging her not to think a thing of it, Rupert promptly bent over to collect the shears. He had to turn his back toward Clarissa to accomplish this maneuver, and as he leaned forward, she found herself confronted with the rather splendid prospect of his derriere.
Was it as firm as it looked? She felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to squeeze it so she could find out…
“Spiced cider, Miss Weatherby?” Lord Helmsley said, stealing up beside her and causing her to jerk guiltily to attention. “You look as if your mouth has gone dry.”
“Yes!” Clarissa squeaked, accepting the mug the earl offered. “Thank you! I’m t-terribly parched.”
Lord Helmsley smiled benignly, not seeming to have noticed the way she was leering at Rupert’s rear end. He took another pair of mugs off a footman’s tray, offering them to Rupert and Rosalind.
Good Lord—what midwinter madness was this? It must be the result of too much holiday cheer.
She resolved to limit herself to one glass of eggnog per day for the remainder of the house party.
Lord Helmsley moved on. Clarissa, Rupert, and Rosalind finished their drinks, placed their mugs on the footman’s tray, and returned to searching the grove for greenery.
“What do you think?” Rupert asked. “Does this look like a likely spot?”
“Delightful,” Clarissa murmured, trying to sound natural.
Rosalind wandered over to a fir tree and began trimming off a few boughs. Oliver Baxter plodded over to stand near his wife but made no move to assist her. Instead, he stood with his arms crossed, glaring into the distance.
Clarissa found some holly a few paces deeper in the copse and went to work with the shears. She tried to focus on her work and not steal a glance at Rupert, a task that should not have been difficult, but was.
She was able to hold out for a couple of minutes, but eventually gave in. Glancing back toward the house, she found him standing near Oliver Baxter, attempting to make genial conversation. That Mr. Baxter was primarily responding with grunts and scowls did not seem to bother Rupert a whit.
Suddenly, a glint of light shone directly in her eye, causing Clarissa to mishandle her shears. She snipped right through one of the fingers of her kidskin gloves—fortunately her own pair, and not one borrowed from Lady Emily—grazing the skin beneath.
She tugged her glove off to assess the damage. It was little more than a scratch, red but not bleeding.
She was starting to pull her glove back on when she heard an unmistakable metallic click.
Having spent the past month practicing with the little Queen Anne pistol Lady Winnifred had given her, Clarissa recognized that sound. It was a firearm being cocked.
She froze. A firearm being cocked. A metallic glint in the middle of the forest!
And Oliver Baxter standing in the open, unprotected.
She dropped her basket, shears, and glove and frantically scanned the trees, but she could not spot the assassin. Glancing back, she saw that Rupert was doing the same.
Suddenly, his eyes went wide. The expression on his face was not that of a seasoned spy, but a man in the throes of panic. An Oh, crikey! sort of expression.
Clarissa followed the direction of his gaze and spotted it—the brass-tipped muzzle of a gun, peeking from around a tree.
Oh God, oh God, oh God! She was too far away! She couldn’t get there in time. Indeed, she couldn’t seem to move her feet or even cry out a warning. She was frozen in place, and Oliver Baxter was going to die .
I’m a failure. The worst agent in the world.
Just when Clarissa was convinced that all hope was lost, Rupert sprang into action. “I say!” he exclaimed, his voice emerging a half-octave higher than it was usually pitched. “Are those some pinecones? Wouldn’t those look lovely on the mantelpiece?”
He took two steps toward Oliver Baxter then made a great show of tripping over a gnarled root. Grabbing the M.P.’s shoulders, Rupert tackled him to the ground just as the crack of the gun rang out.
All the guests began screaming and panicking, because the shot had clearly come from nearby. Lord Helmsley came sprinting up. Clutching her heart, Rosalind pointed to the bullet, still smoking, embedded in a tree mere inches from where she and her husband had been standing moments before.
Clarissa scanned the forest for the shooter but could see no sign of them amongst the trees. She hurried over and helped the earl pull Rupert and Oliver to their feet. “Get the other guests back to the house,” she told Lord Helmsley. “Say you’ve been having trouble with poachers.”
Lord Helmsley nodded. “Poachers. Yes, that’s good.”
Oliver Baxter was already running toward the house without an apparent thought for his wife’s safety, leaving Lord Helmsley to wrap an arm around Rosalind’s shoulders. “Come, Mrs. Baxter. We must get you inside.”
Rupert made no move to leave, which surprised Clarissa not at all. After watching him throw himself on Oliver Baxter, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he was the other agent Sir Henry had sent.
He confirmed it immediately. “You’re working for Sir Henry, too.”
“I am.” Some mad impulse made her grin. “I knew it was you!”
He grinned back, withdrawing a pistol from the back of his coat. It occurred to Clarissa that she should do the same. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the little Queen Anne pistol Lady Winnifred had insisted she carry.
She felt completely ridiculous. She’d practiced with the thing for all of five weeks, and besides, she was Clarissa Weatherby, bluestocking extraordinaire. She spent her days curled up in the library with an esoteric book, not stalking through the woods with a gun, hunting for assassins!
And yet, as unqualified as she felt, she knew that if Rupert had given her a pitying look, had suggested that she head back to the house because she would only be in his way, she would have kicked him in the shins.
But Rupert did no such thing. Nodding at her pistol, he jerked his head to the side. “You go right. I’ll go left. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Even though she was terrified, she nodded. “The copse is freestanding, so we should check the perimeter. They won’t be able to flee without leaving footprints in the snow.”
His eyes brightened. “Brilliant, that’s absolutely brilliant. That’s just what we’ll do.” He gave her a firm nod. “All right. Take care of yourself. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Then, Clarissa found herself tiptoeing around the perimeter of the stand of trees, her miniature pistol clutched to her chest, searching for an armed assassin. She could not believe she was doing this, but if there was one thing she knew about herself, it was that she was far too stubborn to admit when she was in over her head. And if that meant she had to creep through the snow doing her best imitation of the Rifle Brigade, so be it.
She had found nothing of note when she spied Rupert coming around the bend five minutes later. “Did you see anything?” she asked, breathing hard.
“Nothing. No footprints, no gunman.”
“Me neither.” Clarissa pressed a hand against her heart.
“Let’s sweep through the trees again,” Rupert suggested. “Make sure they’re not hiding somewhere inside.”
Clarissa nodded, and they made a slow, thorough search of the stand of trees. They spread out, but knowing that Rupert was within shouting distance, even if she couldn’t see him, was a great comfort.
They retraced their steps through the trees, then decided to check the perimeter one more time, just to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. There was still no solitary set of footprints leading off across the snow, at least on the side that Clarissa checked.
But the assassin did leave one trace behind. While she was waiting for Rupert at the front of the grove, Clarissa spotted something brass glinting from beneath a log. She pulled it out, revealing a hunting rifle. “Look what I found!” she called as Rupert came jogging up.
“Well done, you.” He tilted the barrel this way and that, inspecting it. “It certainly looks like the gun I saw.”
“I think so, too.” Clarissa ran her thumb, still bare from having removed her torn glove, over the firing mechanism. “It’s cold, but that’s probably to be expected, as it’s been lying in the snow.” She glanced up at Rupert. “Did you see any footprints?”
“None. You?”
“None.” She swallowed as she glanced at the snow leading from the little copse of trees back to the castle. In stark contrast to the pristine fields they had just inspected, it was well-trodden with the footprints of the house party guests. “You know what that means.”
Rupert nodded, a grim expression replacing his usual affable smile. “Whoever fired that shot is inside the castle right now.”
“Exactly.” Clarissa shuddered. She had strongly suspected that the would-be assassin was lurking in her midst.
But it was unsettling to know it for certain.
Rupert apparently mistook her shudder for a shiver. “You must be freezing. Let’s get you inside.”
“We might as well. There’s nothing more to be learned out here. Would you hold this a second?” Clarissa asked, handing him the rifle. She pulled her damaged glove from her pocket. “I might as well put this back on.”
“You’re hurt!” he exclaimed, seizing her hand and stroking his gloved thumb across her finger. “What happened?”
“It’s just a scratch. I was clumsy with the shears, and…” Clarissa trailed off. The cut on her finger was tiny, only about a quarter of an inch long, and as thin as a red thread.
She peered up at his face, confused. “I thought you couldn’t see well without your glasses.”