The young ladies gathered teams for whist, and their chaperones retrieved knitting or needlework to occupy their time until the gentlemen arrived. Annabel watched the clock.

After five minutes, she excused herself to no one in particular and entered the great hall. In the daylight, the space loomed overhead as though she were in a cathedral or a courtroom. In the darkness, with creaks and groans permeating the thick, quiet blanket, the space yawned like a mouth that could swallow her whole.

“Will you not come with me?” Mrs. Hughes’s English lilted as though she sang the question.

“I have responsibilities here, dearest,” Jasper replied. “You will be safe with Kit, and I will join you when I can.”

Annabel followed the whispers until she reached a turn in the hallway. The marquess’s unique cologne, a mix of fruit and flowers she couldn’t identify, scented the still air.

“As you wish.” Mrs. Hughes sighed. “But you work too much, Jasper. You should enjoy your new life more.”

“I will enjoy it later, once matters are settled.” He was smiling. Annabel could hear it in his words. “Rest tomorrow and gather your strength for the journey. You and Kit will sail the day after.”

“Will you show me to my room? This house is…effrayante.”

“Stapleton will show you up, though you could likely find it on your own by now. If you are worried in the night, simply knock on the door between us. I’ll be there.”

“Merci, très cher ami. Gareth always said…”

“Shh. He would not wish to see you cry. I do not wish to see it either.”

Quiet settled between them. Annabel risked a glance around the corner and found herself watching Lord Ramsbury hold his lover in his arms, his cheek against her hair. The moonlight skimmed Mrs. Hughes’s dress and dusted Jasper’s half with a silvery glow. The rest of him was hidden in shadows.

She retraced her steps to the music room, though the house seemed darker than it had before. It was a tender scene that eased her mind. The young French widow was no more a spy than Annabel was herself.

Though Annabel wished, for the briefest of moments, that she was.

*

“I say, Ramsbury, having your French treat arrive was a boon to the rest of us.” Wareham’s declaration sent game birds scattering out of the grass in every direction. “Set the other girls back on their heels, it did.”

“Wareham…” Jasper stopped to gather his temper. As much as he wanted to send the man home, losing the worst gambler in the party would put all the other gentlemen in a bad mood. “I’ll thank you to be kinder about Mrs. Hughes.” After all, he couldn’t have the entire party angry at him at the same time.

“I’m simply saying that I had Miss Wallace’s attention for most of the evening because she wasn’t mooning over you.” Somehow, Wareham’s whisper was louder than his speaking voice.

“And having the ladies cross with you means a quiet hunting trip.” Garret Spaulding shot a gaze at Wareham. “Mostly.”

“Yes, yes. Poke fun.” Wareham lifted a flask to his lips. “But I’ll crow if I like. Miss Wallace has an excellent pedigree and a sizable dowry.”

“Which you won’t live to spend if you drink while you shoot.” Kit had a white-knuckled hold on his rifle. “Do be wise, Lord Wareham.”

“Just a nip to cut the chill,” Wareham said as he returned his flask to his coat pocket. “Do wish birds slept later.”

“Ridiculous man,” Raines muttered from his position near Kit.

Or, at least, that was what Jasper believed he’d said. The viscount was one of the few guests who was quieter than Jasper would have liked. He kept a level head while playing cards, ogled the ladies at dinner but did not discuss them otherwise, and drank enough to be a sport but never enough to be sloppy. The only thing he’d lost his head over was Jasper’s stables.

All last night, Jasper had paced his room and considered the possibility of bribing the man with a horse if he’d tell what he knew of Spencer and the court. It might be the simplest way of learning the truth.

In the end, he’d dismissed it. He didn’t enjoy the idea of one of his horses in Raines’s stables, though it was difficult to put his finger on the reason.

They reached the ridge and the hides dotted along it. As the gamekeeper led the hounds down the hill, each man took their position, flanked by their valets as loaders. Jasper claimed the spot at the end, nearest the trees. It had the worst view of the shooting grounds.

“Challenging yourself today?” Kit joked as they half slid into the furrow.

“Must save some of the birds for the guests.” Jasper placed his rifle on the low stone wall.

“Not having a loader should slow you down enough for their egos.” Kit placed his powder and shot nearby. “Except for me, of course.”

Competition zinged through Jasper’s blood, much like the race yesterday. He shrugged out of his constricting coat and reached for his weapon. The steel of the barrel chilled his fingers as the hounds sent up their first mournful bay. The rifle bucked against his shoulder, bringing him to life the way few things did.

A volley of shots sent a respectable number of birds to the ground, and the retrievers went to work gathering them into a pile.

“Grouse and pheasants,” Kit said as he stared down the hill. “They’re only grouse and pheasants.”

“Only?” Jasper turned to joke with his friend about their success shooting small targets, but Kit’s haunted stare stopped his laughter. “Are you all right, lad?”

The war was continents away now, but it was never far from Kit. Jasper had seen that stare more than once since Kit’s final return from Egypt. It didn’t always happen while hunting, either. Sometimes it was the weather or a specific smell. Once it was a song in a brothel.

Jasper hated that he could never find, or know, the right words to say. All he could do was wait for his friend to come back to himself.

“Stag!”

The cry brought everyone to their feet, and Jasper had his rifle raised a second before he realized it wasn’t loaded. “Blast.”

Kit’s deep, slow chuckle was the antithesis of his fluid fingers. It became a race to see who could get the first shot. Jasper didn’t know why he bothered. Kit always won.

The stag was near the tree line, badgered to and fro by the hounds nipping at his flanks and heels. He was a magnificent creature, with a wide set of antlers, powerful shoulders, and a broad back, all of which he used to his advantage in the fight for his life. Jasper stood watching, silently cheering for the beast to win.

A fly zinged by his ear, or perhaps it was a bee, given the sting to his cheek. Jasper brushed it away but ended up on his back in the hide with Kit towering over him, pointing his rifle in every direction except at the stag below. He put his boot in Jasper’s chest to keep him from standing.

“What the bloody hell?” he shouted.

“One of these bastards took a shot at you,” Kit shouted back. “Stay down until the firing stops. That bloody beast needs to go back into the woods.”

The baying receded as the dogs chased the stag into the forest. When they finally surrendered, the crashing continued. The animal would likely run to Marlborough. The duke could have him.

Jasper pushed Kit’s foot. “Let me up, y’ bugger.”

Kit didn’t relent until the shooting stopped. Jasper stood and met Spaulding’s wide eyes and raised hands over stones that lined the ridge of his hide.

“The boy couldn’t have missed me from there, and he would have hit you first anyway.” Jasper redirected Kit’s aim down the hill. “It was likely a wild shot with the excitement of following the stag. The dogs had him dithering in every direction.”

Kit relented, but the set to his jaw said he didn’t believe him. The cold pool of dread in Jasper’s gut said it didn’t believe him either.

Jasper used his shirt sleeve to wipe the blood and dirt from his cheekbone. Whoever had done it had been close enough to hit the rock beside him. He scanned the area himself, searching his guests for a guilty stare and then the landscape for a surefooted sniper. He ended staring at the valley, at the gamekeeper surrounded by his hounds.

“Send them again,” he shouted to the man. “We’ve not taken our fill of birds this morning.”