“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.”
“Jasper,” Kit whispered. “This is mad.”
“It’s a party,” Jasper replied. “We need them to have a good time.” He stretched out in the hide the best he could and used his coat as a pillow. His valet would chide him for days about the state of his clothes. “Keep shooting. I’m going to nap.”
He closed his eyes, but every rifle report jarred him alert. Every whoop of success made his feet twitch.
The successful shooting made the return trip to the house much more of a party. Even Raines was happier, given that he’d bagged the largest bird—a pheasant Jasper pledged to serve for dinner during the party. Kit, dour-faced and trudging two steps behind, refused to be drawn into the celebration. Jasper, itchy, filthy, and cold, spent less time talking than he did listening.
It wasn’t the words he heard. No one would be daft enough to say something about an errant shot. He listened for the tone of each comment. Did someone sound guilt-ridden over almost killing their host? Worse, could someone’s disappointment in the outing be interpreted as failure at meeting another goal?
Stapleton met them at the end of the stairs, and his eyes went wide at Jasper’s appearance. “My lord. Should we send for the constable?”
“I’d be better served by a laundress, I believe.” Jasper sighed when the man refused to smile at his joke and move from their path. Both would have been satisfying. Either would have been sufficient.
“You can’t blame him for asking, Ramsbury,” Wareham said. “You look as though you’ve been through the war.”
As though the tipsy blowhard would know anything of war.
“It’s not that, my lord.” Stapleton leaned forward to whisper, “One of the pistols is missing from the armory. Did you take one?”
