Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,34

two pots, as I recall. But as more and more of the men failed, they began to complain.

“And then Master Nash walks up with his rifle—”

“Master Nash? Is that Mr. Pope?”

Mrs. Northgate pursed her lips, obviously annoyed at the interruption. “He was Master Nash then. He walked to the line and shouldered his rifle. Well, the other men began to chuckle. How was this boy—he couldn’t have been more than ten—to hit those clay pots?” She chuckled to herself and shook her head.

“And what happened?” Pru asked, impatience getting the best of her.

“Well, the earl told his son to wait just a moment. We all thought he would save the boy the pain of embarrassment, but he told the lad to take ten steps back.”

“Back?”

“Yes, farther from the pots. Well, everyone was murmuring, and even the women who cared little for such displays had come to watch now. The noise and mutterings did not seem to penetrate that head of Master Nash. He was as cool as could be. He lifted the rifle, sighted the pots, and fired. One by one, he hit every single pot—ten in a row—and knocked them off the fence.

“You could have heard a pin drop,” Mrs. Northgate said, her gaze finding Pru’s. “We were all so shocked. The boy had focus and steadiness and an eye like we’d never seen. I imagine it was harder on him than it would be for most when he lost his vision. Drove him mad, it seems.”

Pru sat back now too. “I don’t think he’s mad. I think he’s just sad.”

“Well, we all feel sad from time to time, but not all of us go about brandishing pistols and shooting Scotsmen!”

That was true. There was the sound of voices from below, and Pru recognized the low tenor of George Northgate. When she looked back at Mrs. Northgate, the older woman was watching her. “It seems my grandson has finished for the day.”

Pru straightened. “Do you think I might go to Wentmore now?” Her gaze strayed to the clock. It was still more than ninety minutes before she had planned to depart.

“I am not the person to answer that question.”

“Oh.” Pru sat still, but her body vibrated.

“Go ahead and ask my grandson. I can see we will accomplish nothing else here today.”

“Thank you, ma’am!” Pru jumped up and ran to the door. Then, impulsively, she ran back and kissed Mrs. Northgate on the cheek.

“Oh, do control yourself, girl!” Mrs. Northgate said, but she was smiling when she said it.

Pru made herself walk down the stairs. Halfway down, Mr. George Northgate looked up at her. He was speaking with his mother. The younger Mrs. Northgate glanced at Pru then pointedly ignored her. But her son nodded his head to her. “Good afternoon, Miss Howard.”

“Mr. Northgate.” She reached the bottom of the stairs.

“And how is my grandmama? It is so good of you to sit with her. She has been in need of a companion for some time.”

Pru had not been hired as a lady’s companion, which she thought Mr. Northgate knew well enough, but she ignored the statement for the moment. “Have you been at Wentmore, sir?”

“I have, but”—and he looked at his mother as though to explain to her as well—“the workers were dismissed early.”

“Why?” Mrs. Northgate asked, still ignoring Pru.

“No reason was given. The man who is paying them came out and told them they could go home. He handed out wages, and I sold what cider and apples I could and came home myself.” He looked at Pru again. “Are you done for the day? Is your dress finished?”

At this, Mrs. Northgate actually looked at Pru, as though she was wondering when this person would be out of her house for good.

“Not yet, but I have another errand.”

“I won’t keep you then,” George said. Pru nodded and gave a smile to him and Mrs. Northgate. Mrs. Northgate looked away, and Pru gathered her coat and set off for Wentmore. The day was damp and overcast, and Pru imagined the men who had been let go for the day were glad to be home and before a warm fire. She rather hoped Mr. Pope had a warm fire waiting.

She hoped he remembered she was coming.

Mostly, she hoped he didn’t shoot her.

NASH COULD NOT HAVE said why he was nervous. It wasn’t as though it mattered to him whether or not he learned night writing. Even if he knew it, the only person he would be able to correspond with