Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,215

of them. It had been one of those manly pursuits his father had been so insistent he learn. He’d spent countless hours outside Romney Hall, his arm outstretched until his muscles burned, holding his breath as he aimed for whatever it was his father was out to destroy. Every shot was accompanied by a fervent prayer that his aim would be true.

If he hit the target, his father wouldn’t hit him. It was as simple—and desperate—as that.

He walked over to a table with several pistols on it, murmuring his hellos to Anthony, Colin, and Gregory. Sophie was sitting about ten or so yards away, her nose in a book.

“Let’s get on with this,” Anthony said, “before Eloise returns.” He looked over at Phillip. “Where is Eloise?”

“She went off to read the letter from your mother,” Phillip lied.

“I see. Well, that won’t take long,” Anthony said with a frown. “We’d better hurry, then.”

“Maybe she’ll want to reply,” Colin said, picking up a gun and examining it. “That’ll buy us a few extra minutes. You know Eloise. She’s always writing someone a letter.”

“Indeed,” Anthony replied. “Got us into this mess, didn’t it?”

Phillip just looked at him with an inscrutable smile. He was far too pleased with himself this morning to rise to any bait Anthony Bridgerton cared to offer.

Gregory chose a gun. “Even if she replies, she’ll be back soon. She’s fiendishly fast.”

“At writing?” Phillip queried.

“At everything,” Gregory said grimly. “Let’s shoot.”

“Why are you all so eager to get started without Eloise?” Phillip asked.

“Er, no reason,” Benedict said, at precisely the same moment Anthony mumbled, “Who said anything about that?”

They all had, of course, but Phillip didn’t remind them of it.

“Age before beauty, old chap,” Colin said, slapping Anthony on the back.

“You’re too kind,” Anthony murmured, stepping up to a chalk line someone had drawn in the grass. He lifted his arm, took aim, and fired.

“Well done,” Phillip said, once the footman had brought forth the bull’s-eye. Anthony had not hit dead center, but he was only an inch off.

“Thank you.” He set his pistol down. “How old are you?”

Phillip blinked at the unexpected question, then replied, “Thirty.”

Anthony jerked his head toward Colin. “You’re after Colin, then. We always do these things by age. It’s the only way to keep track.”

“By all means,” Phillip said, watching as Benedict and Colin took their turns. They were both good shots, neither dead center, but certainly close enough to kill a man, had that been their goal.

Which, thankfully, it didn’t seem to be, at least not that morning.

Phillip selected a pistol, tested its weight in his hand, then stepped up to the chalk line. It had only been recently that he’d stopped thinking of his father every time he took aim at a target. It had taken years, but he’d finally allowed himself to realize that he actually liked shooting, that it didn’t have to be a chore. And then suddenly his father’s voice, so often at the back of his mind, always yelling, always criticizing, was gone.

He lifted his arm, his muscles rock steady, and fired.

He squinted toward the target. It looked good. The footman brought it forward. One-half inch, at most, off the center. Closer than anyone else thus far.

The target went back, and Gregory took his turn, proving himself to be Phillip’s equal.

“We do five rounds,” Anthony told Phillip. “Best out, and if there’s a tie, the leaders face off.”

“I see,” Phillip said. “Any particular reason?”

“No,” Anthony said, picking up his gun. “Just that we’ve always done it this way.”

Colin looked at Phillip with deadly serious eyes. “We take our games seriously.”

“I’m gathering.”

“Do you fence?”

“Not well,” Phillip said.

One corner of Colin’s mouth turned up. “Excellent.”

“Be quiet,” Anthony barked, looking testily over at them. “I’m trying to aim.”

“Such need for silence will not serve you well at a time of crisis,” Colin remarked.

“Shut up,” Anthony bit off.

“If we were attacked,” Colin continued, one of his hands moving expressively as he wove his tale, “it would be quite noisy, and frankly, I find it disturbing to think—”

“Colin!” Anthony bellowed.

“Don’t mind me,” Colin said.

“I’m going to kill him,” Anthony announced. “Does anyone mind if I kill him?”

No one did, although Sophie did look up and mention something about blood and messes and not wanting to have to clean up.

“It’s an excellent fertilizer,” Phillip said helpfully, since, after all, that was his area of expertise.

“Ah.” Sophie nodded and turned back to her book. “Kill him, then.”

“How’s that book, darling?” Benedict called out to her.

“It’s quite good,