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

treat the occupants there. I saw the earl’s son yesterday, and he looked quite thin and pale.”

Silence fell and the other diners looked so shocked one would have thought a massive boulder had crashed down from the sky and flattened the dining table.

“You saw Mr. Pope yesterday?” her guardian asked.

“Yes,” she said carefully, now aware she had made a misstep somewhere. Pru was not unfamiliar with the tightening in her belly that seemed to squeeze all the food she had eaten into an oily blob. Her mother always said trouble followed her like a hungry puppy. Pru often wondered if that puppy’s belly would ever fill.

“Did you speak to him?” Mrs. Dawson asked, her voice rising.

“Yes.” Pru looked around the table. Everyone was staring at her, wide-eyed, even Mr. Dawson who had been half-asleep in his chair a few moments before. “Is that unusual?” Pru asked finally because she hated silence and hated being stared at, and both had become the preferred activities at the dining table.

“I forget you arrived only two months ago,” Mrs. Dawson said.

“No one has seen Mr. Pope in over a year,” the vicar said. “The earl gave him use of Wentmore when he returned from the war, and he’s not stepped foot outside in all that time. The last time anyone saw him was about three months after he took up residence. A fire began in the kitchen and a few of the village men rushed to help put it out.”

“My nephew was one of those who rendered assistance,” Mrs. Dawson added, “and he said Mr. Pope ran everyone off with a pistol.”

“How was the fire contained?” Pru asked.

“Mrs. Brown probably put it out,” Mr. Langford said. “She is the housekeeper there and the only servant Pope will keep. I doubt she’s been paid in a year, but she has been with the family since she was old enough to mop and dust, and she stays out of loyalty.”

“That seems quite noble,” Pru said.

“It’s dangerous,” Langford said. “Pope is dangerous. If you see him again, go the other way. I was at Wentmore this summer because Mr. Pope shot a man.”

Pru inhaled sharply.

“Oh, Mr. Langford, please do not tell that gruesome tale again,” Mrs. Dawson said in a tone that all but begged the surgeon to tell the tale and with as much detail as he could muster.

“I am afraid I must, Mrs. Dawson,” Mr. Langford said. “Miss Howard needs to know the danger she was in.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Dawson produced a fan and began to wave it in front of her face.

“I do not think Mr. Pope would have shot me,” Pru said. “I was not a threat to him.”

“Neither was the man he shot,” Langford said. “In fact, the man was a friend of his. Pope served under Lieutenant-Colonel Draven in the war.” He paused as though this name should mean something to Pru. “You’ve not heard of Draven?”

“Should I have?”

“He commanded one of the most skilled troops ever assembled. Along with Wellington, Draven is credited as one of the men most responsible for the defeat of Napoleon. His troop was comprised of highly skilled gentlemen. Not heirs to any titles, but third and fourth sons for the most part. None of the men were expected to come home again. Twelve of the thirty did, and they are hailed as heroes.”

It did not seem to Pru as though Mr. Pope was being hailed as any sort of hero. “What was Mr. Pope’s skill?” she asked.

“Sharpshooting,” Mr. Dawson said, speaking for the first time since they’d sat down at the table. “One of the best in England. I saw him shoot when he was younger, before he went off to war,” Dawson said. “He never missed, and his aim was always perfect.”

“I rather think the Scotsman he shot would have preferred his aim less perfect. Apparently, two of his former brothers-in-arms came to visit him and instead of greeting them warmly, Pope opened fire,” Langford said. “I was called to treat the Scotsman. He was a big man and I expected him to make a full recovery. He left before I could do much more than remove the pistol ball and stitch him up. Apparently, Pope threatened to shoot him again if he stayed.”

Mrs. Dawson fanned her face violently, her eyes bright with interest.

“I don’t think it’s a breach of confidence to say that the house was a shambles,” Langford said. “I’ve no doubt Mrs. Brown does her best, but the place was dusty