The Scoundrel and the Debutante

He glared at her.

“Oh. Pardon,” she said, and glanced at the others. “Was it a secret? But another coach will be along shortly,” she cheerfully added. “You may depend that there are at least two more coaches that travel this route each day.”

“That’s wonderful news, Miss Cabot,” he said, moving toward her. “And what are we to do while we wait? Nothing? Should we not try and solve our problem?” he asked, gesturing to the coach.

“Well, I certainly don’t intend to stand and wait,” Mrs. Scales announced grandly.

As no one seemed inclined to stand and wait, or solve their problem, the waiting commenced.

The men settled on the side of the road on upturned trunks, the ladies and the old man on their rocks. Mr. Matheson made several sounds of impatience as he wandered a tight little circle just beyond them. Occasionally, he would walk up to the road and squint in the direction they’d come, trying to see round the bend in the road and through the stand of oak trees that impeded the view of the road. And then he’d swirl back again, stalking past the men sitting around the broken wheel, and to the meadow, only to repeat his path a few moments later.

Mrs. Scales, Prudence realized, was studying her as Prudence studied Mr. Matheson. “Did you say there was no one who might have seen you safely to your friend, my dear?” she asked slyly.

The woman was impossible. But Prudence had grown up with three sisters—she was well versed in the tactics of busybodies and smiled sweetly. “I didn’t say that at all, Mrs. Scales. What do you think? Perhaps the time might pass more quickly if we think of something to do,” she suggested, hopping up from her seat.

“What might we possibly do?” Mrs. Scales scoffed.

“A contest,” Prudence said, her mind whirling.

“God help me,” Mr. Matheson muttered.

“Yes, a contest!” Prudence said, stubbornly standing behind her impetuous idea.

“Such as?” Mrs. Scales inquired. “We’ve no cards, no games.”

“I know! A footrace,” Mrs. Tricklebank suggested brightly, which earned her a look of bafflement from her sister and the old man.

“And who do you suggest engage in a footrace, Nina?”

“Perhaps something a bit less athletic,” Prudence intervened. “Something—”

“Marksmanship.”

This, the first word uttered by the elderly gentleman, was so surprising that they all paused a moment to look at him.

“I had in mind a word game or something a bit tamer, but very well,” Prudence said. “Marksmanship it is.”

“That’s absurd!” Mrs. Scales exclaimed. “Again, who shall participate?”

“Well, the gentlemen, certainly,” Prudence said. “I’ve yet to meet a proper gentleman who wasn’t eager for sport.”

“I’m not sure you want to put firearms in the hands of some of our fellow travelers,” Mr. Matheson said.

Prudence looked at the men lounging about. He had a point. But Mrs. Scales was watching her so intently that Prudence didn’t dare sit back down. “Then I’ll participate,” she said, turning about.

Her pronouncement was met with a lot of snorting.

But Mr. Matheson laughed...with great amusement. “That’s preposterous.”

Prudence’s mouth dropped open. “How can you say so?” she objected. “I’ve been taught to shoot!”

“Why ever for?” Mrs. Scales cried. “On my word, Mrs. Tricklebank, the state of society is exactly as I feared—ladies are not ladies at all!”

Now Prudence was doubly offended. “I beg your pardon, I was taught to shoot for sport, obviously!”

“I think there is nothing obvious about it,” Mrs. Scales said, and snapped open her fan and began to wave it in time with her sister’s.

“I like this idea,” Mr. Matheson said, nodding. He folded his arms and studied Prudence intently, a droll smile on his face that transformed him. His eyes were suddenly shining. “I like it very much, in fact. What do you say we limit the contest to just the two of us to begin,” he said, gesturing between them. “Anyone here may challenge the victor.”

Prudence looked back at the others. She expected some gentleman to stand up and express a desire to shoot. But no one did.

“Well, then, Miss Cabot?” Mr. Matheson said. “Wasn’t it your idea to pass the time?”

It was. And in hindsight, it appeared to be a very bad idea. It was very unlike her to speak so boldly and impetuously, and now Prudence knew why her sisters were accustomed to talking out of turn and saying outrageous things. How did they do it? How did they say impetuous things and then do impetuous things?

Mr. Matheson was watching her with far too much anticipation. As if he couldn’t wait to put a firearm in her hand. His smile had broadened. “Perhaps these good people might like to wager on our contest,” he said smoothly, gesturing grandly to the ladies.

“Wager,” said the old man, nodding.

“Ooh,” said Mrs. Scales. “I certainly have been known to enjoy a wager or two.” She tittered as she opened her reticule. Prudence gaped at the woman in surprise. Mrs. Scales glanced at her expectantly. “Well? As the gentleman said, it was your idea.”

“Yes, all right,” Prudence said crossly. What a fool she was! She had been taught to shoot. The earl, as they had always referred to her stepfather, had insisted his stepdaughters be properly instructed in riding, shooting, gaming and archery. He said that they should be prepared to meet their match in a man. Unfortunately, Prudence had not met her match in a man in such a long time that she was quite unpracticed at shooting now.

“We will need a target,” Matheson said with all the confidence of a man who knew he would win and win handily. That trait, Prudence discovered, was just as maddening whether a gentleman was British or American.

“I’ve one,” said the old man. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flask. He tipped it up at his lips and drained what was left, then handed it to Mr. Matheson.

“A perfect target. Thank you, sir,” Matheson said. He was enjoying this now, winking slyly at Prudence as he passed her, carrying the flask.

That flask looked awfully small to Prudence. “I don’t have a firearm,” she quickly pointed out, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Then you may use mine,” Mr. Matheson said, and smiled as he reached deep into his coat and withdrew it. “I suggest you remove your gloves, Miss Cabot.”

The sisters fluttered and cooed at that, and then unabashedly admired Mr. Matheson as he strolled away to set the flask on another rock.

There was no escape. Prudence yanked her gloves from her hands, muttering under her breath about fools and angels.

Mr. Matheson walked back to where she stood and, with the heel of his boot, he scraped a line in the dirt. “Give me your hand,” he said.

“My hand?”

He impatiently took her hand, his palm warm and firm beneath hers. He pressed the gun into her palm and wrapped her fingers around the butt of it. He squeezed lightly and smiled down at her, his gold-brown eyes twinkling with what Prudence read as sheer delight. “Ladies first,” he said, and let go of her, stepping back.

Prudence looked down at the gun. It had a pearled handle and silver barrel, not unlike the pistol her stepbrother, Augustine, liked to show his friends. But Augustine kept his pistol in a case at Beckington House in London. He did not wear it on his person. Moreover, Mr. Matheson’s gun was smaller than the gun she’d been taught to fire.

“You know how to fire it, don’t you?” he asked as she studied the gun.

“Yes!” She lifted the gun to have a look. “That is, I assume that the trigger—”