Free The Counterfeit Gentleman by Charlotte Louise Dolan Page B

toward the man on the cliff who had shot at them. The other half of the imprecations were aimed at her, and it was not hard for her to grasp the basic idea that Mr. Rendel would have infi nitely preferred it if she were safely back in his cottage, or failing that, if she had followed his explicit orders, which were simple enough for an idiot to comprehend, and not taken a step away from the boulder behind which he had told her to conceal herself.
    * * * *
    Mr. Harcourt’s hand shook as he aimed the second duel ing pistol. Shooting at a man, he had discovered, was much more difficult than making a perfect score at Manton’s Shooting Gallery. And if he missed this time ... but he could not miss. His very life depended upon it.
    Lying flat on his stomach on the top of the cliff, he waited, his sights trained on Dick Fane, who foolishly thought he was running toward freedom, but who was actu ally hurrying toward his own death.
    Harcourt knew he would have but this one opportunity; there would be no time to reload either of his pistols. Should he aim at Fane’s head? It seemed at this moment a very small target. But if he aimed at the chest, though he might fatally wound Fane, still the man might live long enough to speak a name—to betray who had hired him.
    But on the other hand, the path Fane was now struggling up was narrow, so that even if the bullet did not strike a vital organ and kill him instantly, he would surely lose his footing, and the rocks below would guarantee that he died quickly.
    Taking a deep breath, then letting it partway out, the man with the gun slowly squeezed the trigger.
    Fane crumpled and fell, and even before his body struck the rocks, Harcourt was up and away, running toward his horse, more acutely aware of his own mortality than he had ever been before. The back of his neck prickled, as if a gun were even now being aimed at him—as if at any moment a bullet might slam into his back, throwing him to the ground.
    Jerking the reins free, he sprang into the saddle, kicked the horse into a gallop, and was a good quarter of a mile away from the cove before he finally managed to get his left foot into the stirrup.
    * * * *
    Bethia peered around Mr. Rendel’s broad shoulders and saw that two of his men were returning. The slump of their shoulders and the scowls on their faces made it obvious that the assassins had escaped.
    Even so, it was singularly obtuse of them not to notice that their leader was in an unreasonable frame of mind.
    “We should have left a man topside,” Big Davey said gruffly, and Harry added weakly, “It appears the third mur derer came on horseback.”
    “So you let them both get away?” Mr. Rendel’s voice was so fierce, Bethia was amazed that either of his men had the nerve to reply.
    “Not exactly,” Big Davey said, glancing sheepishly at Harry, as if expecting some help from that quarter. “Appar ently the man on the cliff was not aiming at me, which is probably why I’m still standing here with only a nicked arm.”
    There was blood on his shirtsleeve, which in Bethia’s opinion should have elicited sympathy rather than censure.
    One could hardly expect a wounded man to chase down an assassin, but apparently smugglers didn’t worry about such trivial things as bloody arms.
    “He was aiming at his hireling,” Big Davey said, and with a terrible premonition, Bethia knew what he was going to say before he actually said it. “The poor fool was halfway up the path, doubtless thinking he was running to ward someone who would save his worthless skin, when the second shot took him right through the heart.” He ges tured down the beach to where a second body now lay bro ken on the rocks. “He’ll not be naming any names now, no matter how politely we ask.”
    Despite their careful plans, death had found them there on the beach—not her own death, but it could easily have been. If her hat had fallen off and her hair had tumbled down around her shoulders, would her