The Duke of Seaton sat aloof. Evan would deal with him this evening, offering him a onetime payment for custody of the baby and inviting him to leave White Haven for good. After that, he would have a word with Percival and hasten him and Fitzroy on their way as well. They could be “advance envoys” for the Prince Regent in Brighton.
“In the first round, each man will stand and shoot once at the closest, then the middle, and then the farthest target. In the second round, those that move on will shoot from a kneeling position. And in the last round, the shooters will be prone.”
Shand spoke so all could hear, and Evan was reminded of how his sergeant had chastened and harried many a new recruit with that booming voice. He’d chastened and harried his officers, too.
Evan rolled his head to loosen his neck and shoulder muscles. He hadn’t held a rifle in more than half a year. Would his old talent return? Did he want it to? At one point in his life, he’d thought being a crack shot was the only thing he was really good at, but over the past few months, he’d discovered other abilities, talents that had overlaid the past. Talents that had more to do with building up than tearing down.
One by one, the men took their turns. Some were proficient and some woefully inadequate. When the first shot cracked, Evan flinched, inhaling the smell of gunpowder, blinking as a flash of memory exploded in his head, a memory of an unnamed battle. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, flexing his fingers and reminding himself that he was in the peaceful Sussex countryside, not the war-torn Continent.
Another crack of rifle fire. This time his eyes popped open, and he swayed, bumping into one of the guests.
“Your pardon,” he murmured. Why hadn’t he thought? Anticipated that the commotion of gunfire might bring his struggles to the forefront? Had anyone noticed? What if he had held his secret for all this time only to have it broadcast to the crème of the ton at this late date? Sweat popped out at his temples, and his hands trembled.
But he couldn’t resign from the competition now. Shaking his head, he strove for resolve. He would buckle down and shoot, and perhaps he could put an end to these episodes, somehow prove to himself that there was nothing to panic about.
He felt like one of the war horses being reconditioned to loud noises. Glancing toward where the grooms held the mounts, he took courage from the animals. None of them were panicked. Several had their heads up, and one chestnut fellow looked eager, as if ready to charge into the fray.
If they could face it, so could he.
When it was Evan’s turn, he stepped up to the table to receive his ammunition and select a rifle.
“Sir, not one of those.” Shand bent and retrieved a long burlap-wrapped bundle from beneath the table. “You’ll want this one.”
Puzzled, Evan took the object and let the rough cloth fall away. His throat tightened, and his eyes sought Shand’s. “Soldier? Where did you get this?”
His hand brushed the satin smoothness of the walnut stock, grazed the dull brass plate with his name engraved upon it, and hefted the bulk. His Baker 1800-model rifle. It felt like an old friend.
“I retrieved it after the battle, sir. I knew you’d want it back for the next skirmish, but when I tried to return it to you, they said you’d been wounded and taken to Vitoria and the hospital ships. When I found you at St. Bart’s in London, I thought I’d just keep it until you got back to your old self, sir.”
Shand’s look spoke volumes, and Evan didn’t know what to say. Did his sergeant know how he’d suffered after the battle with both his physical and mental wounds? Had Evan only been fooling himself that he’d kept his secret well?
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Do the Ninety-Fifth proud, sir.”
Evan looked at the rifle he held, his companion and partner in many a campaign. Considering what they had been through together, a friendly target shoot should be nothing. At least no one would be shooting back this time.
He loaded the weapon, not even needing to think about what he was doing, his hands performing the familiar task with ease. By the time he had finished, the paper targets had been replaced on the stands.
Wrapping the shoulder strap around his left hand, he nestled the butt of the rifle into his right shoulder. The sight at the end of the rifle glinted in the sunlight, still polished and shiny, the way he liked it. One long breath to steady his muscles, exhale halfway and hold it, squeeze the trigger.
Lower the rifle, breathe quickly, and reload. In less than thirty seconds he was ready to shoot again, this time at the middle target.
By the time he’d loosed the third bullet, he knew he had scored comfortably well, enough to move on to the second round but nowhere near what he’d been at his peak.
Six competitors moved on, and this time they knelt to shoot. The betting increased, and Fitzroy and Percival were both amongst the second-round lot. Percival missed the third target entirely, but he wasn’t alone. Fitzroy just clipped the edge of the paper to get him into the final three with Evan and a courtier named Ratcliffe.
With every shot, Evan relaxed a bit more. He was able to stay in the present and not be yanked into the past. He didn’t start with each explosion or sweat as the scent of gunpowder filled the air. Perhaps this was exactly what he needed to lay those ghosts to rest.
“Sirs, this is the final round. Each of you will be prone to shoot.” Shand pointed to a canvas sheet laid on the grass to protect their clothing. “The score will be aggregate, as in the other rounds.”
Fitzroy shot first, and though he hit the bull on the first target, he missed the second and third. Ruefully, he rose, brushing off his waistcoat and shaking his head.
Percival snickered. “It’s looking good for me. I might be out of the competition, but I’m going to win either way.” He checked his notebook. “You’re going to wind up owing me money, Fitz.”
Ratcliffe, a man of few words and intense eyes, took up his position and fared better, hitting all three targets, but only one inside the rings.
When Shand handed Evan his rifle, calm seeped over him. As a Green Jacket marksman, Evan had done most of his shooting in a prone position, creeping as close as he could to enemy lines and trying to take out artillery men as they loaded cannons. His favorite tactic had been to get near enough to shoot the limber stationed behind the cannon and hopefully blow up the ammunition stored there.
He imagined himself on his belly in some tall grass, as he’d done a thousand times before. Beginning with his shoulder and neck, he purposely relaxed each muscle, down his back, his arms, his legs. Conscious of his entire being, he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing.
“I think he’s gone to sleep,” Percival snickered.
Evan opened his eyes, grasping his rifle lightly, sighting down the barrel at the closest target. Careful not to jerk the trigger, he pulled back gently, trying not to anticipate the shot or brace for the recoil. Thwack. The familiar kick of the gun went through his shoulder, and he exhaled.
“A bull!” Shand announced.
Rising, Evan reloaded, aware that the crowd on the hill and his fellow competitors ranged in a half circle behind him had all fallen silent.
He took his time with the second shot as well, blanking out the people around him, until the only things that existed were himself, his rifle, and the target. Just like old times. He raised the barrel a fraction of an inch to account for the distance. He squeezed the trigger, absorbed the recoil, and stood all in one fluid motion. Shand raised his field glass. “Another bull!”