The crowd on the hill burst into applause. On points, all Evan had to do was hit the third target, and he would win the competition. Satisfaction flowed over him, and he grinned. He still had the old talent. Deliberately, he reloaded, assessing his feelings. Though he had been reluctant to shoot at first, he somehow felt it had done him good.
“One more target, sir.” Shand sent him a steady look. “Finish it.”
He resumed his position, the sun warming his back. Calm flowed over him, making him feel as if, once he fired this last shot, he would banish the final remnants of frustration and guilt at not being able to remember the day he was wounded. He would let it go, focus on his new life and responsibilities, and trust that God had not made a mistake bringing him to White Haven as the earl.
The third target was somewhere near a hundred yards away, well below the maximum distance for the Baker rifle, but farther than most casual hunters would shoot. Though he was rusty, he was confident in his ability to hit inside the rings at least.
Before he thought about it, he was standing up once more, accepting slaps on the back. By his previous standards, the last shot, hitting four inches outside the bull, wasn’t good, but it had been sufficient.
“Well done, sir.” Shand reached for the rifle, and they both laughed. Evan was nearly finished reloading, though the competition was over. He shoved the ramrod down the barrel one last time and slotted it into its place.
“Old habits. Reload before you do anything else.” Evan laughed. “How many times did you say that to new recruits, Shand?”
“More often than I can count, sir.”
As a group, the contestants climbed the slope to where the guests were arranged under their awnings.
The Prince Regent lifted his glass. “Most amusing. Good shooting.” He sipped the champagne. “Your bride has been extolling your virtues, Whitelock. To hear her tell it, you must be the finest shot in all of Britain.”
Evan sought Diana’s eyes and noted her blush. She had been boasting about him?
“I am a blessed man, thanks to your generosity, Your Highness.” He went to Diana’s side and put his hand on her shoulder.
The prince wore a smug expression, but since he always seemed smug to Evan, it was hard to tell if he was pleased at the praise or merely taking it as his due.
“You owe me fifty pounds, Fitzroy.” Percival’s petulant voice drifted over the buzz of the guests. “You bet on yourself, and you lost.”
Evan wanted to roll his eyes. Why did those two ever become friends? They squabbled like fishwives.
Viscount Fitzroy reddened and thrust Percival’s hand off his arm. “I said I would pay you, and I will.”
“You had better, or I’ll spread it around that you wager and run.” Percival’s voice held something sharper than usual, and heads turned.
Fitzroy reared up like an angry badger. “How dare you? Arthur Bracken does not renege on his bets.”
Arthur Bracken.
Lightning cracked inside Evan’s head, and his hand tightened on Diana’s shoulder. She winced, and he let go, raising his hand to his head.
Arthur Bracken.
“What is it?” Diana rose, touching his arm. Her pale collarbone bore the marks of his fingers, and a fleeting regret dashed across his heart.
But it was quickly overlaid with images, sounds of battle, himself crouching under an outcropping of rock on one of the many hills that dotted the landscape. He’d crossed into enemy territory, stealthy and lethal, scaling to the high ground where the French artillery had set up a battery. But he’d misjudged his position during the climb. He’d arrived beneath a small encampment. Had he stumbled upon the battery command post? Salamanca lay in the distance across the Tormes River behind the British line. He was much too far from his own army for comfort. If he should be discovered, there would be no one to rescue him. He gripped his rifle and listened intently to two French soldiers above him and out of sight. His French wasn’t as good as his Latin, but he could make out what they were saying.
Arthur Bracken. A spy. An assassination attempt on the Prince Regent. Brighton.
The memory echoed in Evan’s head, pieces falling into place like a parquet floor, tight and smooth. The relief at finally remembering made him light-headed, and he opened his eyes, grabbing the sunshade’s support pole for balance.
Everything rushed back, clear as clean glass.
He hadn’t captured a spy at Salamanca—he’d learned the name of one. He had been racing back to the British line to tell his superiors that the Prince Regent’s life was in danger from someone named Arthur Bracken, when he’d been shot.
Arthur Bracken, who was also Viscount Fitzroy?
“It’s you.” He stared. “You’re Arthur Bracken.”
Fitzroy struggled into his tight jacket, a look of contempt on his face. “Of course. Bracken is my given name. But I am properly addressed by my title.”
Diana had gone pale as milk. “Just as your name is Evan Eldridge, but people address you by your title, Whitelock.” She gripped her hands hard at her waist, hard enough that they shook. “What do you know of Fitzroy’s given name?”
Marcus gave Evan a hard stare. “What’s going on? Have you remembered something?”
“The spy. The spy I thought I had captured at Salamanca. I didn’t capture him. I merely learned of his existence—and his identity. That’s what I was trying to get back to safety to tell the commanders. The two Frenchmen I overheard said that Arthur Bracken would try to assassinate the Prince Regent when he made his annual trip to Brighton.” Which must be why the word “Brighton” had struck him so hard at the wedding breakfast. It all made sense now.
“What’s this?” The Prince Regent began to rise from his chair, a lengthy process that he didn’t get near to accomplishing. “Someone’s trying to kill me?”
Before anyone could move, his face a crazed mask, Fitzroy reached down and drew a dagger from his boot top, made a wild swipe at the Prince Regent, and leapt away. A woman screamed, and blood gushed from a slash on the prince’s upper arm. The prince gasped, clutching at the wound, while dumbfounded guests stood looking on in horror.
Marcus grabbed a serviette from the side table and clapped it on the gash. He yanked on Diana’s hand, pressing it over the cloth. “Hold pressure on that cut.”
“Grab him! He tried to kill the prince!” Shouts echoed down the slope. Several guests started after Fitzroy as he ran toward the lake. On the way, he shoved a groom aside and took one of the war horses that stood waiting patiently for their portion of the proceedings. Swinging aboard, Fitzroy galloped away. The guests who had chased on foot stopped in confusion.
Evan still had the rifle in his hands, and he set out after them, Shand at his side, Marcus at his heels.
“He’s making for the woods. If he gets there, we’ll lose him. That place is a bramble,” Shand yelled.
“Shoot him if you have to. We can’t let him get away!” Marcus added.
Reaching the horses that were snorting and jerking on their reins, Evan threw himself on Commodore’s back, scrabbling and clutching the animal’s mane, kicking him into a gallop before he was fully settled in the saddle. He didn’t wait to see if Shand and Marcus followed. They would be behind him as soon as they could.