Unclaimed (Turner #2)(38)

“There,” he said handing the card back. “Just in time, too. The ladies are coming over.”

Tolliver stared at the card. “How is it that the MCB is…is so not in accord with your own beliefs?”

Because I was avoiding the entire organization. You were all embarrassing. But…he was be ginning to understand that he’d let this happen through his inattention.

“Tolliver,” Mark said, “it’s because I made a mistake. A very bad one, and one that you’ve helped me realize.”

“You? A mistake?”

“I should have spoken with the MCB before this moment. Perhaps…” He sighed, looked at the confused look clouding the boy’s eyes. “Perhaps you’ll let me start here.”

“You want to give a speech to the MCB? Oh, brilliant! What of Tuesday next?”

Mrs. Farleigh and Miss Lewis were approaching. They’d been given rifles. Miss Lewis held hers delicately, between thumb and forefinger, as if she planned to drop it at any moment.

“Best get it out of the way. Tuesday it is. Now go say hello to your sweetheart.”

Tolliver blushed furiously. “She’s not my—oh. You’re having me on.”

And then the women joined them, and Tolliver began talking—explaining the system of the competition once again, this time in an even more disjointed fashion. After he’d managed to confuse everyone, he complicated matters by asking Miss Lewis about, of all things, her father’s intended sermon.

Flirtation privileges, Mark decided, were not about to lead Tolliver into Peril. They were more likely to take him toward Embarrassment.

Mrs. Farleigh glanced at the two and then over at Mark. They shared a half smile, poorly suppressed.

Mark reached forward and took the card from Tolliver’s hand. “I’m revoking these,” he said to Tolliver, “until such time as you learn to use them properly.”

“What?” asked Miss Lewis.

“Nothing,” Tolliver said urgently, waving at Mark. “It’s nothing.”

But Mrs. Farleigh glanced at the card over his shoulder and burst into laughter.

It wasn’t fair. He’d never seen her laugh before. When she did, her whole face lit. She held nothing back. Mark felt utterly, stupidly bereft of intelligence. He’d have babbled about sermons to her in that moment, if he could have thought of a word to say.

“Ignore him, Mr. Tolliver,” Mrs. Farleigh plucked the card from Mark’s hand and slid it into Tolliver’s pocket. “You’re doing quite well, considering. And you—” she pointed at Mark, and he felt his breath come to a rumbling halt inside his lungs “—I’ve a question to put to you.”

She turned and walked away. When they were a few steps distant, she shook her head. “Poor boy. He can’t impress both you and Miss Lewis at the same time. You are his hero, you know. Show some compassion.”

“You’re quite right. I shouldn’t have teased.”

“No.” She sighed, and then looked up at him. “You signed your initials to that card, didn’t you?”

“Yes?”

“Mark 9:47? Isn’t that rather a gruesome name to attach to a young child?”

Mark felt his smile fade. “My brothers are named Ash and Smite. My mother wasn’t concerned with choosing happy names for her children.” He paused. “You know what verse that is offhand? You keep trying to tell me that you’re wicked.”

“I am.”

“You’re the worst fallen woman I’ve ever met.”

“My father was a vicar,” she returned with asperity. “I can’t help it if some of my early childhood lingered, despite my best intentions. And really—you were named after the verse that suggests that in order to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, you have to—”

“I know. You don’t need to tell me,” he said with a growl. “Really. Next time, I’m just signing Sir Mark, do you hear? Forget it.”

There was a long, awkward pause. From this distance, Mark could hear Tolliver burbling on to Miss Lewis. By the way she was looking up at him, Tolliver was doing better than Mark was. He could even hear the rector, twenty yards away, talking about the same catechism that Miss Lewis had recounted to Tolliver.

A new subject of conversation was definitely warranted.

“Are you a good shot?” It was a fumble, but as soon as he said it, he knew it would distract her. There was something about the way she held her rifle. She didn’t seem to be conscious that she was holding it at all, and yet it seemed as if she might close the breach and raise the weapon to her shoulder at any moment. That bespoke a facility with firearms, one that had been trained so consistently that it was now beyond thought.

But Mrs. Farleigh simply shrugged, still looking at him. “I’ve not spent much time shooting rook rifles,” she said absently. “You?”

Ah. So these were rook rifles. They all looked basically the same to Mark—long barrels, wood stock.

“Indifferent,” Mark confessed. “When I was young, we had no shooting range. And over the last years, I’ve spent most of my time with my eldest brother in London, which means I’ve had little chance to shoot in the country. I hope only to avoid coming in dead last.”

She let out a little gasp. “Wha-at?” She drew the word out, making a mockery of her surprise. “The indomitable Sir Mark has an imperfection? Oh, dear. And here I left my hartshorn and vinegar at home.”