Cocking his fowling gun, Devlin set his stance and readied himself to take aim when his turn came.
The beaters began to thrash the bushes with their sticks, and in a matter of moments the whir of wings sounded as a startled grouse rose up from the heather.
BANG!
The bird kept on flying—it was Prince Gunther who fell to the ground like a sack of stones.
Dropping his weapon, Devlin sprinted to where the prince lay writhing in pain. McClellan was already kneeling beside him, wrapping a handkerchief around the injured man’s bleeding hand.
“The gun misfired and the cartridge exploded inside the barrel, shattering the stock,” he explained. “The fellow is lucky. The wound isn’t too serious.” His glance went to the twisted metal and needle-sharp slivers of wood. “It could easily have been a good deal worse.”
“It’s just a scratch,” said the prince gamely, though his face was pale as a puff of gunsmoke. “If you will help me up…”
His three friends were already there, lifting him to his feet. A sling was fashioned, and with his good arm draped over Count Rupert’s shoulder, Prince Gunther was led to the path for the trek down to where the horses were waiting.
McClellan sent one of the beaters ahead to fetch a carriage from the castle, then began gathering the extra cartridge bag and the prince’s rucksack as the other hunters began to file off after the Germans.
Crouching down, Devlin made a closer examination of the wrecked fowling gun. “Birdshot does not normally have enough gunpowder to cause such an explosion.” As he spoke, he slanted a sidelong look at the baron, carefully watching to see what reaction his deliberately chosen words might provoke.
McClellan looked up slowly. It might have been naught but the shifting mist, but for a moment, it seemed that a spasm of emotion tightened his features. “I thought your expertise was in gambling and drinking, not ballistics.”
“In my innocent youth, I did a fair amount of shooting on my family’s estate.” Devlin tapped a finger to the bent trigger. “Enough to know that the cartridge had the wrong charge of powder.”
“Are you implying my cousin’s gunkeepers are incompetent?” asked McClellan sharply.
“I am merely making an observation based on my experience.”
A shrug. “In my experience, accidents like this one are not uncommon in hunting. My guess is that the cartridge simply jammed.”
“Perhaps.” But as a seasoned gamester, Devlin was not willing to wager any money on it.
“Have you heard?” said Caro, as Anna and their mother came into the drawing room. “Prince Gunther has been injured in a shooting accident.”
“Oh, dear, I hope it isn’t serious,” exclaimed the baroness. She angled a concerned look at Anna. “What a pity it would be if he had to withdraw from the party, just when he is showing a marked interest in you, my dear.”
“He is simply enjoying sharing his interest in books with me, Mama,” she replied. “You ought not read anything more meaningful into it.”
“That,” announced Lady Trumbull with a note of triumph, “is exactly what Olivia said about Wrexham. And see where turning those pages led.”
Anna knew the futility of arguing with their mother. Instead, she turned to her sister. “Have you any idea what happened?”
“Apparently his fowling gun misfired and the barrel exploded,” explained Caro. “I heard Lord McClellan tell Lady Dunbar that he could have been killed.”
“Oh, what a scandal that would have been for poor Miriam,” murmured the baroness.
Anna thought she detected a tiny tinge of regret. But perhaps it was only because her nerves were a little on edge from lack of sleep.
“It would have had far more serious repercussions for our government,” she pointed out. “With the all squabbling between our allies, the political situation in Eastern Europe is like a powder keg waiting to explode. The prince’s death could be just the spark to ignite terrible trouble in the region.”
“My dear, you really mustn’t voice your thoughts about politics,” chided their mother. “Men do not like ladies to have an opinion on such matters.”
“Indeed. We prefer them to been seen and not heard.” There was no danger of McClellan’s overloud voice going unnoticed. “Especially when they are a lovely ornament to the room, like one of the pretty little Staffordshire figurines that my cousin collects.”
“You think a lady should be as brainless as a lump of baked clay?” challenged Caro.
Lady Trumbull made a low warning sound in her throat.
“I think, milord, that you are deliberately trying to goad us into reacting to your words,” interjected Anna. “However, we are much too intelligent to dignify such a silly statement with any arguments.”