Kathryn Caskie Read Free

the missing bonnet.
Gone.
    He patted his head tentatively, wondering if perhaps he’d hit it when the falcon clipped him and he’d fallen—for surely he’d been dreaming.
    That was the only possible explanation he could muster, for nothing so outlandish as what had occurred during the past quarter of an hour could have happened to
him.
    Life in lower Cornwall just didn’t work that way.
    Three days later
    Lord Devonsfield and his man of affairs did not knock or even call out their arrival at the home of the St. Albans brothers. There wasn’t time enough for that. The earl’s hold on this earth was short, and trifling with manners was merely a waste of what few moments he had left.
    Smoke trailed up into the cloudless azure sky through the tiny cottage’s stone chimney. His heir was at home, or at least someone was, so the earl opened the flimsy plank door, and he and his man stepped inside—to face the barrel end of a hunting rifle.
    The earl stared at the two young men before him, who, at first glance, appeared identical in every way . . . save their mode of dress perhaps. They both stood well over six feet and, unlike the earl, their heads were topped with an abundance of slightly curly sable hair.
    He supposed their eyes could be called hazel, but in truth they were mostly green, with a flickering of dark amber encircling the pupil. Their shoulders were broad and they had good, strong, square jaws, with a divot in the chin, the sort the ladies so seemed to fancy. Damned if they weren’t a pair of the handsomest men he’d ever seen. This pleased the earl on more than one level.
    He eyed the one who pressed the rifle, painfully he might add, to his forehead. Now
that
twin had courage, gumption. And, now that the earl had a moment to reflect (for there was no way he was going to make a move with a rifle to his head—he’d leave that to Pinkerton), this twin had a sportsman’s build. He was quite strong, his arms well muscled, as though he spent a goodly amount of time studying pugilism, as the earl’s own eldest son, God rest his soul, had.
    The earl smiled broadly. Yes, his initial impression told him that this twin would make a brilliant heir.
    “Sir, I would not be so quick with a grin when my brother has a rifle trained upon your head,” said the strikingly handsome but less-muscular twin. “He can take down a bird in flight without effort, so I daresay, he would have no difficulty bagging an intruder at such close range.”
    The earl lifted an eyebrow. Such a sassy mouth this twin had. Denoted a clever mind. Unlike the other, this man’s hands were smooth and his fingernails clean. His clothing was perfectly pressed, and damned if there wasn’t something the least bit aristocratic about his stance.
Hmm. Not a bad option either.
    Pinkerton, the bloody coward—for his hands shot into the air the minute he saw the rifle—finally spoke up. “My dear sirs, this gentleman means you no harm . . . nor do I.”
    Neither twin said a word, didn’t move a muscle.
    “Er . . . may I . . . lower my hands, young man?” he continued.
    The twin with the rifle nodded slowly.
    “And . . . uh . . . might you also deign to lower the weapon? We are unarmed, and as you can see, we are hardly in the first bloom of our youth . . . as the both of you are. Even if we wished to challenge you, you could easily subdue us in mere seconds.”
    The twin paused a moment, then lifted the barrel of the rifle from the earl’s forehead. Lord Devonsfield clapped his hand to his brow and felt the ringed indention left behind.
    “Fine way to treat your father’s cousin,” he snapped.
    “You are our father’s cousin?”
    The earl turned to see the more refined of the bookend pair of men studying his clothing.
    “I am.” The earl straightened his spine.
    Pinkerton cleared his throat. “May I present the Earl of Devonsfield.”
    The twins exchanged confused glances before returning their attention to the earl. Then, as if on cue,