Page 49 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"I'm afraid you'll find your shilling wasted," Rob muttered in return, before pushing his way to the centre of the courtyard to address the two men.
"Lord Michaels, Lord Cavendish," he called, as both men took their places, "I beg you to rethink. If either of you feel slighted, you might find your satisfaction in me. I will gladly accept whatever blows you parry, but I beg you, please do not draw your weapons."
"Get 'im off," a voice roared, and Rob was dragged bodily away by irritable drunks, who were braying for blood.
As Rob fretted, the two seconds inspected the weapons which were to be used, before handing them back to the duellists .
"Shall we say first blood?" Benjamin suggested brightly, as though they were at tea rather than in a seedy courtyard.
"To the death," Cavendish replied, though thankfully his suggestion was shouted down by the crowd and, more importantly, the owner of Crockford's.
"I have no wish to explain to the law why you two idiots decided to blow each other's brains out in front of my establishment," William Crockford snarled, and, as he was one of London's more notorious criminals, with a slew of murders under his belt, few found reason to argue.
"First blood it is," Benjamin said with relief, before taking up his position on the side-line.
Michaels and Cavendish turned their backs to each other, waiting for Crockford's count.
"Three, two, one," the gaming-hell proprietor counted in a bored tone, and on one, both Cavendish and Michaels turned.
Cavendish shot first, missing Michaels by a country mile. His bullet smashed through a pane glass window, sending glass flying onto the crowd below.
Lord Michaels then took his turn and Rob prayed that he would miss.
For a moment after the pistol shot rang through the courtyard, it appeared he had, but then Cavendish slumped to the floor.
"'E's dead," a voice called out, and the crowd swiftly dissipated.
Robert rushed forward, his heart hammering in his ears. Cavendish could not be dead; if he was, then Robert's hope s for a happy union with Julia were also doomed to an early grave.
He crouched down beside Cavendish and saw he was bleeding profusely from a wound in his arm.
"Someone fetch a doctor," Robert snarled, as he tore off his jacket and tried to staunch the bleeding.
"Will he be alright?"
It was Michaels, his face pale, his bravado vanished.
"I think it is just a flesh wound," Robert assured him, "But for heaven's sake, do not linger to find out. I shall attend to this dolt; you must go before someone calls for the law."
Michaels nodded and did as told, and Robert was left alone with Cavendish and his second, who had turned into a blubbering mess at the sight of all the blood.
"Duelling is illegal," was the first thing the physician said, when he finally arrived a good half-hour later.
"It was not I who shot him," Robert snapped back.
"That's what they all say. Luckily, I am a man of medicine and not the law. Stand aside, sir, I will attend to this fellow."
Robert obeyed, letting go of the coat he had held against Cavendish's wound so that the doctor might examine it.
The physician clucked like a hen for a few minutes, as he poked and prodded, before finally giving a satisfied sigh.
"A mere flesh wound," he declared, "The bullet simply grazed him. I assume he has consumed a large quantity of alcohol; it thins the blood and makes everything appear worse than it is. I have a buggy outside. Come, you can both lift him for me."
Robert and the second—whose name he did not know, nor care to know—lifted Cavendish at either end and brought him to the doctor's gig. There, with some difficulty, they hauled him up inside, and both men boarded the vehicle to assist on the short journey home.
"St James' Square," Robert instructed.
"Quelle suprise," the doctor mumbled under his breath, before urging his two bay geldings into a trot.
