Page 128 of Doxy for the Ton
“I’m of a mind to spend a little less. How about thirty? What does your master say to that?”
Wordlessly, the Farthing retreated toward the carriage.
“Stop!” Mayhew cried, but the Farthing ignored him.
Alexander let out a chuckle. “Why don’t you stamp your foot?”
Mayhew rounded on him, teeth bared. “Fine words for a dead man,” he snarled. “All right! Fifty it is.”
He drew a sheaf of notes from his pocket and handed them to the manservant, who made a show of counting them. He nodded, and the Farthing returned and picked up the remaining weapon. He held it as if it were an extension of his arm, then, with his free hand, caressed the barrel before aiming it toward the trees.
Alexander’s blood froze. The man’s arm barely moved—not a tremor nor a shake.
“A farthing at fifty paces,” he breathed. “Sweet Lord!”
“That’s just a rumor,” Foxton said.
“Rumors are founded on truth,” Alexander said. “Look at him! With a grip that steady, he cannot fail to miss. I’ll only be twenty paces from him, and my heart’s a considerably larger target than a farthing.”
“Then you must shoot him first.”
“That’s the point,” Alexander replied. “I don’t want to shoothim.”
The Farthing lowered his arm and glanced over at Alexander.
“Might I know my opponent’s identity?” Alexander asked.
“You may not,” the servant said.
How young was he? Both the Farthing and his manservant seemed like boys. The latter had the thin, reedy voice of an adolescent.
A little like Mimi’s footman…
No, surely it wasn’t Charles—not when he’d pledged to remain at the house and take care of Mimi.
But I made that same pledge this very evening.
“Come along!” Sir Heath snapped. “Like you said, there’s no time to lose. Stand back against each other. Walk forward one pace as I count and, on the count of ten, you’re at liberty to fire.”
“I know how it’s done,” Alexander growled.
He approached the Farthing and issued a mock bow. The two stood back to back for a heartbeat, then Sir Heath began to count.
“One, two, three…”
Alexander’s palms grew slick, and he tightened his grip on the pistol, holding the barrel with his free hand to quell the tremors in his arm, focused on placing one foot before the other.
Perhaps he might fire at Mayhew. But no—if he did that, the Farthing would shoot him dead.
“Nine…ten!”
Alexander paused, his ears ringing.
Ten…
Shit!
He whirled around and lifted his arm.
