Page 133 of The Duelist for the Ton
Foxton winced, then wrinkled his nose. “There is no child,” he said. “The only family my sister has is the brother who’d kill to protect her.”
“You lie.”
Foxton laughed. “I’ve no need to lie to a man such as you.” He lifted his hand to his cheek, which was covered in an angry red mark.
Stephen shook his hand to dispel the pain, then approached Foxton, extending his other hand, but it was slapped away. “Foxton, I—”
“Don’t touch me, you dog!” the duke snarled, struggling to his feet. Then he slipped and fell back. “Bugger!”
He reached inside his jacket and drew out a pistol, and Stephen froze, tightening in fear as his gaze was drawn to the muzzle of the weapon—a perfect circle at the end of the barrel, pointed at his heart.
Foxton moved his thumb and cocked the pistol with a crisp click.
“Make no sound, Reid,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper so quiet, it was almost as if he had crawled into Stephen’s mind. “Go,” he continued, his voice cold and even. “You have until the count of ten to leave my house, or I’ll shoot you dead. That’s how long you gave my sister, was it not?” He tilted his head up. “Reeve!”
Footsteps approached, and the butler appeared, his eyes only widening a little, as if his master prone on the floor aiming his pistol at a guest was a regular occurrence.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Show this…personout. Make sure he never returns.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” The butler turned to Stephen and raised his eyebrows. “If you please, sir.”
“But—” Stephen began.
“One,” Foxton said.
“I—”
“Two!”
Raising his hands, Stephen retreated while Foxton rose to his feet, counting steadily. On the count of five, Stephen reached the doors. Foxton uncocked the pistol then retreated deeper into the house, leaving Stephen with the butler.
“Reeve, I think—”
“You heard the master, sir. You’re to leave immediately.”
“But the child…”
The butler raised an eyebrow again, then tilted his head to one side. “I can assure you that there is no child.” He reached for Stephen’s collar, and Stephen slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Then please go, as my master directed,” Reeve said. “He’s given me leave to toss you out on the street like the ruffian you are.”
Stephen retreated, and as soon as he’d stepped over the threshold, the door slammed. His foot caught in the door as it closed, and he fell back, tumbling onto the pavement.
Footsteps approached, followed by a familiar laugh. Stephen’s stomach churned as he turned to face the man he loathed above all others sauntering toward him, cane in hand, tap-tapping on the pavement.
The man tipped his hat, then regarded Stephen with his pale-blue eyes, the sun catching his hair to form a soft halo around his handsome face. To those who cared only for outward appearances, he was the epitome of an angel.
“Well, well, what’s this? A soldier grubbing in the dirt?”
“What do you want, Sir Heath?” Stephen said.
“Very little, thanks to Foxton,” Sir Heath replied, glancing toward the doors through which Stephen had just been evicted. Then he lowered his gaze to Stephen’s hand and laughed. “I see your tendency to assault your betters has not abated, even though you’ve taken to using your fists rather than a pistol.”
Stephen glanced at his hand and caught sight of the broken skin around the knuckles.
