Page 6 of The Duelist for the Ton
Sir Baldwin’s mouth fell open, then he shook his head. With a chuckle, the Farthing placed the spent pistol back in the box then turned and strode along the path, Gerard following. By the time they reached the gates leading out of Hyde Park, the sun had breached the horizon and warm rays stretched across the road.
It was going to be a hot day.
Chapter Two
As the turninginto St. James’s Street came into view, and with it White’s, the front door opened. A man stumbled out and landed in a heap on the pavement. Dressed in a bright-blue jacket that bore a tear in the right shoulder and a cravat loose about his neck, he carried the air of a gamester whose luck, and cash, had just been exhausted.
He lifted his head, his red-rimmed eyes focusing on the two figures approaching, then, with a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head again and soft snores filled the air.
Raucous laughter came from within the building—profligate males seeking refuge from overbearing fathers or discontented wives. No doubt they’d been spending the night, and either their allowance or their wives’ dowries, on liquor, gaming, and other, less acceptable forms of pleasure.
The Farthing and Gerard approached the fallen gentleman at the foot of the steps.
“Do you think we should help him, La—”
“Hush! You mustn’t use my name while we’re abroad, lest we’re overheard. People are wont to poke their noses in when one least expects—Gerard.”
“Forgive me—Mr. Farthing, sir. But the gentleman looks unwell.”
“I daresay that if we were to enter the building we’d find twenty such men in the clubroom with an equally green pallorand bearing the same stench of sour brandy. And I’d question the label ofgentleman, given his identity. Unless I’m mistaken, the man at our feet is the Duke of Dunton.”
“I wonder who stood his drinks account this time?”
“Someone wishing to ingratiate himself with a duke—who’s also willing to hold his nose to bear the company ofthisparticular duke.”
Dunton stirred and opened a single, liquor-glazed eye, before letting out a groan and closing it again.
“Bless me!” a voice said. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s the infamous Farthing!”
A man stood in the doorway—handsome enough, with blond hair and startlingly pale blue eyes. But the appearance of an angel belied the blackened heart within.
“Sir Heath Moss.”
The man bowed and descended the stairs toward the prone figure of the duke. “At your service, Mr. Farthing,” he said. “Or perhaps I should say atmyservice, given the fortune you’ve made out of me. What are you up to at this hour? Or perhaps there’s no cause to ask. Given that you’re walking away from Hyde Park shortly after dawn, even those most lacking in wit could deduce what you’re about.”
“That’s fortunate foryou, Sir Heath,” the Farthing said.
Sir Heath frowned and tilted his head to one side. “I don’t understand your meaning.”
“Exactly.” The Farthing gestured toward Dunton. “I take it this…creatureis with you?”
“His Grace and I are friends, yes.”
“Friends! I’d question your idea of friendship, Sir Heath.”
“It’s a mutually convenient relationship with an acquaintance.”
“Where your ready cash settles his gaming debts, which, in turn, makes him indebted to you.”
“You also have a fondness for my ready cash, Mr. Farthing. Four hundred pounds is your tally to date, unless I’m mistaken. Does that make us friends?”
“Payment for services rendered, Sir Heath,” the Farthing said. “Where cash is exchanged, the relationship is one of business or coercion. But never friendship.”
“Tut-tut, Mr. Farthing, sir. If we were all to take that attitude, it would paint a rather sorry portrait of London Society, would it not?”
“Which is rather my point.”
Sir Heath narrowed his eyes. “You speak as if you’re well acquainted with Society. Do you live hereabouts—on St. James’s Street, perhaps?”
