Page 95 of The Duelist for the Ton
Did she think he’d abandoned her? Most likely not, or her brother would have been at his doorstep yesterday calling him out.
Curse you, you bastard, for profiteering from my sister’s ruination, and keeping me from the woman I love.
The Farthing flinched again, and Stephen forced his lips into a cold smile. If he’d learned any lesson from Waterloo, it was that most battles were won or lost before the first blow was dealt—that an enemy who showed fear of their opponent, or doubt over their honor, or motives, was an enemy who, no matter the strength of his arms, could always be defeated by the exploitation of his weakness.
And the Farthing—even if his reputation as a superior marksman preceded him—was afraid.
Veryafraid.
“Come, come, old chap,” Sir Heath called. “I thought you a gentleman. At least behave like one.”
Stephen turned on the man. “You have the audacity to call outmybehavior after what you did to my sister?”
The Farthing let out a whimper. Surely the rogue wasn’t in possession of a conscience?
“That little chit!” Sir Heath scoffed. “Hardly more than a morsel for a man like me. She came to me willing—couldn’t get away from her big brother quickly enough. Mounted yourgarden wall to escape that dowdy widow of a chaperone, so that I could mount—”
“Stop right there!” Stephen roared. “Do not speak of my sister or, so help me God, I’ll shoot you dead, Farthing or no Farthing!”
“Oh,please!” Sir Heath said. “Do you really think I’d waste my efforts on a child fresh from the schoolroom, pretty enough though she may be? My tastes run torealwomen.”
“Yet you still saw fit to ruin her reputation.”
Sir Heath grinned. “A harmless little jape from an infatuated child. Your sister’s not the first—and she’ll not be the last. But you can trust me, old chap. I’ll not breathe a word of your sister’s…weakness for me. After all, it’s not a characteristic that sets her apart from other women.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Moss. No woman of any sense would deign to touch you—for one thing, she doesn’t know where you’ve been.”
“Inside Lady Francis, for one.”
Stephen wrinkled his nose.
“Had her as well, did you?” Sir Heath chuckled. “Still, she parts her thighs with little fuss at almost no expense. Think on that, a whore willing to offer her services for free.”
“You disgust me.”
“You’re hardly a monk, Reid. Word has it you were a favorite among the camp followers in the militia—fucked more females than Wellington’s prize stallion.”
Maybury approached, a polished wooden case in his hands. “Gentlemen, perhaps we should proceed before it gets too light. There will be time enough to trade insults at White’s over a brandy. What say I stand you both a round when we’re done?”
“You think I’d drink with a man such as you?” Stephen said.
Sir Heath smiled. “Not if my man sends you to your maker.” He gestured to the Farthing. “Choose your weapon.”
Maybury opened the box to reveal a pair of pistols nestled together on a velvet cushion, like lovers. The Farthing approached it and reached for one, then he hesitated and stepped back, gesturing toward Stephen.
“Most gallant, I’m sure,” Sir Heath said. “Very well—Reid, you have first choice.”
Stephen approached the box, met the Farthing’s gaze for a heartbeat, then reached for a pistol. The Farthing plucked the other one and held it in his hands, lifting it up and down as if to test the weight. Then he nodded.
“Excellent,” Maybury said. “Now, I think you both know what to do—or shall I explain it to you, Reid?”
“Just get on with it,” Stephen growled, suppressing the knot of fear swelling inside him at the prospect of his mind returning to the battlefield. But at least this morning, the enemy was a man he’d gladly rid the world of.
The Farthing approached, and they stood back to back. Then Maybury began to count—one, two, three…
Stephen’s palm grew slick as he gripped the pistol. The memory of the battle threatened to surface as he stepped forward, one pace for each count. The shadows stretching across the grass from the trees surrounding the park seemed to morph into the shapes of his fallen comrades, and the metallic stench of blood clung to the air.
“…ten!”
