Page 96 of The Duelist for the Ton
He turned, the sounds of battle ringing in his ears, and cocked his weapon. His opponent stood, arm down, weapon in hand, body shaking.
Was this really the infamous Farthing, whose deadly accuracy was born of a cold detachment, a man rumored to have no soul? Or was the shivering creature before him an imposter?
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a white handkerchief fluttering to the ground, and slowly, he raised his arm, leveling his aim at the man before him.
But still, the Farthing made no move.
“For fuck’s sake, man!” Sir Heath cried. “Get on with it! I’m paying you enough, aren’t I? Bloody hell, I should have shagged her—then I’d at least have got my money’s worth.”
“How dare you!” Stephen cried. “She’s worth twenty of you.”
“She’s a child,” Sir Heath scoffed. “Take my advice, Reid—put her on leading strings until she turns into a woman.”
“You wouldn’t know a real woman if she bit you on the arse,” Stephen snarled.
“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. Take the delectable Lady Portia. She’s—”
Rage boiled in Stephen’s gut. “Donotspeak her name!” he roared.
“Aha! So you’ve been sniffing round Foxton’s sister?” Sir Heath taunted him. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you—her brother chases off all the dogs, even if she’s like a bitch in heat.”
Stephen’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the pistol. “Do not speak of Portia—”
“Portiais it?” Sir Heath said. “Such familiarity. Don’t say you managed to slink past her gaoler of a brother and mount her? How does it feel to know that I got there first?”
A squeal came from across the lawn, and the Farthing’s manservant moved toward his master. Foolish fellow—didn’t he know he was stepping right into the line of fire?
“Hush!” Stephen yelled.
But the Farthing let out another whimper, his trembling becoming more violent.
“Moss, you lie,” Stephen said. “Perhaps I ought to expose you at White’s for peddling falsehoods about respectable women.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” Sir Heath said. “Unless…” He threw back his head. “Of course!” he cried. “You’vefucked her, haven’t you?”
“Damn you, Moss!” Stephen’s arm shook as he tried to temper the rage swelling in his gut, rising like a boiling, raging wave.
“Oh ho—that’s better than anything I might say in relation to your sister,” Sir Heath said. “To think, the strait-laced Lady Portia, who I always thought had a frost between her legs, has been stoking a fire for the gallant colonel! Bloody hell, I’ll lose ten guineas in my wager with De Blanchard, but it’s worth it to know that Foxton’s sister is a much of a whore as any other—”
The wave broke, and Stephen pulled the trigger, the instinct to destroy his enemy burning in his soul.
The sharp crack filled the air, followed by a puff of acrid blue smoke. Stephen’s arm jerked upward with the recoil, and he bit his lip to stem the image of battered, broken bodies in the ground.
Damn you, Moss, for making me do this.
And damn the Farthing.
He closed his eyes, willing the image to recede, welcoming the blackness. His heart thudded against his chest, and he focused on the solid ground beneath his feet.
What had she once told him?
Focus on the world around you, Stephen—the real world. Then you can retreat from the battle in your mind and return to me.
He drew in a deep breath, counting to three, then exhaled slowly, picturing the battlefield melting into nothingness as he emptied his lungs.
“Oh, shit,” a voice said.
The battlefield had almost receded, and as Stephen opened his eyes, only one lifeless form remained, on the grass, twentypaces in front of him. He closed his eyes, willing the shape to disappear, but when he opened them again, there were now two forms—a second shape, bending over the other.
