Page 1 of The Duelist for the Ton
Chapter One
Hyde Park, London
The dawn lightstretched across the landscape, picking out the familiar shapes to be found in the park—the marble angel that bore a perpetual expression of weariness, the line of trees following the edge of the Serpentine…
And four men standing in a clearing—two combatants, and their seconds.
Through the mask, the newcomer could make out the duelists facing each other—two silhouettes against the backdrop of the water’s surface that shimmered in the growing light.
Two pathetic, cowardly silhouettes who, like the rest of their sex, believe that their virility is measured by the number of women they seduce.
Or today, by how many of their fellow members of White’s they shot at dawn.
To think—the world is run by such imbeciles.
The taller of the two raised his hand in greeting.
“About bloody time!” he said, his voice identifying him as the Honorable—or perhapsnotso honorable—Ambrose Cholmondeley-Walker. “Dawn broke fifteen minutes ago.”
“Hush!” his companion whispered. “Do you want every deuced runner in Town bearing witness?”
“There’s nobody about, Manby-Bresswell,” the first man said.
Ah—so it’s Sir Baldwin Manby-Bresswell you wish me to put a hole in.
Manby-Bresswell turned.
Yes, I’d recognize that face anywhere—with its porcine features and close-set eyes reminiscent of an overfed boar.
“Something amusing?” Manby-Bresswell said, his voice tinged with a sneer.
“Most definitely,” the newcomer said.
“And who are you to impose upon a private meeting at this hour?”
Sweet lord, Manby-Bresswell, you’re the stupidest man to walk upon the earth.
Which was something of note, given that the entire male sex presented him with such strong competition for the title.
“I beg pardon, did you say something, Mr.…?” Manby-Bresswell began.
“This gentleman is welcome to join our little party,” Cholmondeley-Walker interrupted. “Tell me, man, do you delight in arriving late—or perhaps reneging on our contract?”
Man?Oh, if only he knew.
“Of course not, sir. My clients pay me only when I make an appearance—which guarantees my attendance.”
Manby-Bresswell drew in a sharp breath.
“Fuck it, Ambrose, old chap—you’ve not hiredthe Farthing, have you?”
Cholmondeley-Walker let out a chuckle. “Beat you to it, did I, old chap?” He issued a bow.
“Welcome, Farthing, and your companion?”
“My manservant, Gerard.”
“You’re both welcome,” Cholmondeley-Walker said. “I trust your aim will be true this morning.”
