Page 97 of The Duelist for the Ton
“Bloody hell, you’ve killed him!” Maybury cried.
“Bugger,” Sir Heath said. “Mind you, the fellow had declared that this was to be his last duel. Perhaps he expected this, eh?”
“Is that all you can say?” Maybury said. “The least you can do is fetch a doctor.”
“That’s what his manservant is for—Gerard, is it?”
The second shape looked up. “My mis—my master’s alive. He’s…”
A deep groan came from the prone form.
“There!” Sir Heath said. “He lives to fight again.” He strode over to the two forms and fished a wad of notes out of his pocket. “Payment for services rendered.”
“Aren’t you going to help the fellow?” Maybury said.
“I’ve discharged my obligation by paying him. One hundred pounds, I’ll have you know. If he was determined to get greedy and double his price, then he can afford a doctor.”
“Perhaps I ought—”
“Maybury, you should return to that wife of yours. You never know who might have slid into her bed the moment you left it.”
Maybury let out a laugh, and the two of them sauntered off. No doubt they’d be toasting each other at White’s that morning. As for the creature who’d been in their employ…
Stephen approached the Farthing’s prone form.
“You fool,” he said.
The Farthing stirred, and Stephen let out a sigh of relief. At least he’d not killed the fellow—even if he loathed him.
The manservant glanced up at him and spoke in a light, boyish voice. “Sir, please help us.”
“Help yourself,” Stephen replied. “That’s what you’ve been doing, is it not? And do not cross my path again. You survived today, but next time you see me, you’ll not be so lucky.”
He reached for the Farthing’s mask, and the man let out a groan. Then he hesitated.
“No,” he said. “Best that I never discover who you are. If I do, I’ll end your life with my bare hands when next I see you. But I pray, with my whole soul, that you rot in hell.”
Suppressing a flicker of remorse, he turned his back on his fallen opponent and strode out of the park.
Chapter Twenty-One
Pain flooded Portia’ssenses, as if she were being ripped apart. Gritting her teeth to stem the scream, she tried to lift her head and caught a glimpse of Stephen’s booted feet disappearing as he strode away from her without even a backward glance.
“Don’t try to move,” Nerissa whispered. “You’ve been shot.”
“Ner—”
“Hush!”
Portia reached up, and a spike of agony tore through her arm.
“Keep still,please! I must stop the bleeding before I move you.” Nerissa lifted her head and called to the retreating figure. “Colonel Reid!Pleasehelp us!”
But his footsteps continued to crunch on the gravel path as he walked away.
“No!” Portia cried, her voice tight. “He m-mustn’t know…”
“Would you rather die than have him discover your identity?”
