dull echoes of sound muffled by distance and the acrid fog that, even here, hugged the open ground and shrouded the bare, reaching branches of the stand of elms that grew at the edge of the field. Dawn had come, but it brought little warmth or light. Sebastian Alistair St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, only surviving son and heir to the Earl of Hendon, propped his shoulders against the high side of his curricle, crossed his arms at his chest, and thought about his bed.
It had been a long night, a night of brandy fumes and cigar smoke, of faro and vingt-et-un and a promise made to a sad-eyed woman—a promise that he would not kill, however much the man he had come here to meet might deserve killing. Sebastian tipped back his head and closed his eyes. He could hear the sweet call of a lark at the far end of the field and, nearer, the steady swish, swish of wet grass as his second, Sir Christopher Farrell, paced back and forth in the roadside’s verge. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped.
“Maybe he won’t show,” said Sir Christopher.
Sebastian kept his eyes closed. “He’ll show.”
The pacing resumed. Back and forth, boot heels squelching in the damp earth.
“If you’re not careful,” said Sebastian, “you’re going to get mud on your boots.”
“To hell with my boots. Are you certain Talbot is bringing a doctor? How good of a doctor? Maybe we should have brought our own doctor.”
Sebastian lowered his head and opened his eyes. “I don’t intend to get shot.”
Sir Christopher swung about, his fair hair curling wildly in the damp mist, his normally soft gray eyes dilated. “Right. Well, that’s reassuring. Doubtless Lord Firth had every intention of not getting shot when he stood up against Maynard last month. Pity, of course, that the bullet went through his neck.”
Sebastian smiled.
“I’m delighted to see I’m amusing you. This is another of those advantages of having gone to war, is it? Staring with calm disdain into the face of death? Ranks right up there with being rendered irresistibly fascinating to members of the fair sex.”
Sebastian laughed out loud.
Christopher smiled himself, then resumed his silent pacing, a slim, flawlessly tailored figure in buckskins and high-gloss top boots and well-laundered linen. After another moment, he said, “I still don’t understand why you didn’t choose swords. Less chance of someone accidentally getting killed with swords.” Lifting his left arm in a fencer’s pose, he pantomimed a quick thrust against the cold, misty air. “A neat little pink through the shoulder, a bloody scratch on the arm, and honor is satisfied.”
“Talbot intends to kill me.”
Christopher let his arms fall to his sides. “So you’re just going to stand there and let him take a shot at you?”
“Talbot couldn’t hit a ship of the line at twenty-five paces.” Sebastian yawned. “I’m surprised he chose it.” It was the Code Duello: as the challenged party, Sebastian selected the weapons. But the choice of distance then fell to the challenger.
Christopher scrubbed an open hand across his face. “I’ve heard rumors—”
“Here he comes,” said Sebastian. Straightening, he swung off his driving coat and slung it over the high seat of the curricle.
Christopher turned to stare into the opaque distance. “Bloody hell. Even you can’t see in this fog.”
“No. But I have ears.”
“So do I. And I don’t hear a thing. I swear, Sebastian, you must be part bat. It’s unnatural.”
A minute or two later, a carriage appeared out of the gloom, a pair of showy blacks pulling a high-perch phaeton containing two men and followed at a discreet distance by a simple gig. The doctor.
A tall, lanky man with straight, thinning brown hair and an aquiline nose jumped down from the phaeton’s high seat. Across the mist-blown field, Captain John Talbot’s gaze met and held Sebastian’s for one long moment. Then he turned away to strip off his coat and gloves.
“Right then,” called the captain’s second, a mustachioed military man who clapped his hands together in a false show of heartiness. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”
“Those rumors I mentioned?” Christopher said in an undertone as he and Sebastian moved forward. “They say the last time Talbot fought a duel, he chose twenty-five paces, then turned and fired after twelve. Killed the man. Of course, Talbot and his second swore the distance had been settled at twelve paces all along.”
“And his rival’s second?”
“Shut up about it when Talbot threatened to call
Sebastian gave his friend a slow smile. “Then if Talbot should have occasion to call you out for a similar reason, I suggest you choose swords.”
“You’ve the pistols?” said Talbot’s second, as Sir Christopher walked up to him.
A brace of pistols in a blue velvet-lined walnut box was produced, inspected, and loaded by the seconds. Talbot made his choice. Sebastian took the other pistol in his hand, felt the cool, familiar weight against his palm, the deadly hardness of steel against his curled finger.
“Ready, gentlemen?”
Back-to-back they stood, then began to walk, each step measured to the steady drone of the counted paces.
“One, two . . .”
The doctor ostentatiously turned his back, but Christopher stood his ground, his eyes narrowed and watchful, his face pale, anxious. Sebastian knew his friend wasn’t only worried about Talbot’s intentions, that Christopher had other misgivings. Christopher didn’t understand that there was a fine line between seeking death and being indifferent to its occurrence. A line Sebastian had yet to cross.
“. . . three, four . . .”
He had an unexpected memory, of a misty summer morning long ago, on a grassy slope near the Hall, when his two older brothers had still been alive, and his mother. The air had smelled of the fresh scones they’d brought for tea, and ferns, and the restless sea beating against the rocks in the cove far below. They’d played Drakes-and- Dragons that morning, the four of them, counting out the movements “. . . five, six . . .” as they wove in and out, even his mother, her head thrown back, laughing, the strengthening sun bright on her golden hair. Only his sister, Amanda, had sat aloof, as she always did. Aloof and disapproving and angry for reasons Sebastian never quite understood.
“. . . eight, nine . . .”
The metal of the pistol’s trigger felt cold and solid against Sebastian’s finger, the wind-swirled mist damp against his cheeks. He forced himself to focus on this moment, this place. The lark called again, from nearer the base of the hill. He could hear the gurgle of a distant stream, the clip-clop of a horse, ridden at a slow trot up the road.
“. . . ten, eleven . . .”
It was the hesitation in the other man’s stride between the tenth and eleventh count that warned him. That, and the whisper of cloth rubbing against cloth as Talbot turned.
“. . . twelve—”
Sebastian spun about and dropped into a crouch at the precise moment that John Talbot fired, so that the bullet intended for Sebastian’s heart grazed his forehead instead. Then, gun empty and dangling slack in his hand, Talbot had no choice but to stand, body turned sideways, jaw clenched tight, nostrils flaring with each indrawn breath as he waited for Sebastian’s shot.
Calmly, purposefully, Sebastian raised his pistol, took aim, and fired. Captain Talbot let out a sharp cry and pitched forward.
The doctor scrambled out of the gig and ran toward him.
“Bloody hell, Sebastian,” said Christopher. “You’ve killed him.”
“Hardly.” Sebastian let the pistol fall to his side. “But I imagine he’ll find it damned uncomfortable to sit down for a while.”
“I say, I say, I say,” blustered Talbot’s second, his mustache working back and forth. “Most ungentlemanly conduct, this. Englishmen stand and fire weapons
