Dermott smiled. George Harley was blustery, always sure of himself regardless whether he was right or not. But more important, he was an old friend and a crack shot.
'He won't be far ahead. I told Jem to make all speed and Devon doesn't like to press his grays. Charles, did you bring the brandy?'
'Yes, sir. And a clean shirt, if you wish.'
Dermott laughed. 'Do you think I need one?' His valet always saw to his linen with a particularly discerning eye.
'That would be for you to say, my lord, but you
'Lonsdale will probably hie himself from some stew.'
'While you, sir, will have on clean linen.'
Dermott began shrugging out of his coat at such pointed comment. Although he said 'I'll keep that' when Charles was about to take his discarded shirt from him. He shoved the wrinkled garment into a corner of his seat, not wishing to relinquish it when it smelled of Isabella's perfume. In short order he was dressed in a fresh shirt and well-tied neckcloth. Charles had also brought water so Dermott could wash his face and hands, although the earl hesitated briefly before washing his hands. The scent of Isabella still lingered on his fingers.
But in the end his regret didn't prevail over Charles's sense of good grooming. And once he was offered his cologne after washing, that fragrance soon pervaded the interior of the carriage.
When the earl alighted from the carriage at Morgan's field, he was as well turned out as his valet could manage under rough conditions. A faint fog swirled over the open field, the sun not yet risen to burn it away. And Dermott's boot struck spongy turf when he stepped to the ground.
The other carriages were waiting. Devon sat in the open door of his town coach, talking to the doctor. A group of men stood together near one of the other carriages, Lonsdale's blond head visible in their midst.
Morgan's field was advantageously located near the City but not so near that unwanted spectators were likely to appear. The grassy field, surrounded by a heavy stand of sturdy English oaks, afforded the necessary seclusion. The trees also served to muffle the sound of gunshots, while Lamb's Inn was conveniently at hand just past the line of oaks, should any injured party require a bed or makeshift operating table.
Everyone's gaze turned to Dermott as he strolled toward Lord Devon, Shelby following with his case of dueling pistols, Charles last, carrying his brandy flask.
Dermott breathed deeply of the cool morning air, wanting to clear his head of the previous night, of memory and morbid musing, of any distraction that would interfere with his concentration.
Devon was in a cheerful mood as he greeted Dermott. With his friend celebrated for his skills on the dueling field, Lord Devon didn't expect any problems. The men shook hands; Dermott spoke briefly with the doctor and then turned to Charles for his brandy. He drank deeply out of habit before turning his attention to Lonsdale, who was already in his shirt-sleeves, loading his pistols.
It seemed to be time.
Neither he nor Lonsdale were novices. They'd both been here before.
The seconds met, agreed on the rules of engagement, and returned to their respective sides.
'Lonsdale's half drunk, Ram,' Devon offered. 'But still dangerous, I imagine, or perhaps more dangerous. They wanted two shots at six paces; we agreed on two shots at twelve. Six paces is too damned close. And Lonsdale's not to be trusted.'
Dermott handed his coat to Charles. 'I already know that. I'm here today to put an end to his untrustworthy soul.'
George Harley hadn't heard that icy tone before. 'You're serious about this?'
'I'm always serious when I put my life at risk.' Dermott began rolling up his shirt-sleeves.
'You're going to kill him?' First blood was often enough for satisfaction.
Dermott signaled for his pistols. 'That's my intent, as I'm sure it's his.'
'No doubt,' Lord Devon said with a sigh, understanding there was more to this than a lady's reputation. 'Well, bloody good luck, Ram, although you're not apt to need it. Do you want me to load your pistols?'
Dermott smiled. 'No thanks. I prefer doing it myself.' [9]
His revolving-cylinder firearm design had been perfected by the best English gunsmiths over the last decades, and the two-shot pistols he and Lonsdale had were popular on the dueling field. After checking the loaded cylinders one last time, he handed one weapon to Devon, and taking the other, lifted his hand casually in adieu and walked to the middle of the field.
He and Lonsdale were supposed to exchange courtesies, but neither man was capable of such deceit, and with a nod to each other they took their positions back-to-back and waited for the signal to advance.
It was nearly light now, the mist had begun to fade, the color of the turf altering from gray to green as the sun crept over the horizon.
Twelve paces, Dermott silently rehearsed, lifting his hand slightly to test the weight of his pistol. He had a hair-trigger Manton weapon, and his finger rested on the trigger with great delicacy. Walk, turn, shoot. He ran the sequence through his mind. His nerves were sharp, clear, untroubled by anxiety. Emotion had no place on the dueling field.
The protagonists were given a verbal signal to advance, and both men moved forward. One of the surgeons counted the paces in a loud voice, Dermott silently echoing the words. Eight, nine, ten… He began lifting his pistol, ready to turn on twelve.
The first shot slammed into his back, the second shattered his ribs as he spun around, the impact of shot and powder at such close range dropping him to his knees. Through an agonizing roar of pain, Dermott caught a glimpse of Lonsdale's smiling face.
Astonishment and fury flared through his brain. Fucking coward shot early! A spasm of crushing pain jolted through his side, almost doubling him over, and he hung there, panting, trying to focus his senses and sight. He could hear a tumult of sound-shouts, commands, angry oaths drifting in and out of his consciousness. And suddenly through the racking anguish and distant noise, Devon's face appeared only inches away. He looked frightened. Dermott tried to reconcile that oddity in the confusion of pain and curious liquid warmth seeping through his shirt. And his knees were getting wet from the damp ground, he incongruously thought. Charles was sure to object to the stains.
'We have to get you away,' Devon grunted, trying to lift Dermott.
Devon's hands on him brought him to full attention. 'Not done yet,' Dermott fiercely whispered, blinking to clear his vision. 'Give me a hand.' He gritted his teeth. 'And then stand back.' With Devon's help he struggled to his feet, calling on his last reserves of energy, blood gushing from his wounds. He wavered unsteadily for a moment and then with superhuman effort braced his legs wide.
Lonsdale's triumphant expression had turned to horror as Dermott came to his feet. His pistol was empty and Bathurst still had two unfired shots. He fell to his knees, faced with certain death, terror stricken, and raising his hands in entreaty, he pleaded, 'Don't shoot me in cold blood. Bathurst… please-I beg of you-be merciful. My pistol misfired. I swear! It wasn't intentional-as God is my witness!'
It wasn't immediately apparent whether Dermott had heard, whether he was even capable of understanding anymore, until everyone watched him turn his head very slightly toward Devon. 'Give him a pistol,' he ordered, his voice audible only because of the horrified silence.
'Don't, Ram,' Devon cried, appalled at the amount of blood pouring from Dermott's wounds, wanting to take him from the field. 'He didn't give you a chance. Shoot him!'
'Hurry,' Dermott whispered, hanging on to consciousness by sheer will, commanding himself to remain upright a few minutes more.
A hush had fallen over the field.
Devon ran to Lonsdale's second, ripped the pistol from his hand, raced back to the marquis, and handed it to him with an oath.
Instantly a predator again now that he was armed, Lonsdale leaped to his feet, whipped the pistol up, sighted in on his wounded opponent, and fired.
Two shots rang out.
And both men fell to the ground.
Dermott's party ran to him. Dropping to his knees, the doctor quickly checked for a pulse and then crisply gave
