27. The Dreaded Duel
Twenty Seven
The Dreaded Duel
T he morning mist clung to Hampstead Heath in thick sheets, turning the world colorless and cold as Mr. Moore stood at the edge of the clearing, his dark coat buttoned against the chill, watching Dr. Hammond conferring with Lord Ramsay’s second near the center of the field.
The grass beneath his boots was soaked with dew, still damp in the dim light of dawn.
Perry stood beside him, solid and steady, his presence a loyal reassurance.
The viscount had arrived at the Sullivan house before first light, his carriage waiting in the street as Mr. Moore descended the front steps.
They’d ridden here in silence, both understanding that words would do nothing to ease the tension of the day.
Across the field, Lord Ramsay paced, his nervous energy evident even at this distance. His gaze sought out his opponent insistently, as if he wished to strike him down with his eyes alone.
“The doctor will officiate,” Perry said to Mr. Moore, his breath visible in the cold air. “Standard rules. Twenty paces, back to back. You’ll walk on his count, turn on his command, fire at will.”
Mr. Moore nodded, his throat too tight for speech. His right hand flexed at his side, remembering the weight of the pistol, the kick of recoil, the way the target had looked through iron sights yesterday afternoon.
High right shoulder. Disabling but not fatal.
He’d practiced until his arm ached, until Perry had finally called a halt and declared him ready.
But ready felt like a foreign concept now, standing here in the gray dawn, with Ramsay pacing like a wolf across the field.
Dr. Hammond approached them, his medical bag in one hand, and his expression professionally neutral.
He was a man accustomed to attending duels, to witnessing men attempt to kill each other over matters of honor.
His presence here was both formality and necessity; someone had to declare the outcome, to tend the wounded, to confirm when satisfaction had been achieved.
“Mr. Moore-Sullivan,” the doctor said with a slight bow. “Are you prepared?”
“I am.”
“Your second has reviewed the terms with you?”
“He has.”
Dr. Hammond’s eyes swept over him, assessing. “Any reservations? Any desire to settle this matter without bloodshed?”
It was required that he ask, that he offer one final chance for reconciliation. Mr. Moore glanced across the field to where Ramsay stood, his face twisted with rage even at this distance.
There would be no reconciliation. Ramsay wanted blood, wanted humiliation, wanted Mr. Moore broken and destroyed.
“No reservations,” Mr. Moore said.
The doctor nodded and moved to the center of the field, raising his voice to carry across the clearing. “Gentlemen! Take your positions!”
This was it, then. No more delay, no more preparation.
Mr. Moore walked forward. Perry walked with him, staying at his elbow until they reached the designated spot.
Ramsay approached from the opposite direction, his second trailing behind.
Up close, Ramsay looked worse than he had in the tavern—his face haggard, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he’d slept no better than Mr. Moore had. But the hatred burning in his gaze was sharp and focused, promising that whatever exhaustion he felt wouldn’t affect his aim.
“Twenty paces,” Dr. Hammond announced, gesturing to the line he’d marked in the grass.
“You will stand back to back here. When I begin the count, you will each take one step per count. At ‘twenty,’ you will have reached your positions. On my command to turn, you will face each other. You may fire at will once you have turned. Do you both understand?”
“Understood,” Mr. Moore said.
“Yes,” Ramsay growled.
Perry stepped close, his hand briefly gripping Mr. Moore’s shoulder. “Steady breathing. Smooth trigger pull. You know what to do.”
Mr. Moore simply nodded, setting his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” he said at last.
Perry nodded once.
Ramsay’s second handed him a pistol—polished wood and gleaming metal, freshly loaded. Mr. Moore accepted his own weapon from Perry, feeling its familiar weight settle into his palm. The gun was already loaded, already primed. All that remained was to aim and fire.
Dr. Hammond gestured them to the center line. “Take your positions, gentlemen.”
Mr. Moore moved to stand back to back with Ramsay, feeling the other man’s presence like an uncomfortable heat behind him. Ramsay was taller, broader, but Mr. Moore had the advantage of his agility, of his rigorous preparation, and of an absolute necessity driving every move.
It wasn’t just ego; it was also survival.
He couldn’t afford to lose. Couldn’t afford to be wounded badly enough to require a doctor’s examination. Couldn’t afford to die and leave Kate alone, unprotected, their promises unfulfilled.
The pistol felt steady in his hand. His breathing was controlled, even, the way Perry had reminded him. His mind was clear of everything except the task ahead.
“Gentlemen,” Dr. Hammond said, his voice carrying formal weight. “On my count.”
* * *
The carriage jolted over uneven ground, throwing Kate against the seat despite Mary’s steadying hand at her elbow.
Through the window, she could see Hampstead Heath spreading out in the pre-dawn gray—rolling grass and scattered trees, all of it shrouded in mist that turned the landscape in something ghostly and indistinct.
“We’re almost there, ma’am,” the driver called down, his voice muffled by fog and distance.
Almost there. The words should have been reassuring but instead sent fresh waves of panic through Kate’s chest. Her hands twisted in her lap, fingers knotting together so tightly they’d gone numb.
Beside her, Mary sat with unusual stillness, her face pale in the grayish light.
They shouldn’t be here. Ladies didn’t attend duels, it was scandalous, improper, the kind of behavior that would fuel gossip for months. But Kate couldn’t have stayed home, couldn’t have waited in ignorance while Gina, clad in Jason’s clothes, faced Ramsay’s bullet.
She had insisted, and Mary had accompanied her because someone had to maintain an air of decorum. Or at least, that was the excuse she gave for not letting her go alone. Both women knew full well the emotions coursing through their veins, emotions neither of them could help but feel.
The carriage slowed, the driver guiding the horses to a position at the clearing’s edge. Far enough to maintain distance, close enough to see. Kate pressed her face to the window, searching through the mist for familiar figures.
There. She could make out shapes now. Men standing in the center of the field. The formal arrangement of a duel taking shape.
“I can’t breathe,” Kate whispered, one hand coming up to press against her chest where her heart hammered so hard it hurt. “Mary, I can’t—”
“You can,” Mary said firmly, her hand closing over Kate’s. “And you will. He needs you steady right now, not falling apart.”
“What if he’s hit? What if—”
“He won’t be.” Mary’s voice carried absolute conviction, though Kate could see the fear in her eyes that matched her own when her head turned to face her directly. “He’s been preparing for this. He knows what he’s doing.”
“How can you be certain?” Kate’s voice came out sharp, edged with panic. “How can anyone be certain? Ramsay wants to kill him, Mary. Wants to destroy him. And if he’s wounded, if a doctor has to examine him—”
Kate did not finish the sentence because there was no need. It was not necessary to voice aloud the full horror that the discovery would entail—for Gina, for herself, for everything they had built, and for everything they had promised one another barely a few hours earlier.
Mary’s grip on her hand tightened until it was almost painful.
“Listen to me, ma’am. I’ve known her all her life.
Throughout her entire life, I’ve seen her survive impossible situations, seen her navigate dangers that would have destroyed anyone else.
She knows the stakes. She knows what she’s fighting for. And she’s been trained for this.”
“Trained?” Kate turned to look at the men standing back to back in the clearing. “What do you mean trained?”
“Did you think yesterday was the first time she’d held a pistol?” Mary’s voice was quiet but intense. “She’s been preparing for the possibility of discovery, of attack, since the beginning. She knows how to fight. Knows how to shoot. Yesterday wasn’t practice—it was refinement.”
Kate stared at her again, absorbing this.
She’d watched Jason practice yesterday afternoon, had seen the improvement over the course of hours.
But Mary was saying there were years of preparation behind those shots, years of learning to defend herself against the dangers that came with living as someone she wasn’t.
Kate’s mind went back to the day before.
She could see it crystal clear in her head while her eyes searched for Jason across the field, through the mist and between the distant trees separating them from the clearing.
The memory rose unbidden but complete, displacing the present terror with vivid recollection of yesterday’s anticipation.
* * *
The Sullivan estate grounds stretched behind the house endlessly—gardens giving way to open lawn, a small orchard at the far edge, and beyond that, the area where groundskeepers stored equipment and materials. It was to this furthest section that Perry had led them all.
Kate stood near the garden’s edge with Mary, both women silent as they watched Perry set up the target against a stack of hay bales twenty paces distant. The day was overcast, threatening rain that hadn’t yet fallen, the air thick with moisture and tension.