The Duelist for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #8)

Chapter One

Hyde Park, London

The dawn light stretched 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 perhaps not so 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 hired the 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.”

“Naturally. It is, after all, what you pay me for. Gerard, would you see to business?”

The Farthing’s companion stepped forward, palm outstretched. “Payment, if you please, sir.”

Cholmondeley-Walker frowned. “It’s not gentlemanly to discuss commerce.”

“Neither is it gentlemanly to refuse to pay one’s dues, Mr. Cholmondeley-Walker,” came the reply. “The terms are clear—you signed the contract willingly and were of sound mind.”

Manby-Bresswell let out a snort that turned into a cough.

“Payment is to be made on the day of the duel,” the Farthing said. “Before the first shot is fired. I’m a man who keeps his word. Can you say the same of yourself?”

Cholmondeley-Walker cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “You’re no man,” he said. “I can tell, even though you and your servant wear masks.”

Sweet Lord! Am I discovered?

“You have the voice and frame of a boy,” Cholmondeley-Walker continued, “a weakling boy.”

“I have a bigger pair of bollocks than the man who’d rather pay another to face his opponent than risk his own skin.”

Manby-Bresswell chuckled. “That’s told you, Ambrose.”

“Perhaps even a bigger pair than the two of you combined,” the Farthing continued, “or else you’d have settled your differences in the drawing room rather than at the end of a pistol. Your wives are to be pitied.”

“I should shoot you dead for that, Mr. Farthing,” Manby-Bresswell said.

“I’m giving you that very opportunity this morning. That is, assuming you both wish to continue?”

The combatants nodded.

“In which case, pay my man, if you please, Mr. Cholmondeley-Walker, then we can conclude the matter and be on our way before London wakes.”

Grumbling, Cholmondeley-Walker pulled out a sheaf of notes from his inside jacket pocket and handed them to Gerard, who counted each one, then gave a sharp nod and folded them.

“Excellent,” the Farthing said. “Now we may proceed with our business.”

“Dueling is not a business,” Manby-Bresswell grumbled. “It’s an act of a gentleman to settle a matter of honor.”

“And what was the matter of honor that brought the two of you here this morning?” the Farthing asked.

“This bounder seduced my wife. Under my very nose—in the library, if you please, while I was entertaining our guests.”

Cholmondeley-Walker rolled his eyes. “How many times must I tell you, Sir Baldwin—your wife holds no appeal for me. I prefer sturdier women—makes for a more vigorous ride, particularly if she whinnies like a mare when I take her.”

Ugh.

Men spoke with little sense when in the company of women—but among their own kind with not a woman in sight, or at least when they believed that were the case, they reverted to the words of the savage.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Farthing—is our gentlemanly talk not to your taste?”

“Nothing of the sort, I assure you. I’m merely wondering whether either of you have paused to consider if the woman in question has an opinion on the matter and, if so, whether either of you place any value upon it.”

“The opinion of a woman?” Cholmondeley-Walker laughed. “You’re a bigger fool than Sir Baldwin here.”

“I doubt that, if Sir Baldwin’s wife is straying behind his back.”

“Lady Manby-Bresswell is not straying behind her husband’s back,” Cholmondeley-Walker said. “She’s notoriously faithful—despite ample provocation to be otherwise—as I’ve tried to explain to this witless fool.”

“Then how would you account for my coming upon the two of you in the library that night?”

“I went in search of a book. As did Lady Manby-Bresswell. Why else would a man enter a library?”

“I can think of plenty of reasons.”

“I imagine you would, seeing as you’d not know what to do with a book if someone shoved it up your arse,” Cholmondeley-Walker said. “You’re a fool if you think your wife’s straying, Sir Baldwin.”

“Then why have I seen you sniffing around her? I even caught the Duke of Whitcombe salivating over her at the dinner table.”

Eleanor’s husband? If he’s strayed, I’ll shoot him myself.

“You really have tripe in that head of yours, Sir Baldwin, if you think Whitcombe would stray. He’s notoriously in love with the duchess. Any look he casts your wife’s way is likely to be motivated by pity rather than desire.”

“What would a man find in a baronet’s wife to pity?

” Sir Baldwin asked. “I may be a little out of sorts when another man tries to seduce her—what husband wouldn’t?

—but I always make it up to her. This very morning I intend to present her with the most delectable emerald necklace as a gesture of my undying devotion. After I’ve shot you, of course.”

And well deserved the necklace is, too, Sir Baldwin, I’ll warrant, given that your entire fortune is courtesy of her dowry.

“I beg pardon?” Sir Baldwin stared at the Farthing. “Did you have something to say?”

“Nothing save a proposal that you summon your second. I came here to shoot you—not listen to your justification of your treatment of your wife.”

“And what will you do with your wife, Mr. Farthing, when you return to her bed? Tell her you’ve been out shooting better men than yourself?”

“Sir Baldwin, I’m not so foolish as to have entered into the marriage state,” the Farthing said. “I have no wish to be ruled by another.”

“Hush!” Gerard whispered.

Oh Lord! I’ve done it again.

But the transgression went unnoticed. Cholmondeley-Walker let out a laugh.

“A clever boy you are, Farthing!” he said.

“At least you understand that a married man will need to leave his—how did you describe them?—his bollocks at the door when he enters his home, lest his wife remove them with her teeth.” He turned to his opponent.

“Sir Baldwin, your jealousy is no doubt costing you a fortune in trinkets for your wife—what was it after the last accusation? A diamond brooch, if I recall. But perhaps this morning the price of your jealousy may be somewhat higher—your life is at stake.”

“Not if I shoot first,” Sir Baldwin said. He approached the Farthing, his eyes glittering with loathing.

“I shall enjoy cutting you down. A man should not be earning a living out of the misery of others.”

“I see no misery—only indignation and childish retribution styled as honor.”

Cholmondeley-Walker gestured toward his second. “Bring them over, Corbett.”

“Very good, sir.” A tall, thin man approached, holding a wooden box. He lifted the lid to reveal two weapons nestled together on a bed of smooth velvet.

“First choice to you, Sir Baldwin,” Cholmondeley-Walker said. “I’m disposed to be generous.”

Sir Baldwin plucked a pistol and held it up to the light. “One firearm’s the same as any other,” he said.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the Farthing said, taking the other pistol and inspecting it.

It was a Wogdon & Barton piece—in excellent condition, with a polished barrel, carrying the faint odor of gun oil.

Whoever the owner was, at least they bothered to tend to them properly.

“A man should never underestimate the weapon in his hand—particularly one with a set trigger.”

“A what?” Sir Baldwin asked, waving his pistol in the air.

Oh, you fool—do you really think you’ll best me when you have so little respect for the weapon in your hand?

“It matters not,” the Farthing said, approaching the center of the clearing. “Are you ready?”

“Eager to earn your coin?” Sir Baldwin sneered.