Chapter One #2
“It’s of no consequence, given that I have been paid,” the Farthing replied. “But I am eager to maintain my reputation. If you wish to run off with your shirttails between your legs, it makes no difference to me.”
“Why, you…”
“Sir Baldwin!” The fourth man, presumably Sir Baldwin’s second, stepped forward. “It’s getting light, and I’m certain I heard voices. It won’t be long before the park is teeming with visitors.”
With a huff, Sir Baldwin approached the Farthing.
“Back to back, gentlemen, if you please,” Mr. Corbett said.
“I’d advise you to step away, Mr. Cholmondeley-Walker,” the Farthing said. “You’ve paid me a considerable sum to preserve your skin—it would be a tragedy if you were hit by a stray bullet.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Not at all,” the Farthing said, with a smile. “My aim is true. I cannot, however, give you the same assurances regarding your opponent.”
“Do you impugn my honor?” Sir Baldwin asked, his gruff tones not quite fully concealing the fear in his voice.
“Only your accuracy.”
“Very good, gentlemen, that’s enough of the pleasantries,” Mr. Corbett said, closing the box. “Step forward on each count, then turn when I reach ten. Wait for my signal, then, when I lower my hand, you may fire at will. Are you both ready and willing for the duel to proceed?”
The Farthing nodded, curling his fingers around the grip of the pistol, relishing the smoothness of the polished wooden handle. A little heavier than I’m used to—there will be less time to hold my aim.
“I beg pardon, Mr. Farthing?” Mr. Corbett asked.
“I said I’m ready.”
“And I’m more than willing,” Sir Baldwin said.
“Very well. One…two…three…”
With each pace, the man’s voice faded, replaced by the sound of breathing that filled the air, together with a faint heartbeat.
Breathe slowly—in, and out… Focus on your heartbeat—slow and steady.
“Nine…ten!”
A cool breeze caressed the back of the Farthing’s neck. His heartbeat increased on the turn as Sir Baldwin came into view, already holding his weapon aloft.
The fool! Sir Baldwin’s eagerness to gain the upper hand would be his downfall. Not even the most capable duelist could hold such a weapon steady for anything longer than a few heartbeats.
The dawn light reflected off the end of Sir Baldwin’s barrel, revealing a slight tremor. His mouth was set in a grim line and his jaw bulged as if he gritted his teeth with effort.
Mr. Corbett raised his hand and held it motionless for a heartbeat. Then he lowered it.
Now…
With a slow exhalation, the Farthing raised an arm while focusing on Sir Baldwin, who now stood twenty paces away, his eyes glistening.
Then, when the arm was fully raised, the barrel of the pistol came into view—smooth gray metal pointing toward Sir Baldwin, its aim steady and true.
The Farthing curled a finger around the trigger and squeezed it, feeling the familiar resistance.
Mr. Corbett’s hand dropped to his side.
“Fire when ready.”
On the final word, the Farthing increased the pressure on the trigger. With an explosion of blue smoke, the weapon fired. Anticipating the recoil, the Farthing stepped backward, inhaling the familiar scent of gunpowder, then lowered their arm holding the now-spent pistol.
The smoke cleared to reveal Sir Baldwin. Still standing, he clutched his right ear, his weapon on the grass at his feet.
“Fuck!” he cried, aiming a kick at the discarded pistol.
“Stop that!” Mr. Corbett roared. “The weapon will discharge if you kick it—are you completely lacking in wits?”
“The bastard’s shot me!” Sir Baldwin cried.
“I rather think that’s the point of a duel, old chap,” Cholmondeley-Walker said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I could be dying!” Sir Baldwin’s voice took on a petulant tone—the degree of petulance indication enough of the superficiality of the injury. At least, the injury to his body. Doubtless the injury to his pride was of greater severity.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” the Farthing said. “I merely grazed your ear.”
“I’m bleeding!”
Did you whine like that in the nursery when you wanted your nanny?
Gerard let out a giggle, then stifled it.
“That part of the ear bleeds profusely, Sir Baldwin,” the Farthing said. “You now have a trophy befitting a duelist—a bloodied shirt, which you can show to your wife as a demonstration of how deeply you value her honor.”
Sir Baldwin removed his hand from his ear, and red liquid trickled down his throat. “You could have killed me!”
“Give me some credit,” the Farthing replied. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have aimed for your heart.”
“You mean you shot his ear on purpose?” Cholmondeley-Walker said.
“Did you want me to kill your friend?” the Farthing asked.
Cholmondeley-Walker colored and averted his gaze.
“I’m not in the habit of ending a man’s life, no matter the provocation,” the Farthing continued. “The terms of our contract were that I emerge victorious in a duel on your behalf. My duty, and therefore your honor, has been discharged successfully, at little cost to yourself.”
“Fifty pounds isn’t what I’d call a little cost,” Cholmondeley-Walker huffed.
“Cheap enough, compared to a man’s life.”
“Sir Baldwin would never have bested me—he’s a terrible shot.”
“Which is a largely academic argument, given that you paid me to duel on your behalf. But I would beg to disagree. The most dangerous of opponents is a man unacquainted with the skills of marksmanship—for one never knows where his bullet will end up. A shot to the stomach is a worse fate than a shot to the heart. Both result in the same ultimate fate, but the former comes with considerably more pain.”
“You seem well acquainted with the business of death,” Cholmondeley-Walker said. “Do you serve in the militia?”
“I have no profession.”
“A gentleman, then? Might I stand you a drink at White’s this afternoon?”
“I am not a member of White’s. But I give you leave to boast about your prowess at the dueling field over a brandy in the clubroom.”
“Come as my guest, then. I insist on knowing to whom I’m indebted.”
“There is no debt, sir. You paid me for a service, which I have rendered. Unless you wish to hire my services again, I see no reason for us to further our acquaintance.”
“At least tell me your name.”
“My skill is for hire—not my name.”
“Then I’ll take your mask off myself.” Cholmondeley-Walker took a step forward.
“Try it, if you dare,” the Farthing said.
“But know this. My very existence demands anonymity—without it, the Farthing is no more. Given your penchant for eyeing up other men’s wives, you may be in need of my services again.
If I am, as you suspect, a mere boy, would you weather the ridicule of your friends at White’s if it were known that you were both bested by an adolescent fresh from the schoolroom? ”
Sir Baldwin caught Cholmondeley-Walker’s wrist. “Leave the fellow be,” he said.
“Honor has been satisfied. You’re fifty pounds lighter and I’m down the price of a necklace.
You can boast of your victory and I’ll have a forgiving wife waiting for me in the bedchamber.
Sometimes it’s best to know when to walk away. ”
Well, well, Sir Baldwin—there’s evidence of a little wit between those ears of yours. Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet.
The Farthing issued a bow. “In which case, gentlemen, I’ll bid you good morning. Sir Baldwin, do give your wife my best wishes for her happiness. Sophia, her name is, if I recall?”
Sir Baldwin’s mouth fell open, then he shook his head.
With a chuckle, the Farthing placed the spent pistol back in the box then turned and strode along the path, Gerard following.
By the time they reached the gates leading out of Hyde Park, the sun had breached the horizon and warm rays stretched across the road.
It was going to be a hot day.