Chapter Twenty
Stephen stared at the creature before him.
His hands itched to rip the mask off the blackguard’s face, to wrap his fingers around the man’s throat and crush the life out of him.
Sir Heath was a rake, and a profligate. But the creature who stood before him now, lacking the common decency, let alone the courage, to face him like a man, instead choosing to hide behind a mask…
The Farthing was an apt name for a creature that cared only for coin. What kind of a man would stoop so low as to earn a profit from the suffering of others—the ruination of innocents?
“Have you nothing to say, sir?” Stephen said.
The Farthing flinched, and a pair of bright-blue eyes glittered behind a black silk mask. For a heartbeat Stephen’s resolve faltered at the shock of familiarity. The image of another pair of blue eyes filled his memory…
Portia, the woman he’d left behind at Rosecombe to race back to London to defend his sister’s honor. His Portia, whom he’d cast from his mind in his desperation to save Angela from a life of misery and ruination.
Sweet swiving heaven, when the messenger had turned up at some ungodly hour at Rosecombe, he’d feared the worst!
But he had arrived home to find Angela penitent, ashamed—and terrified of whatever punishment he might mete out.
No amount of reassurance on Mrs. Stowe’s part would placate his anger, and though he believed her when she’d assured him Angela was still a maiden, he’d still tossed the woman out of the house, promising to expose her as the chaperone who facilitated the ruination of young girls.
And only now, on the brink of defending Angela’s honor and destroying the man who’d forced him to take arms once more, did his mind wander to where his heart lay.
To her. His beloved Portia.
Did she think he’d abandoned her? Most likely not, or her brother would have been at his doorstep yesterday calling him out.
Curse you, you bastard, for profiteering from my sister’s ruination, and keeping me from the woman I love.
The Farthing flinched again, and Stephen forced his lips into a cold smile.
If he’d learned any lesson from Waterloo, it was that most battles were won or lost before the first blow was dealt—that an enemy who showed fear of their opponent, or doubt over their honor, or motives, was an enemy who, no matter the strength of his arms, could always be defeated by the exploitation of his weakness.
And the Farthing—even if his reputation as a superior marksman preceded him—was afraid.
Very afraid.
“Come, come, old chap,” Sir Heath called. “I thought you a gentleman. At least behave like one.”
Stephen turned on the man. “You have the audacity to call out my behavior after what you did to my sister?”
The Farthing let out a whimper. Surely the rogue wasn’t in possession of a conscience?
“That little chit!” Sir Heath scoffed. “Hardly more than a morsel for a man like me. She came to me willing—couldn’t get away from her big brother quickly enough. Mounted your garden wall to escape that dowdy widow of a chaperone, so that I could mount—”
“Stop right there!” Stephen roared. “Do not speak of my sister or, so help me God, I’ll shoot you dead, Farthing or no Farthing!”
“Oh, please!” Sir Heath said. “Do you really think I’d waste my efforts on a child fresh from the schoolroom, pretty enough though she may be? My tastes run to real women.”
“Yet you still saw fit to ruin her reputation.”
Sir Heath grinned. “A harmless little jape from an infatuated child. Your sister’s not the first—and she’ll not be the last. But you can trust me, old chap. I’ll not breathe a word of your sister’s…weakness for me. After all, it’s not a characteristic that sets her apart from other women.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Moss. No woman of any sense would deign to touch you—for one thing, she doesn’t know where you’ve been.”
“Inside Lady Francis, for one.”
Stephen wrinkled his nose.
“Had her as well, did you?” Sir Heath chuckled. “Still, she parts her thighs with little fuss at almost no expense. Think on that, a whore willing to offer her services for free.”
“You disgust me.”
“You’re hardly a monk, Reid. Word has it you were a favorite among the camp followers in the militia—fucked more females than Wellington’s prize stallion.”
Maybury approached, a polished wooden case in his hands. “Gentlemen, perhaps we should proceed before it gets too light. There will be time enough to trade insults at White’s over a brandy. What say I stand you both a round when we’re done?”
“You think I’d drink with a man such as you?” Stephen said.
Sir Heath smiled. “Not if my man sends you to your maker.” He gestured to the Farthing. “Choose your weapon.”
Maybury opened the box to reveal a pair of pistols nestled together on a velvet cushion, like lovers. The Farthing approached it and reached for one, then he hesitated and stepped back, gesturing toward Stephen.
“Most gallant, I’m sure,” Sir Heath said. “Very well—Reid, you have first choice.”
Stephen approached the box, met the Farthing’s gaze for a heartbeat, then reached for a pistol. The Farthing plucked the other one and held it in his hands, lifting it up and down as if to test the weight. Then he nodded.
“Excellent,” Maybury said. “Now, I think you both know what to do—or shall I explain it to you, Reid?”
“Just get on with it,” Stephen growled, suppressing the knot of fear swelling inside him at the prospect of his mind returning to the battlefield. But at least this morning, the enemy was a man he’d gladly rid the world of.
The Farthing approached, and they stood back to back. Then Maybury began to count—one, two, three…
Stephen’s palm grew slick as he gripped the pistol.
The memory of the battle threatened to surface as he stepped forward, one pace for each count.
The shadows stretching across the grass from the trees surrounding the park seemed to morph into the shapes of his fallen comrades, and the metallic stench of blood clung to the air.
“…ten!”
He turned, the sounds of battle ringing in his ears, and cocked his weapon. His opponent stood, arm down, weapon in hand, body shaking.
Was this really the infamous Farthing, whose deadly accuracy was born of a cold detachment, a man rumored to have no soul? Or was the shivering creature before him an imposter?
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a white handkerchief fluttering to the ground, and slowly, he raised his arm, leveling his aim at the man before him.
But still, the Farthing made no move.
“For fuck’s sake, man!” Sir Heath cried. “Get on with it! I’m paying you enough, aren’t I? Bloody hell, I should have shagged her—then I’d at least have got my money’s worth.”
“How dare you!” Stephen cried. “She’s worth twenty of you.”
“She’s a child,” Sir Heath scoffed. “Take my advice, Reid—put her on leading strings until she turns into a woman.”
“You wouldn’t know a real woman if she bit you on the arse,” Stephen snarled.
“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. Take the delectable Lady Portia. She’s—”
Rage boiled in Stephen’s gut. “Do not speak her name!” he roared.
“Aha! So you’ve been sniffing round Foxton’s sister?” Sir Heath taunted him. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you—her brother chases off all the dogs, even if she’s like a bitch in heat.”
Stephen’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the pistol. “Do not speak of Portia—”
“Portia is it?” Sir Heath said. “Such familiarity. Don’t say you managed to slink past her gaoler of a brother and mount her? How does it feel to know that I got there first?”
A squeal came from across the lawn, and the Farthing’s manservant moved toward his master. Foolish fellow—didn’t he know he was stepping right into the line of fire?
“Hush!” Stephen yelled.
But the Farthing let out another whimper, his trembling becoming more violent.
“Moss, you lie,” Stephen said. “Perhaps I ought to expose you at White’s for peddling falsehoods about respectable women.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” Sir Heath said. “Unless…” He threw back his head. “Of course!” he cried. “You’ve fucked her, haven’t you?”
“Damn you, Moss!” Stephen’s arm shook as he tried to temper the rage swelling in his gut, rising like a boiling, raging wave.
“Oh ho—that’s better than anything I might say in relation to your sister,” Sir Heath said.
“To think, the strait-laced Lady Portia, who I always thought had a frost between her legs, has been stoking a fire for the gallant colonel! Bloody hell, I’ll lose ten guineas in my wager with De Blanchard, but it’s worth it to know that Foxton’s sister is a much of a whore as any other—”
The wave broke, and Stephen pulled the trigger, the instinct to destroy his enemy burning in his soul.
The sharp crack filled the air, followed by a puff of acrid blue smoke. Stephen’s arm jerked upward with the recoil, and he bit his lip to stem the image of battered, broken bodies in the ground.
Damn you, Moss, for making me do this.
And damn the Farthing.
He closed his eyes, willing the image to recede, welcoming the blackness. His heart thudded against his chest, and he focused on the solid ground beneath his feet.
What had she once told him?
Focus on the world around you, Stephen—the real world. Then you can retreat from the battle in your mind and return to me.
He drew in a deep breath, counting to three, then exhaled slowly, picturing the battlefield melting into nothingness as he emptied his lungs.
“Oh, shit,” a voice said.
The battlefield had almost receded, and as Stephen opened his eyes, only one lifeless form remained, on the grass, twenty paces in front of him. He closed his eyes, willing the shape to disappear, but when he opened them again, there were now two forms—a second shape, bending over the other.
“Bloody hell, you’ve killed him!” Maybury cried.
“Bugger,” Sir Heath said. “Mind you, the fellow had declared that this was to be his last duel. Perhaps he expected this, eh?”
“Is that all you can say?” Maybury said. “The least you can do is fetch a doctor.”
“That’s what his manservant is for—Gerard, is it?”
The second shape looked up. “My mis—my master’s alive. He’s…”
A deep groan came from the prone form.
“There!” Sir Heath said. “He lives to fight again.” He strode over to the two forms and fished a wad of notes out of his pocket. “Payment for services rendered.”
“Aren’t you going to help the fellow?” Maybury said.
“I’ve discharged my obligation by paying him. One hundred pounds, I’ll have you know. If he was determined to get greedy and double his price, then he can afford a doctor.”
“Perhaps I ought—”
“Maybury, you should return to that wife of yours. You never know who might have slid into her bed the moment you left it.”
Maybury let out a laugh, and the two of them sauntered off. No doubt they’d be toasting each other at White’s that morning. As for the creature who’d been in their employ…
Stephen approached the Farthing’s prone form.
“You fool,” he said.
The Farthing stirred, and Stephen let out a sigh of relief. At least he’d not killed the fellow—even if he loathed him.
The manservant glanced up at him and spoke in a light, boyish voice. “Sir, please help us.”
“Help yourself,” Stephen replied. “That’s what you’ve been doing, is it not? And do not cross my path again. You survived today, but next time you see me, you’ll not be so lucky.”
He reached for the Farthing’s mask, and the man let out a groan. Then he hesitated.
“No,” he said. “Best that I never discover who you are. If I do, I’ll end your life with my bare hands when next I see you. But I pray, with my whole soul, that you rot in hell.”
Suppressing a flicker of remorse, he turned his back on his fallen opponent and strode out of the park.