Page 34 of Pride of Lyons

“Twice.” His friend motioned him, and Thomas headed toward the two men. “They are in excellent working order after yesterday.” Geoffrey held the fine-grained walnut box under one arm. “I can, of course, take a third look if you wish.”

Thomas waved a hand at him. The pistols were fine. He bounced lightly on his toes, wanting to get on with this. Where the devil was Danford? “He does know when dawn is, I trust?”

“I imagine so.” His brother-in-law stifled a yawn. “Damned early, I’ll tell you.” Rochdale looked at the rapidly pinkening sky. “Perhaps his horses fell asleep.”

“If so, they are awake now.” Thomas nodded to the trees on their left from which an unfamiliar carriage had just emerged. A taste of metal flooded his mouth, and he wished for a mouthful of brandy to counteract the bitterness. Instead, he stood still, watching dispassionately as the carriage approached and finally halted next to his own.

The door opened, and two gentlemen climbed down, followed by Danford, who looked as though he’d not slept in days. His hair was plastered to his head, his clothing, while impeccable, seemed ill-fitting, and his complexion so pasty white, that his mouth looked like a red gash across his face, making him resemble Grimaldi’s clown. Huge black rings around his eyes completed the macabre countenance.

Thomas stepped forward. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“Good day, my lord.” The two seconds spoke as one.

Danford seemed dumbstruck, then swallowed and replied, “Good day.”

“Lord Brill, Sir William, may we have a word?” Geoffrey and Rochdale motioned Danford’s seconds to them. Making a last-ditch effort to affect an accord. Waste of time, but the formalities must be observed if honor was to be preserved.

“Braeton.” Danford spoke quietly, as though he didn’t wish the others to hear him.

“My lord?” Thomas stepped closer. Communication between the primary parties was not usual, although it was not forbidden.

“I make one last appeal to your sense of decency to accept my apology.” Danford stared unblinkingly at Thomas, his eyes wide as though he was a haunted man. “I beg of you, Braeton. I have not yet sired an heir and should I die, my lands will be forfeit to the crown, as there is no male issue in my family to inherit them.”

From any other man, such a plea might have swayed Thomas to take pity on him. But Danford’s word fell on deaf ears. “Then you should have better spent your time getting an heir on your wife than trying to debauch mine. I accept nothing from you, Danford.”

The man’s jaw went slack, and Thomas was afraid the man might actually begin to weep. “Then I give you notice, Braeton, I intend to throw away my shot. If you will keep your honor intact, you must do the same.”

Shrugging, Thomas turned and walked toward the carriage.

“Did you hear me, Braeton?” the earl called after him.

“How could anyone more than a mile away not?” Thomas muttered as he reached his carriage and opened the door. “I believe it is time for your assistance, Mr. Pratt. We will begin shortly.”

The doctor nodded and climbed down. “Thank you, my lord. I will stand behind your seconds, back turned as is the custom.” He raised his black physician’s bag, clutched in his hand. “But I will be ready to discharge my duty should it be needed.”

“I daresay it will, Pratt. One way or the other.” Thomas nodded to the surgeon, then strode forward as Geoffrey came toward him. “Are the proprieties served?”

“They are. They offered apology, we refused it,” Geoffrey growled. A fierce scowl marred his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. “We have set the firing at one shot each, the distance at ten paces, at your leisure, so you may turn and fire at will.”

“Good. I hope my reflexes are faster than Danford’s.” Thomas nodded, and Geoffrey produced the box with his father’s dueling pistols. Selecting one, Thomas hefted the weapon and sighted it. Perfect. He nodded. “Thank you.”

“N’tall.” Geoffrey closed the box and gripped Thomas’s arm. “Bon chance.”

“Merci.” Thomas squared his shoulders and marched to the center of the designated field of honor, a flat area where the grass had been clipped evenly by the gardeners two days ago, and waited for Danford.

For all his bluster at the Lyon’s Den, the earl seemed to have little stomach for actual combat. His face had gone paler if that was possible. His seconds were almost propping him up, and Thomas began to give himself some thought about what he would do if Danford could not stand by himself for the firing. He didn’t wish to hurt anyone save Danford, but a ball could go wide for no reason. Curse Danford. Let the man do his duty and take his punishment like a man.

At last, under his own steam, thank goodness, Danford stepped into the field, pistol clutched in his hand. Standing back-to-back, Thomas and Danford awaited the signal from the designated second, who appeared to be Sir William.

“Braeton! For God’s sake take pity!” Danford hissed as they stared at the tall Sir William. “Take anything you like of mine save my life.”

Praying for patience, Thomas let the words wash over him. There was nothing Danford possessed that would satisfy him, save his miserable life. Unless Danford would agree to quit the country or conversely remain shackled in a castle tower somewhere. Either of those remedies would assure that Honoria would be safe from future molestation, but he doubted Danford would agree to either of them. Pity. He wished to honor his wife’s wishes to spare Danford, but he simply dared not. He gripped the pistol at his side tightly, then loosened his grip. Get on with it.

Sir William cried, “Mark. One.”

Thomas stepped out, aiming to make each of his paces as long as possible.

“Two.” The second continued to count until he reached “Ten.”