Sir Harry Brandon stole a sideways glance at Lord Harry. He shifted uneasily in the saddle at the sight of his friend’s set face. His usually shining eyes were narrowed in deep concentration and his lips were drawn in a bloodless thin line. Lord Harry had said not a word to him, save to beg a mount from his meager stable for Pottson. Wordlessly, Harry had obliged, but the precious time this detour had cost put the hour much too close to seven o’clock for his peace of mind. But Lord Harry seemed oblivious of the hour, leaving Harry to wonder if he was aware of the nicety of the gentleman’s code that forbade a duel if either of the opponents arrived after the appointed time.
Sir Harry was forced to conclude that Lord Harry knew exactly what he was about, for it lacked two minutes to the hour when their small cavalcade broke into the clearing. Not twenty feet away stood the earl of March’s town carriage.
As they dismounted and tethered their mounts, Hetty turned to Sir Harry and said, “I know you thought I’d be late, but you must know, Harry, one must always make an entrance after all the guests have arrived.”
Sir Harry could find no witty rejoinder for this admirable display of sang froid, and said only, “Quite.”
As Harry fidgeted with his horse’s bridle, Hetty said gently, “Should you not meet with the earl of March, Harry? The weapons, you know.”
“Aye,” Harry said, falling back on his mother’s Scottish speech. When he was beyond earshot, Hetty turned to Pottson, who stood in grim silence, his hands wringing into the folds of his coat.
“Don’t fail me, Pottson. Whatever happens must occur without any interference from you. Give me your promise.”
Pottson stood in frozen silence. Hetty grabbed his arm and shook him. “Damn you, Pottson, your promise.”
“But Master Damien would never wish for this, Miss Hetty. Gawd, he would never”
“Stop it now. It’s far too late for maudlin scenes. Do you swear to keep a still tongue in your mouth?”
“Yes, Miss Hetty,” he said finally, looking squarely into her fierce blue eyes, “I swear. But I hate it.”
“Hate is a good thing in this damnable situation. Now, I want you to remain here.” She turned on her heel, her boots crunching loudly into the frozen earth, and without a backward glance, strode toward the small circle formed by the three gentlemen.
She knew that concentration was born of calmness, and had, for the past two hours, mentally raised the dueling pistol in her hand, turned her body sideways so as to present the smallest possible target, aimed carefully and tenderly stroked the trigger. Over and over she had played through each minute movement until her mind finally settled with single thought to its one purpose. There was now no room for fear or self-doubt to slip in uninvited.
Her stride was a confident swagger, her hands still inside their warm gloves, steady and dry.
She glanced only briefly at the earl of March, her eyes narrowing on the marquess.
“Ah, I bid you good morning, your grace, my lord March. I don’t wish my mare to become restive. Shall we begin?”
Admirable, the marquess thought reluctantly, the boy shows courage beyond his years. But his voice belied his thoughts as he said with a mocking drawl, “By all means, Monteith. I wouldn’t wish you to be late for your visit to the surgeon.”
“Ah, but you, your grace, it won’t be a surgeon to attend to you. It will give me great satisfaction to see your blood seeping into the ground.”
The earl said abruptly, “Do you wish to inspect your foil, Lord Monteith?” He opened the long narrow case and carefully lifted out a glittering silver rapier.
Hetty looked stupidly down at the foil. Damnation, what a ludicrous mistake Harry had made. He, of all people, knew that she preferred the pistol. She turned to him, her jaw working with frustration and anger. Her voice was as hard as the frozen earth. “What have you done, Harry? You know I choose the pistol.”
Sir Harry’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But, Lord Harry, it doesn’t matter. Of course you prefer pistols, but there wasn’t anything I could say in the matter.”