It was time for something to turn, either way.
It seemed only a second before his feet brought him to the three men who stood beneath the sheltering trees in the field. Wadsworth, pale but composed. Carlson, a stout young lord whom Henry knew only slightly, held a rectangular walnut pistol case with all the pomp of a man proud of what has been entrusted to him. The thin man standing to one side, clutching his hat in one hand and a leather instrument bag in the other, was surely the surgeon.
“Good morning,” said Henry in the most jovial tone he could manage.
“Save your greetings, Middlebrook,” said Wadsworth. “The only thing I want from you is an apology.”
“You shan’t get it,” said Henry. “Even if you offer one first.” He smiled beatifically. “Lord Carlson. Always a pleasure.”
Wadsworth swung an arm in a sharp gesture of impatience and turned away, pacing in a line of five steps, back and forth.
“There is no reasoning with my brother,” Jem said with exasperated apology. “I assure you I’ve tried. Let’s get this done quickly. May I see the pistols, Carlson?”
The lord nodded and opened the case. “As you see, Tallant. There are seconds’ pistols as well.”
Jem blinked. “Ah… I’m sure we won’t be needing those, Carlson. Hal? Care to take a look?”
Henry peered into the case. They were lovely weapons. Gentlemen’s toys, all glossy walnut stock and smooth steel bore, with engraved trigger guards.
“They’ll do. See to their loading, please, Jem.” Henry noted how Carlson’s eyes narrowed and swept over his right arm. Henry could not hold the pistol, pour in powder from a horn, and add shot. That took two hands. But loading the pistol was not the object of the duel.
Henry watched Wadsworth pace back and forth, back and forth, as Carlson and Jem prepared the small guns. By now, Wadsworth had surely paced off a furlong. He probably wanted to walk away; only his pride was holding him here.
Damned pride. Henry felt a flash of unwilling affinity.
He walked over to Wadsworth and stood in his path. The viscount immediately stopped stalking back and forth. His foxy face went up, as if he’d scented something that startled him.
“It’s difficult, isn’t it?” Henry offered.
“What?” Wadsworth looked suspicious.
“The waiting.”
Wadsworth’s mouth tightened. “I can handle it. See to yourself if you’re so worried. I don’t know how you’ll shoot without the use of your right arm.”
A cornered animal again. “Your concern is most edifying. I, however, am more concerned for you.”
Wadsworth turned on his heel and resumed pacing his path. Five steps away from the trees, five steps back. His shoulders were held too high, almost hunched, and he avoided looking at Henry.
“I’m no pheasant, you know, Wadsworth. No partridge. No fox. Have you ever pointed a gun at a human being before?”
A slight hitch in the viscount’s stride, but he made no reply.
Henry continued in a conversational tone. “War hands glory to few but gives almost everyone the chance to handle a weapon. I’ve pointed a gun at many a man before, though never on the dueling field. I imagine it’s much the same, though, don’t you think? The weapons may be prettier, but the act is not.”
Wadsworth was pacing back to the tree now. His gray eyes flicked to Henry’s. In the slow red light, his face looked flushed. “How do you mean, Middlebrook?”
Henry shrugged. “No matter how many statements of honor you wrap it in, it’s still life and death. It’s an ugly thing to risk.”
“Yet you are determined to risk it.” Wadsworth’s chin tilted down and to the side. His eyes roved over Henry’s face. Hunting. Always hunting. Looking for weaknesses.
“I have nothing else to risk. It’s time.” Henry drew a breath. “I am not sorry for my challenge. But I’m sorry that it was necessary. For both our sakes.”
There, Jem. It was almost an apology. That was the best he could do.
Wadsworth narrowed his eyes. “You’re a cur, Middlebrook.”
Henry turned away, took a pistol from his brother. “Then you must do your best to shoot me down like a dog.”
He faced Wadsworth one more time, holding the pistol lightly in his left hand. “It’s not as easy as you think, Wadsworth. To shoot a man or lance him or bayonet him. To see his blood pour out and know you’re the one who stole his life away.”
He raised his eyebrows as the viscount’s mouth grew taut. “But I suppose you have your own version of such an injury,” he said in a voice as low as a lullaby. “You know how to bleed someone dry with words as surely as a bullet could. It just takes a bit longer. Less so, of course, if you choose only the weak. But perhaps you do not always know who the weak truly are.”
Henry turned his head to the lanky surgeon, who stood nearby. Hat discarded on the ground, he gripped his bag of instruments in white-knuckled hands. “Do you know how to remove a bullet, Dr.—?”
“Smythe. Yes, sir, I do, should that be necessary.” Henry had expected the tall man’s voice to be reedy and quavering, but he spoke with quiet dignity. A good choice for a duel.
“Would you say a bullet wound is more painful than a dislocation, or less so? I have suffered one but not the other.”
“I’m told a bullet wound is very painful, sir, though the severity of the wound depends on the location. A dislocation can be just as painful, though as you know, it is not fatal.”
“Not usually,” Henry said. “Well, I suppose it does not matter. Wadsworth, you look a bit overset. Are you taking ill?”
The viscount had been passing his pistol gingerly from hand to hand. He stilled, scowled. “I’m fine. Are you finished with your stalling?”
Henry bobbed his head. “Take your weapon to hand, Wadsworth. I am ready when you are.”
With a nod from the seconds, they saluted, turned, and paced off the distance. Twenty steps each, a matter of only fifteen seconds or so.
Henry pivoted and waited for Wadsworth to take the first shot.
He could see no more than a silhouette in the reddish light. The man had decent form; Henry granted him that. He turned sideways; his right arm and hand rose in a straight line, disappearing against the shadow of his body. Hidden within that shadow was a gun. Wadsworth could fire it at the ground or send a bullet into Henry’s heart. All Henry could do was stand there, a target, waiting.
This is stupid. The idea flashed suddenly into Henry’s head. Stupid, stupid.
Not stupid to stand up for himself; that was one of the brightest things he’d done lately. No, he’d been stupid to let it escalate to the point of life and death. Stupid to think he needed to win over all of London when winning one worthy heart was enough.
How stupid of Wadsworth too, to fight when he did not need to.
The shadow-Wadsworth was taking forever to fire. Henry saw the silhouette of his arm waggle, shake free from the line of his body. At last he pulled the trigger, and the shot went staggeringly wide, the bullet burying itself in the trunk of a tree ten yards away from Henry.
Done, then. It was done.
Henry wanted to jump, cry out, shake Jem’s hand.
But he still had his part to get through. There was only one performance of this show, and it must be quite theatrical if it was to have the desired effect.
He took his stance, pivoted to the side. His left arm stretched out straight and true. His arm, the gun, the form of the shadow-Wadsworth, were all in a perfect line. His hand did not shake as he aimed.
And then he wheeled, and in one swift motion he took sight and fired at the same tree Wadsworth had hit.
Smoke rose like a faint morning mist, and a flutter of applause signaled that the seconds considered the duel at an end. The surgeon would not be needed; nor would the seconds’ pistols.