“I told you.” Hatherleigh’s smile sharpened. “Lady Beatrice can wait.”
Gideon eased one step nearer.
Hatherleigh’s hand slid beneath his coat.
“Careful.”
A small flintlock pocket pistol emerged from beneath the black superfine and leveled at his chest.
Hell.
“Tonight,” Hatherleigh continued, “I earn my reward. A mutual acquaintance of ours has begun to understand that you mean to stand in his way.”
“I’ve made him that nervous, have I?” Gideon said.
Hatherleigh’s eyes flashed from behind the boar mask. “You have been rather plain in your desire to oppose his claim.”
“I have been plain in my desire to rid Mayfair of vermin.”
“Then consider this consequence.”
The pistol did not waver.
Gideon kept his breathing slow.
Too far to lunge. Too open to risk it. The folly’s open design allowed for no cover, and Hatherleigh had positioned himself between Gideon and the path back toward the terrace.
Foolish bastard—but not entirely stupid.
“How much is he paying you?” Gideon asked.
Hatherleigh’s mouth twitched. “Enough.”
“Enough to hang?”
“You assume I mean to be caught.”
“Just considering the odds. Shooting a baron at a ducal wedding ball isn’t about to go unnoticed.”
“An unfortunate quarrel in the gardens.” Hatherleigh shrugged. “A man known for violence. Simply defending myself. These things happen.”
“Bit of a reach.”
“But who will be there to contradict me? You’ll be dead.”
Gideon watched him carefully.
The grip on the pistol was too tight, enough to whiten his knuckles slightly. Hatherleigh was nervous, then. Angry. Eager. But nervous.
Good but also bad.
Nervous men made mistakes. But they could be… twitchy.
“Those toys aren’t exactly known for their accuracy,” Gideon said.
Hatherleigh’s eyes narrowed. “Won’t matter at this distance.”
“Perhaps. Unless your hand shakes.”
