A light mistlingered over Battersea Fields the next morning as Anthony waited for the duel to begin. Dew glistened on the grass blades, and patches of frost covered the ground. Not the best conditions for a duel, especially for an inexperienced shooter.
Patrick shifted his weight from one foot to another, blowing warm air on his hands. “Bloody freezing.”
“Dawn is the coldest hour. If you had ever risen before eleven, you would know.”
“I don’t need your attitude.” Patrick shook his head. “A bloody idiot wants to shoot me. Thank you very much.”
Anthony kept a comment to himself. Reminding Patrick the situation was his entire fault wouldn’t help him survive the day. If he couldn’t keep his instincts under control, then at least he should learn to be more discreet with his paramours.
They’d spent the night shooting at targets, but Patrick was utterly hopeless with a firearm. His arm was unsteady, and his aim was terrible. He had more chances to hit McFall if he aimed at a tree.
Speaking of the devil. McFall strode towards them in his shiny captain uniform. A Victoria Cross hung from his chest—a further reminder of McFall’s excellent fighting skills.
A few rigid nods were exchanged.
“McFall,” Anthony said, “would you accept my brother’s apology and renounce the duel?”
“I’m sorry for what happened.” Patrick bowed his head.
McFall shot a glacial glare at him. “We’re ready to start. Twenty paces, then turn.”
“Would you accept me as your opponent instead of Patrick?” Anthony asked.
“Anthony!” Patrick said at the same time as McFall said, “No.”
“Your sacrifice is honourable. Unfortunately, your brother isn’t. Shall we?”
Anthony and McFall’s second inspected the guns and made sure only one bullet was in the chamber.
When McFall crossed the field to go to his position, Anthony grabbed Patrick’s shoulder. Worry gnawed at him from the inside out. He’d lost his parents. He couldn’t lose even his little brother for a damn duel. He was supposed to protect Patrick, yet here they were, risking Patrick’s life for no reason.
He swallowed hard. “Focus on your shot and nothing else. Don’t think. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Keep your arm steady, and remember to stay balanced between your feet.”
Patrick nodded. No jokes and no comebacks, a testament to his worry. He should be worried.
Anthony stood at the edge of the duelling field, wondering if he should knock Patrick unconscious, take him home, and face McFall’s wrath.
The duellists stood back to back before starting to pace in opposite directions. Anthony’s heart stuttered as he wiped his clammy hands on his jacket.
While McFall held the pistol in the correct position, Patrick was visibly shaking. He stumbled, and the pistol nearly slipped out of his grip.
“Bloody hell, Patrick,” Anthony muttered. “Come on.”
McFall finished the twentieth step and turned around with one smooth move in a flutter of coattails. Patrick staggered again, and by Jove, was holding the pistol back to front.
McFall raised his arm, his gaze as cold and unforgiving as the morning air. Instead, Patrick had turned into a bumbling ass.
His little brother was going to get killed right in front of him. Visions of the battlefields covered with dead soldiers flashed through his mind. All those young men gone. And Patrick would join them.
McFall closed one eye to take aim. Patrick wheezed in panic, paling by the minute, and cast a terrified glance at Anthony.
“Patrick!” Anthony shouted.
Patrick stood petrified. He couldn’t be an easier target.
Anthony’s legs moved before he could think. He sprinted forwards, eager to drag a frozen Patrick away. A shot rang out. Anthony pounced on his brother, and a searing, excruciating pain lanced through his face. Warm blood soaked his cheeks and lips, and white light filled his vision. The agony was so intense he couldn’t shout.
“Anthony!” Patrick’s voice seemed to come from a distance and through water.
