“Ben will not need a second! I refuse to revisit this argument,” Hetty declared, balling her hands at her sides. “No one is going to duel. No one is going to die. Because no one – no one! – is so colossally witless as to shoot a man over a kiss upon the terrace!”
“I must beg to differ,” Benedict said icily. “I mean to shoot him. He took liberties with you.”
“I took a liberty,” Theo corrected, still winded. “Singular. And if memory serves, she was not wholly opposed to it.”
Benedict surged forwards again with his fists clenched and eyes wild. He might very well have launched himself bodily across the terrace had Cousin Horatio not seized him by the waistcoat with both hands and Lottie not thrown herself at his arm with startling tenacity.
“For heaven’s sake, Ben!” Hetty snapped. “Must you comport yourself like an enraged footman who has dropped a tray?”
“He ought to count himself fortunate I do not run him through here and now,” Ben growled, still struggling against Horatio and Lottie. “Kissing my sister in the shrubbery like some licentious Corinthian!”
“I say,” Theo muttered, attempting to straighten despite the fire burning in his ribs, “am I not, at the very least, permitted to name my second before I am shuffled off this mortal coil?”
“Oh, do choose me!” Lottie cried, relinquishing her grip on her brother’s arm. “I shall be splendid.”
Benedict turned his head, aghast. “My own sister shall not stand beside the enemy!”
“You selected Horatio already,” she countered.
Horatio, still firmly affixed to Benedict’s waistcoat, gave a prim nod. “I am quite punctual and possess a velvet satchel designed specifically for the transport of duelling pistols.”
“Of course you do,” Theo sighed with a grimace. “Well, I suppose my cousin Mortimer would suffice. He gave a lecture only last week on the precise pacing of duels – something to do with velocity and Roman foot standards.”
“I do not want that fool anywhere near loaded firearms,” Ben snapped.
“You desire my death, do you not?” Theo said, raising an eyebrow that was thoroughly swelling already. “There is no one more likely to accomplish it by accident than Mortimer.”
“Choose someone else,” Benedict barked.
Theo cast his eyes heavenwards for a moment of divine inspiration, then said with weary triumph, “The Honourable Mr Jasper Deverell, naturally.”
“Your scoundrel of a friend with the boots?” Ben growled.
“The very same,” Theo replied. “Dashing, unflappable and precisely the sort of man one wishes at one’s side when being shot at by an incensed elder brother. He is in London. Someone must send word – he will require time to select the appropriate waistcoat.”
“You cannot possibly mean to go through with this,” Hetty said sharply, rounding on them both.
Theo glanced over at her, and for the first time that evening, her expression gave him pause. She looked pale – tight-lipped, dark-eyed and standing very, very still. She was not angry now, or scandalised, but afraid, and somehow that was infinitely worse.
“Benedict Bernard James Tolliver,” Hetty said in a tone that might have frozen fire, having turned back to her brother, “if you persist in this idiocy, I swear I shall never speak to you again.”
“Then I suggest you savour this final exchange, sister.”
“Very well,” she said frostily. “Go ahead. Get yourselves arrested. Or worse.”
Behind her, Lottie was practically vibrating with excitement. “I am absolutely coming.”
“You are absolutely not!” Hetty snapped. “You shall not go within a mile of Hampstead Heath. I shall tie you to the bannisters if I must.”
“You could not tie a bonnet ribbon properly if your life depended on it,” Lottie retorted.
From his place on the flagstones, Theo watched the familiar chaos with weary resignation. It was, he supposed, a fitting accompaniment to his imminent demise – no gentleman ought to be shot without a Tolliver shrieking in the background. “Well,” he muttered, closing his eyes and letting his head tip back against the cool stone, “someone be sure to wake me at dawn. I should hate to be late to my own execution. And do, for decency’s sake, ensure someone brings brandy.”
Chapter 15
Theo stood upon a muddy incline in full duelling attire, nursing a set of bruised ribs and the distinct impression that this might very well prove the most ill-advised morning of his life. He could not help but wonder, rather resentfully, why he had not remained abed and allowed Benedict Tolliver’s temper to cool over a tray of kippers and strong tea.
Mr Jasper Deverell, by contrast, appeared entirely at ease, adjusting his gloves with the lazy composure of a gentleman awaiting his carriage to the opera, rather than preparing to officiate an affair of honour that might end in bloodshed. “I have already marked out the paces,” Jasper said, without so much as glancing up. “Fifteen yards, or possibly fourteen. Difficult to determine with certainty, given the slope.”
