“Charlotte Tolliver!” Benedict roared, whirling round before Horatio could call the next number.
From behind the gorse bush burst Lottie Tolliver, her appearance more woodland nymph than lady: cheeks flushed, bonnet askew and wearing what was unmistakably a borrowed greatcoat over her day dress. She did not appear the least bit sorry. “Do carry on,” she said cheerfully. “I was merely observing.”
“Observing?” Benedict thundered. “You were expressly forbidden to come within five miles of this field! Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”
“I told you I could sneak out quite easily,” she replied proudly, brushing a bramble from her sleeve. “And I have brought scones. You are always dreadfully ill-tempered before breakfast, Ben.”
“What in God’s name – !” Ben’s face turned a shade of purple not seen in nature. “You cannot be here! This is a duel!”
“Precisely!” Lottie beamed. “I’ve never seen one before. Besides, it is barely dawn and you are all being remarkably theatrical.”
“Go home!” he bellowed, advancing upon her like a country squire intent on chasing livestock from his orchard. “This instant!”
“I shall not! I want to see if Lord Langley dies!”
Jasper, who had not so much as blinked throughout the exchange, inclined his head slightly toward Theo. “I assume that is the biting one?”
Theo, still watching with some concern as Benedict lumbered towards his sister as she skipped backwards with the grace and speed of a fox, replied, “Only if she likes you. If she does not, she throws things.”
“Charming. Perhaps I shall court her next Season.”
“Please do not,” Theo muttered. “She once made a stable hand cry with a teaspoon.”
“That only increases her appeal.”
“I beg you – do not.”
At that precise moment, Benedict bellowed, “You are going home, Charlotte, if I must throw you over my shoulder and carry you bodily across three counties!”
Lottie promptly darted behind Horatio, who gave a strangled yelp. “You shall not lay a hand on me!” she cried. “This is a matter of public interest!”
“It is not!” Benedict thundered. “It is a private matter of honour!”
“Well then, you ought not to have scheduled it on common land!”
Theo cast a sidelong glance at Jasper, who had now produced a silver pocket flask and was sipping from it with the idle contentment of a man attending a play.
Across the field, Benedict lunged for his sister, but Lottie was swifter. With a cry of triumph, she darted behind Horatio, seized one of the pistols from the velvet-lined case, and bolted into the open heath at a full sprint.
“Return that at once!” Benedict roared.
Horatio let out a strangled gasp. “That pistol is a family heirloom!”
“She’s going to shoot a duck,” Theo said placidly, watching the spectacle unfold, “or her brother… possibly both.”
“She’s magnificent,” Jasper murmured, taking another sip.
“She’s mad.”
“Undoubtedly. But you must concede, she’s elevated the entertainment value of this lamentable farce tenfold.”
Benedict, now at full gallop, was in hot pursuit, roaring threats such as, “Come back here this instant!” and “I shall have you locked in the attic until your thirtieth year!”
Horatio, scurrying in their wake with his embroidered duelling cravat flapping like a distressed flag, shouted, “That pistol is not ornamental!”
Theo turned slightly towards Jasper. “Do we still regard this as a duel, or has it descended fully into pantomime?”
“Oh, it was pantomime from the first.”
