AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl answered, again ducking her head.
Alessandro waited until the door closed before he began chuckling.
Mélisande shot him a black look. “I fail to see the humor in this situation, especially at such an ungodly hour,” she snapped sourly. Then her expression became contrite. “Oh, Alessandro, I can’t bear it! There must be another way!”
“I must, amora. I will come for you as soon as it is finished,” he promised, holding her tightly.
Pulling back, she regarded him with flinty eyes. “I’m coming with you,” she insisted. “This duel is being fought on my behalf and I will witness it, whatever the outcome.”
He shook his head, but she cut him off.
“No! I refuse to be left behind! If you won’t allow me to go with you, I’ll follow on my own. You cannot force me to remain.”
Arguing with her was pointless. Alessandro sighed, releasing her. “Very well,” he conceded. “But you will stay in the carriage,” he ordered firmly, staring at her until she nodded agreement.
The air outside was heavy as they departed. Every sound seemed magnified in the predawn hush: the horses’ hooves against the cobblestones, the occasional rumble of a cart as the morning deliverymen went about their rounds. A morning mist rose from the ground in hazy wisps as they neared Tothill Fields. The first rays of sunlight caught in it, making it appear flame-like amid the dew that shimmered on each blade of grass.
Herrington’s carriage had already arrived.
“I will return as soon as it is done,” Alessandro again promised her as the driver opened the door.
Pelham took up a leather satchel, two sheathed rapiers, and a flat wooden case. “Let us get this over with.”
Alessandro kissed her once more, and then followed his second out onto the wet grass.
Mélisande watched from the window as the two men crossed the silvered green, the golden mist swirling at their feet.
Herrington and his second, a slight, pale-haired gentleman named Sir Charles Bittle, waited.
With grim determination, Alessandro unfastened his cloak, handing it to his second. A familiar, detached calm washed over him as he observed his enemy. Emotions receded as his mind flowed into a state of hyperawareness. Every flicker of the eyelids, every facial twitch, every tiny tremor of his opponent’s fingers seemed etched in clear light. Breathing deeply, Alessandro relaxed, focusing solely on bringing down his adversary in order to survive.
Pelham brought forth the weapons and presented them. ?
?Choose,” he commanded.
Herrington tapped the wooden case and Pelham opened it, revealing a pair of finely crafted Jover pistols.
Bittle, as the challenged party’s second, bent to examine them. Carefully, he lifted each by its grip and inspected it. Proclaiming the weapons satisfactory, he then took one, loaded it, and handed it to Herrington. Pelham removed the other and loaded it, then passed it to Alessandro.
“Six paces,” Alessandro said. Turning his back, he cocked the hammer, waiting.
On Bittle’s count they measured out their steps, the distance between them widening with each pace. Birds sang from the trees surrounding the peaceful meadow, unaware that violence was about to erupt.
When the two men stopped and turned to face one another, Pelham raised a silk kerchief high in the air and released it. With the speed of lightning, both combatants raised their firearms. Two shots rang out almost simultaneously, startling the birds into panicked flight.
A sharp pain lanced Alessandro’s left arm, but he kept his eyes trained on his opponent. Herrington crumpled to the ground, clutching his midsection. In his hubris, the Englishman had faced his enemy full on, not turning to the side as he ought. A foolish mistake.
The instant he saw the scarlet blossoming across the man’s belly, Alessandro knew the man did not have long. A gut wound almost always assured an opponent’s demise either through loss of blood or infection. It would be a miracle if he survived. Fast footsteps approached, and he turned to see Mélisande running toward him, her face ashen. He dropped the now useless pistol to embrace her.
Pelham ran over to where Herrington lay on his back, still gripping his spent weapon. Shouting for Bittle to come quickly, he took off his jacket and pressed it against the wound.
Releasing Mélisande, Alessandro ran over to help, though he knew it was no use. It would bleed out internally and nothing could be done to stop it. Still, he must make every effort, even if only for appearance’s sake.
Herrington coughed, spewing pink froth as he brought up a hand to clutch his enemy’s where it pressed down into his midsection.
Before Alessandro could react, Herrington’s other hand, which had lain concealed, lifted. In it was another pistol.
“I shall n-not go to hell alone,” Herrington whispered, a malicious grin stretching his bloodied lips. “I’ll take the bastard with me.”
