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“It will not but there is no choice. He issued the challenge and I could not deny it.”
“Yes, you could, my friend. You could have laughed in his face. You could have turned your back and walked away.”
“Honor demanded that I accept.”
“Honor? Honor be damned. You are going to kill a man today. That should not be done outside of war. And certainly not when you wish to court that man’s sister.”
Harold looked at Max sharply. “Who said I wished to court her?”
“I did. I saw it in your eyes, man. Quite apart from what that young rake and his Italian friend had to say. You think she will look on you kindly with her brother’s blood on your hands?” Max asked, looking at Harold over the barrel of the pistol.
No, she will not. There will be no forgiveness. This path leads to the end of that brief dream. But there are other women.
“If I refuse the duel, I will be the laughing stock of London,” Harold said.
“So? You hate London. As far as I am aware, you don’t care too much for England either. Take the girl and go abroad. Go to America.”
Harold looked at Max askance. Max shrugged. “Perhaps not America. Not unless things become a lot worse. But there is Africa or India?”
“I will not be persuaded in this matter,” Harold said grimly. “It has gone too far. And Alice has been injured as a result. None of this was my doing. The lies and irrational hatred of Hathway have brought us to this place. Save your words for him.”
Max put down the pistol and threw up his hands.
“God save us from the pride of the English!”
Harold straightened from the tree. Two horsemen had appeared, trotting along one of the paths that comprised the crossroads. He walked forward, stepping out of the shade from the tree’s spreading boughs until he stood at the crossroad’s center, waiting. Max took up pistol and sword, standing at Harold’s right-hand side, grim-faced.
“Let’s pray he chooses the pistol. Then you can dispatch him quickly and we can be done with this business,” he muttered.
Simon stopped his horse on the opposite side of the crossroads from Harold and Max. Simon curtly introduced the other man, who would act as his second. Harold did the same for Max. Simon’s second also carried a sword and a pistol.
“Your choice of weapon,” Harold said coldly.
“Sword,” Simon replied.
“Agreed.”
Harold put out his right hand and Max slapped the sheathed sword into his palm. Harold drew the blade and discarded the scabbard.
“Gentlemen, it falls upon me to call for calm and reason before events progress beyond the point of no return,” Max said. “Can this not be settled like gentlemen?”
“That is what we are doing,” Harold replied.
“There is no other answer for such a man as he,” Simon said.
Max turned to Simon’s second, putting out his hands to his sides, palms up. “Will you not join me to entreat our friends to step back from the brink?”
“Enough, Max,” Harold said, impatience tinging his voice.
He wanted this over with. He would kill Simon and then leave London for Redwood and not return.
I am done with London society. Or any other for that matter. Affairs of the heart simply lead to blood and pain. Yours or someone else’s. I am sorry, Alice. Forgive me.
Max shook his head, drawing a handkerchief out of his pocket and holding it up. Harold and Simon raised their blades to each other in salute, then lowered them until metal scraped against metal. He swept the handkerchief down and stepped back. Simon immediately lunged to the attack, stabbing, and striking at Harold, who danced back, parrying and countering.
Simon fought with ferocity but not much finesse. His teeth were bared in a rictus snarl and he seemed determined to reach Harold with a killing blow as early as he could. For his own part, Harold watched and observed his opponent, noting weaknesses in his posture and openings left by over-aggressive attacks. Attacks from his side were tests, gauging Simon’s reactions and skill.
The fool is out of his depth. He fights like a man who has never wielded a sharp blade, trying to score points in a fencing match, not kill his opponent.
