LITMIR.BIZ

       7

      The meeting place had been carefully chosen. Situated adjacent to the southern boundary of Hyde Park, close to the bank of the Serpentine, the grassy clearing, hidden inside a small stand of trees, was known locally as the Dell.

      The location was one of several similar venues, dotted around the city, that had, over the years, become synonymous with the settling of personal scores. To the north, the stretch of pathway known as the Ring Road was also a favoured spot, as were Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Bloomsbury Square.

      It was an hour past sunrise. A watery sun hung low above the city’s smoky rooftops, bathing the scene in a hazy orange glow. With the grass still damp and silvery from the morning dew, the park was at its most peaceful. To the uninitiated it might have seemed an incongruous choice for trial by combat, but the remoteness of the place and the early hour lessened the risk of uninvited spectators or discovery by the authorities.

      Accompanied by the major, Hawkwood had arrived to find his adversary already in place. Their welcome was in the form of a curt nod from both Neville and Campbell. It could have been Hawkwood’s imagination, but he had the impression that Rutherford was somewhat surprised to see him, as if he hadn’t expected the Runner to turn up. It was with some satisfaction that Hawkwood marked the possibility that he may have caught his opponent temporarily off guard, and any advantage, no matter how slight, was always welcome. In any case, failing to meet with Rutherford had not been an option.

      Rutherford scowled darkly and turned his back. Standing to one side in sickly isolation, a frail-looking figure wrapped in a dark cloak sniffled into a sodden handkerchief.

      “Jesus,” Lawrence muttered. “Bloody surgeon looks to be on his last legs. I wonder which grog shop they dragged him from.”

      Hawkwood refrained from comment. It wasn’t the surgeon’s duty to be hale and hearty, merely discreet. Both principals were required to contribute to his fee. This covered not only his services but, more importantly, his silence. The surgeon would be the only one guaranteed to profit from the morning’s activity.

      Forsaking preamble, Neville stepped forward, his manner brisk and officious. “Good morning, gentlemen. If neither of you has any objection, I shall be conducting the proceedings. No? In that case, to business. First, I must ask – now that both parties have had some hours to reflect upon the matter – if either of you has reconsidered.”

      Campbell, acting for Rutherford, looked pensive and shook his head. Lawrence, after throwing Hawkwood a wistful look of appeal, followed suit.

      Neville accepted each man’s response with a grim nod. “So be it. This way, then, if you please.”

      Neville led the way to the edge of the clearing, where a small folding table had been erected under the trees. Upon the table lay a fold of black velvet. As they drew closer it was clear from the contours of the cloth that something lay concealed beneath the material.

      Neville moved to the table and lifted away the edge of the cloth to reveal a flat mahogany case. Wordlessly, Neville opened the lid of the case and stepped away. He addressed Hawkwood. “I trust they meet with your approval?”

      Hawkwood looked down and nodded.

      “Very well, if the seconds would care to make their examinations?”

      The pistols were identical Mortimers, with sixteen-inch octagonal barrels; in their simplicity, supreme examples of the gun maker’s art. Hawkwood and Rutherford stood to one side while their respective seconds examined the pistols. Mutual satisfaction expressed, Neville gestured towards the case. “So, gentlemen, if you’d each be so kind as to choose your weapon.”

      Hawkwood removed his coat and handed it to Lawrence. He lifted out the pistol nearest to him. He had no qualms over his choice. He knew Lawrence would have ensured that each weapon contained exactly the same-sized ball and an equal charge of powder.

      Neville cleared his throat. “You will stand back to back. On my count you will each walk away for a distance of twelve paces, at which point, upon my signal, you will turn and fire. Is that understood?”

      Both men nodded. Hawkwood found that his throat was as dry as sand. As he took up his position, he wondered if his opponent was experiencing the same degree of discomfort and stomach-gnawing apprehension. He could feel Rutherford’s shoulder blades chafing against his own.

      It had been like this when he had fought Delancey; the same coldness running down his spine, the prickle of wetness under the arms, the gut-wrenching fear that in less than a minute he might be dead. Or worse, severely wounded, with no future other than to roam the streets with all the other cripples, begging for scraps and shelter. All things considered, he thought death was probably the better option.

      But at least he wouldn’t die in ignorance.

      Her name, he had discovered, was Catherine de Varesne.

      She had vanished by the time Hawkwood and Lawrence had returned to the house – no doubt having made her departure in order to avoid further confrontation with Rutherford and his associates – so the major had taken it upon himself to make discreet enquiries.

      Not French, as Hawkwood had first supposed, but half French and half Portuguese, on her mother’s side. Her father had been the Marquis de Varesne, a minister under Louis XVI, and one of the hundreds of aristos sent to the guillotine. More relevant was the fact that he had been a close associate of the Comte d’Artois, currently in exile in England, and friend to Lord Mandrake, which explained her presence at the ball.

      “I’ll say one thing, my friend,” the major had commented, “you’ve excellent taste in women, but by God your method of making their acquaintance leaves a lot to be desired.”

      The sound of Neville’s voice brought Hawkwood out of his reverie.

      “On my mark, gentlemen.” There was a pause. “Begin!”

      Glancing to his right, Hawkwood saw that Lawrence was talking to himself. He realized with a jolt that the major was counting off the paces in accompaniment to Neville’s metronomic drone.

      “Two … three … four …”

      Their footsteps fell soft and silent on the damp grass. Rutherford was facing north, Hawkwood south. The direction was deliberate. It meant neither man had the advantage of the sun at his back.

      “Five … six … seven …”

      Hawkwood adjusted his grip on the pistol butt and felt warm beads of perspiration slide beneath the hairs at the back of his neck.

      “Eight … nine … ten …”

      Something nagged at Hawkwood. He couldn’t think what it was. Then he realized.

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