LITMIR.BIZ

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his right cheek.

      “Eleven …” Followed by a pause that seemed to last for ever.

      “Twelve … Gentlemen, you may turn and fire.”

      Hawkwood spun quickly, sucked in his stomach muscles.

      A bright flash as the powder in Rutherford’s pistol ignited. The crack of the report was surprisingly loud in the crisp morning air. The sound echoed around the glade.

      Hawkwood felt the strike on his left side, a moment of acute pain and a fierce burning sensation as the ball parted the cloth of his shirt and the flesh beneath, searing across his exposed ribcage with the ferocity of a white-hot poker.

      The powder smoke dispersed slowly, revealing Rutherford frozen in shock at the sight of his opponent, not only still standing but with pistol not yet discharged. A second passed. Two seconds stretched to three. Hawkwood watched the blood drain slowly from Rutherford’s face. With great deliberation, Hawkwood extended his right arm, winced as the edge of his shirt rasped against his wound, took careful aim, and fired.

      Rutherford spun around. The pistol dropped from his fingers, and he went down. White faced, left hand clamped around the wound in his right arm, he stared up at Hawkwood as if unable to comprehend the fact that he had been shot. Hawkwood, feet braced, looked down at him for several moments before slowly lowering his pistol. Absently, he ran his hand along his belly. When he pulled it away it was smeared red.

      Lawrence was the first to recover. He ran up quickly, his face ashen. “Jesus! You’re shot! Here, let me see!” The major expelled air and looked around. “Goddammit! Where the hell’s that bloody sawbones?”

      Hawkwood grunted as Lawrence’s fingers probed his side. “It’s all right, Major. Only a flesh wound. I’ll live. The boy has greater need of him than I do.”

      Accompanied by a still fussing Lawrence, Hawkwood walked over to where Rutherford lay, supported by his second. By the time they got there the sleeve of Rutherford’s shirt had already been ripped away. It was steeped in blood. The surgeon’s mottled hands shook as he examined the wound. Teeth gritted, Rutherford writhed at the touch. Hawkwood couldn’t see if the ball had passed through the arm, but he suspected the bone was probably broken. He tossed the spent pistol on to the grass. “I believe that concludes our business.”

      Rutherford, blinking away tears, looked up. “You could have killed me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Why didn’t you?”

      Hawkwood shrugged. “Take your pick. It’s a beautiful morning. I’ve got better things to do. I’ve a criminal investigation to deal with; places to go, people to see. But you pay heed, boy. You ever get the urge to throw down the gauntlet again, you’d better be damned sure you can win.”

      Hawkwood retrieved his coat from Lawrence. “We’re done here, Major. Time to go. I’ve no wish to try and explain my presence to a roving police patrol. I’m in enough bloody trouble as it is.” He nodded to Neville and Campbell, who were looking back at him with something like awe on their faces. “Good day, gentlemen.”

      “You do know,” Lawrence said, as they left the clearing, “if it had been you who’d shot first and missed, it’s unlikely the boy would have been so merciful.”

      “You’re probably right,” Hawkwood admitted. “But then I wouldn’t have missed.”

      Lawrence threw a look at the Runner, but there was no humour or arrogance in Hawkwood’s expression. He had been stating a fact.

      “My God, you wanted him to shoot first! You expected him to miss? Jesus, you took a chance.”

      Hawkwood shrugged. “It was a calculation. I doubt he’s ever pointed a loaded pistol at anyone before. I had a feeling his nerves would get the better of him.”

      “Bloody hell,” Lawrence said. “So that’s why you spared him?”

      They emerged from the other side of the trees. A swathe of broad green meadow stretched before them.

      “There’s a time and place, Major. This wasn’t it. Call it a lesson in life.”

      Lawrence regarded Hawkwood with some doubt. “He’ll bear you a considerable grudge.”

      Hawkwood shrugged. “A grudge I can live with. Better than having his death on my conscience.”

      Lawrence blinked. “You were a soldier. You’ve killed before. What about Delancey? You killed him in a duel.”

      Hawkwood stopped walking. “Delancey was a professional. He’d fought other men in duels, and won. I couldn’t afford to give that bastard the edge. As I said before, Rutherford’s a boy, a foolish, arrogant boy, who got carried away. And in case you’ve forgotten, Major, I’m a police officer. I’m supposed to prevent bloody duels, not take part in them!”

      Lawrence fell silent. Then he grinned. “Has anyone ever told you, my friend, you’ve a tendency to sail mighty close to the wind?”

      For the first time since he had met him, Lawrence watched a smile of genuine amusement break across Hawkwood’s face. It was startling, he thought, how the Runner’s expression softened. The scar beneath Hawkwood’s eye all but disappeared.

      Hawkwood laughed. “Frequently, Major.” He thought it was probably wise not to tell the major about the ribbons of sweat that had been running down his back as he had listened to Neville counting out the steps.

      They had reached the footpath that ran along-side the King’s Road. Ahead of them lay the Hyde Park turnpike and the road leading to Piccadilly.

      “Well, at least we can be thankful for one thing,” Lawrence mused. “Rutherford’s unlikely to announce his defeat, especially when it was at the hands of someone who’s not even a gentleman!” The major grinned again then added seriously, “And I doubt Neville and Campbell will be anxious to spread gossip.”

      That was probably true, Hawkwood conceded. Duels were generally accepted to be private affairs. Although, over the years, there had been a few notable exceptions; usually when one or both of the principals possessed a high public profile. Fortunately, neither he nor Rutherford, despite the latter’s own high opinion of himself, fell into that category, so it was conceivable the affair would remain undetected by the authorities. The major had already assured Hawkwood that Mandrake’s servant had been taken care of. The jingle of sovereigns and the threat of reprisal had been sufficient to ensure that the footman’s mouth would remain for ever closed. As for the other witness, the woman, Hawkwood reasoned she was unlikely to advertise the incident. More probably she would want to put the whole sordid business behind her.

      Had he killed Rutherford, of course, it would have been a different matter. The major had railed against Rutherford’s arrant pig-headedness in not retracting his challenge. If the truth were told, Hawkwood asked himself, was he any different? In a moment of crass stupidity, aggravated by his own bitter prejudices, he’d allowed himself to be goaded into a senseless confrontation. The fact that he’d survived was due to nothing less than good fortune based on the inexperience and poor marksmanship of his opponent. In short, he had been lucky.

      He thought about James Read. The Chief Magistrate was a stern taskmaster but a fair one. He worked his officers hard, but in doing so, mindful of the often adverse conditions in which they operated, he allowed them an extraordinary degree of latitude. In exchange, he demanded and expected total dedication and loyalty. It was a matter of trust. By rising to the bait and accepting Rutherford’s challenge, Hawkwood was fully aware he’d betrayed that trust. And in doing so he had jeopardized everything; not only his career but his relationship with a man to whom he owed a great deal, a man he admired. Had he killed Rutherford, Hawkwood knew that his severest punishment would have been facing the look of disappointment on James Read’s face.

      Hawkwood flinched as pain from the wound flared across his belly. He should have let the physician examine him, he reflected, but then he remembered the man’s palsied hand shake. Medical attention would have to wait.

      They

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