The Matters at Mansfield

Thirty-One

Lord Sennex’s shot missed.

Darcy heard the ball whistle past. Then he lowered his pistol, pointing it at the ground.

The viscount stared at him, at first uncomprehending. Then he exploded.

“You refuse to fire at all? What is the meaning of this? You call this a duel? This is a farce! I command you to fire!”

Darcy stood still. “My lord, I decline.”

“I said fire, damn you!”

Darcy bowed to his lordship and started to leave the field.

“This is not to be countenanced! How dare you insult me in this manner? This is supposed to be a contest of honor!”

Darcy met Colonel Fitzwilliam and they continued walking together toward the others. The viscount walked faster. He rushed over to the open case, threw down his discharged gun, and grabbed the small pistol.

“Stop!”

Darcy halted. The viscount had the pistol aimed straight at Darcy’s chest.

He had not foreseen this, and regretted that he had moved so near the spectators. Elizabeth was somewhere behind Lord Sennex — he could not quite see her — but Anne and Colonel Fitzwilliam both stood within the viscount’s range. As, of course, did he.

“Put the weapon down, Lord Sennex,” he said calmly. “The duel is over.”

The viscount was so angry that tremors seized him. He reached up and fully cocked the pistol.

“There were to be four shots fired today.” His hoarse voice quavered. “If you will not take the fourth, I shall.”

“My lord, I will not.”

“Very well, then.”

The viscount pulled the trigger. There was a spark as flint struck frizzen, snapping open the pan.

But no explosion.

The pan was empty.

The viscount’s astonished expression rapidly transformed to one of rage. He looked from the useless weapon to Darcy accusingly. With a cry, he advanced, raising the pistol as if to strike Darcy with it.

He stopped suddenly at two sounds from behind him.

A hammer being cocked. And Elizabeth’s voice.

“Hold, sir! I am armed.”