What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

phaeton’s high seat. Across the mist-blown field, Captain John Talbot’s gaze met and held Sebastian’s for one long moment. Then he turned away to strip off his coat and gloves.
    “Right then,” called the captain’s second, a mustachioed military man who clapped his hands together in a false show of heartiness. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”
    “Those rumors I mentioned?” Christopher said in an undertone as he and Sebastian moved forward. “They say the last time Talbot fought a duel, he chose twenty-five paces, then turned and fired after twelve. Killed the man. Of course, Talbot and his second swore the distance had been settled at twelve paces all along.”
    “And his rival’s second?”
    “Shut up about it when Talbot threatened to call him out—for naming Talbot a liar.”
    Sebastian gave his friend a slow smile. “Then if Talbot should have occasion to call you out for a similar reason, I suggest you choose swords.”
    “You’ve the pistols?” said Talbot’s second, as Sir Christopher walked up to him.
    A brace of pistols in a blue velvet-lined walnut box was produced, inspected, and loaded by the seconds. Talbot made his choice. Sebastian took the other pistol in his hand, felt the cool, familiar weight against his palm, the deadly hardness of steel against his curled finger.
    “Ready, gentlemen?”
    Back-to-back they stood, then began to walk, each step measured to the steady drone of the counted paces.
    “One, two . . .”
    The doctor ostentatiously turned his back, but Christopher stood hisground, his eyes narrowed and watchful, his face pale, anxious. Sebastian knew his friend wasn’t only worried about Talbot’s intentions, that Christopher had other misgivings. Christopher didn’t understand that there was a fine line between seeking death and being indifferent to its occurrence. A line Sebastian had yet to cross.
    “. . . three, four . . .”
    He had an unexpected memory, of a misty summer morning long ago, on a grassy slope near the Hall, when his two older brothers had still been alive, and his mother. The air had smelled of the fresh scones they’d brought for tea, and ferns, and the restless sea beating against the rocks in the cove far below. They’d played Drakes-and-Dragons that morning, the four of them, counting out the movements “. . . five, six . . .” as they wove in and out, even his mother, her head thrown back, laughing, the strengthening sun bright on her golden hair. Only his sister, Amanda, had sat aloof, as she always did. Aloof and disapproving and angry for reasons Sebastian never quite understood.
    “. . . eight, nine . . .”
    The metal of the pistol’s trigger felt cold and solid against Sebastian’s finger, the wind-swirled mist damp against his cheeks. He forced himself to focus on this moment, this place. The lark called again, from nearer the base of the hill. He could hear the gurgle of a distant stream, the clip-clop of a horse, ridden at a slow trot up the road.
    “. . . ten, eleven . . .”
    It was the hesitation in the other man’s stride between the tenth and eleventh count that warned him. That, and the whisper of cloth rubbing against cloth as Talbot turned.
    “. . . twelve—”
    Sebastian spun about and dropped into a crouch at the precise moment that John Talbot fired, so that the bullet intended for Sebastian’s heart grazed his forehead instead. Then, gun empty and dangling slack in his hand, Talbot had no choice but to stand, body turned sideways, jaw clenched tight, nostrils flaring with each indrawn breath as he waited for Sebastian’s shot.
    Calmly, purposefully, Sebastian raised his pistol, took aim, and fired. Captain Talbot let out a sharp cry and pitched forward.
    The doctor scrambled out of the gig and ran toward him.
    “Bloody hell, Sebastian,” said Christopher. “You’ve killed him.”
    “Hardly.” Sebastian let the pistol fall to his side. “But I imagine he’ll find it damned uncomfortable to sit down for a while.”
    “I say, I say, I say,” blustered Talbot’s second, his mustache working back and forth. “Most ungentlemanly conduct, this. Englishmen stand and fire weapons from their feet . Someone ought to fetch the constables. There’ll be murder charges brought for this, mark my words.”
    “Be quiet, man,” said the doctor, snapping open his case. “No one I’ve treated yet has died from being clipped across the arse.”
    Sir Christopher began to laugh, while