Free Devil's Cub by Georgette Heyer Page A

Wraxall furiously, and broke off, staring inthe direction of my lord’s pointing finger. One of a cluster of three candles was no longer burning. The voice of Mr. Comyn said calmly: “Quite remarkable shooting—under the circumstances.”
    Lord Rupert, forgetting larger issues, called out: “Outed it, begad, and not touched the wax! Good lad!”
    The explosion brought those still remaining in the other rooms hurrying to the scene. Vidal paid no heed. “Don’t know me very well, do you?” he repeated, and laughed again.
    Cholmondley, casting a glance of rebuke at Rupert, admonished Mr. Quarles once more. “Go home and sleep on it, Quarles. If you want to fight, fight sober. You’re no match for Vidal else.”
    A stout individual dressed in discreet black pushed his way through the knot of men in the doorway. “What’s this, gentlemen?” he said. “Who fired that shot?”
    Vidal raised his brows. “You interrupt, Timothy. I fired that shot.”
    The stout man looked aghast. “My lord, my lord, what wild work is this? You’ll ruin me, my lord!” He saw the case containing the pistols and made a pounce for them. My lord’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist. Timothy met his eyes for a moment, and said distressfully: “My lord, I beg of you—my lord, don’t do it here!”
    He was thrust back. “Damn you, stop whining!” Vidal sprang up, overturning his chair. “Am I to sit here till noon while Mr. Quarles makes up his mind? Name your friends!”
    Quarles rolled a hot eye round the circle. No one came forward. “I’ll act for myself since you’re all so shy,” he sneered.
    Mr. Comyn, his sedateness quite unimpaired, rose from his seat. “Since it’s my Lord Vidal’s honour that is inquestion it will be wise to have a gentleman to act for you, sir,” he said.
    “To hell with the lot of you!” swore Quarles. “I’ll act for myself.”
    “Your pardon, sir,” returned Mr. Comyn smoothly, “but I think you must see that if you doubt his lordship’s good faith, your seconds should carefully examine these pistols, which I apprehend are his lordship’s own. In short, I offer myself at your disposal.”
    “Obliged to you,” growled Quarles.
    Vidal was leaning on a chair back. “That’s a mighty long speech,” he remarked, with just that faint suggestion of slurring his words together. “Is it to insult me, or not?”
    “Such, my lord, is not at the moment my intention,” replied Mr. Comyn.
    The Marquis laughed. “Didn’t know you had it in you. You’re devilish correct, ain’t you?”
    “I trust I am conversant with the rules governing such affairs as these, my lord. Will you name your friends?”
    The Marquis was still looking at him with an amused and not unkindly eye. “Charles, you might act for me,” he said, without turning his head.
    Mr. Fox arose, sighing. “Oh, very well, Dominic, if you mustbehave sodamned irregularly.” He went apart with Mr. Comyn, and they inspected the weapons with due solemnity, and pronounced them identical.
    Lord Rupert pushed his way unceremoniously to his nephew’s side. “Go put your head in a bucket of water, Vidal!” he said. “Stap me if I ever heard the like of you to-night! Mind you, I don’t say the fellow don’t deserve to have a hole in him, but do the thing decently, my boy, that’s all I ask!” He broke off to hurl somewhat conflicting advice to Captain Wraxall. “Move those candles a shade to the left, Wraxall. Must have the light fair to both.”
    The table was pushed back. Mr. Fox and Mr. Comyn were measuring the paces.
    The pistols were presented. My lord took his in what looked to be an alarmingly slack hold. Apparently his uncle did not think so, for he said urgently: “Don’t kill him, Dominic!”
    The seconds stepped back, the word was given. My lord’s pistol hand jerked up swiftly; there was a flash and a report, followed almost instantly by an answering shot. Mr. Quarles’s bullet buried itself in the wall beyond