“Blackstone?” Alworth’s expression was steely.
The man blustered, but eventually he stammered forth an apology.
“In this case, I apologise as well, my lord,” Pen said graciously. “For having called you a pig-widgeon. A pasty-faced pig-widgeon, I believe it was.”
“No, Pen,” Alworth said softly. “I do believe it was corny-faced. Not pasty-faced.”
“You may be right. A corny-faced—”
“Apology accepted.” Blackstone burst forth. His face was red.
“I believe the matter has been honourably settled,” said Forsyth, whose face sagged with disappointment. “Shake hands?”
Blackstone grimaced. Pen stuck out her hand. They shook hands.
Pen wiped her hand unobtrusively on her trousers afterwards.
The men nodded at them and walked away. Blackstone almost ran.
Pen stared after him.
“That was it? All the excitement for nothing?”
“Indeed, it seems somewhat of an anti-climax.” Alworth searched his pocket for his snuffbox.
“You knew how he was going to react. You knew from the very first he would never meet me once he saw you.” Pen breathed heavily. “You knew he’d withdraw.”
Alworth tapped his snuffbox, flicked it open, and took a pinch. “Possibly.”
“Best shot in the entire country?” Pen elbowed Alworth. “What is it you forgot to tell me, here? The man almost pissed his pants when he saw you.”
Alworth packed up the pistols. “He is a coward. But, yes. I think I’m not such a terrible shot myself.”
It occurred to Pen that she’d never seen him shoot. He’d only ever lethershoot. He must’ve known they would back out as soon as they saw his face.
“Thank you,” she said gruffly.
“You’re welcome, child.” He threw her a swift smile. “Let us go eat something. All this excitement makes one positively ravenous.”
