In time – once the swelling around his eye had abated and he could breathe without cursing – Theo would come to view the entire affair with a sort of rueful amusement. The image of himself, sprawled upon the flagstones in a state of undress and disgrace, being methodically pummelled by an irate Benedict Tolliver (who was quite obviously three brandies deep and spoiling for blood), while Hetty, her gown in a shocking state of disarray, attempted to deter her brother by repeatedly kicking him in the shins and shrieking, “You complete and utter ass!” – well, it would be a tale worth recounting… eventually.
At present, however, Ben did not so much as flinch. He merely grunted and swung once more. Theo, by some miracle of instinct, rolled sideways and narrowly avoided the worst of it, though the manoeuvre brought him crashing into the rose bushes with enough force to jar every bruised bone in his body. He landed hard, clenched his teeth against the wave of nausea that followed. “For heaven’s sake, Tolliver,” Theo gasped, “do at least afford me the courtesy of defending myself.”
“You defended yourself straight into my sister’s corset!” Ben bellowed, raising his fist once more.
“I never touched her corset,” Theo groaned. “Though, should you insist upon particulars, I am now acquainted with the fastening – now kindly cease hitting me!”
Another blow landed – less precise this time, more a flailing arc of righteous sibling rage – sending Theo’s shoulder hard against the unforgiving edge of a stone planter.
“I shall kill you,” Benedict snarled.
“Cease this at once!” Hetty shrieked from behind, grasping her brother’s coat with both hands. “You are behaving like a lunatic!”
“I am defending your honour!”
“My honour does not require the splintering of anyone’s spleen!”
With a rough jerk of his elbow, Ben pushed her aside – not with violence, but enough to cause her to stumble. That, it seemed, was the final straw. With a sound that could only be described as a war-cry, Hetty hurled herself at her brother.
“You absolute turnip-brained ox!” she shrieked, landing a sharp blow to the space between his shoulder blades.
Ben lurched forwards, clearly startled. From the ground, Theo – bruised, breathless, and now slightly awed – blinked up at her. “Good God. That was a capital hit.”
He did not linger to admire it. Ben was already regaining his footing, turning with his fists still raised, and Theo, guided more by survival than valour, scrambled upright and staggered behind the nearest rose bush, clutching his ribs with one hand.
“Right,” he gasped. “Up. Upright. Marvellous.”
Ben was turning back towards him with renewed fury, but Hetty had planted herself firmly in his path, both palms braced against her brother’s chest. “If you strike him again, so help me, Ben Tolliver, I shall make it my life’s work to ensure you never bed another woman as long as you draw breath. I shall inform every debutante, operadancer and barmaid in London that you wet the bed until the age of ten.”
“That is a damnable lie!”
“It is entirely true,” she snapped. “And unless you wish to see it embroidered on a sampler and hung above the fireplace at White’s, I strongly suggest you take three very large steps backwards.”
Theo, still leaning heavily against the rose bush, coughed. “For what it’s worth, I should very much like to see that sampler.”
Ben rounded on him. “Shut your infernal mouth.”
Theo held up a hand. “Would it assist matters” he said hoarsely, “if I formally requested the duel now? It might save you the tedium of bludgeoning me to death before sunrise.”
“Dawn,” Benedict growled, jabbing a finger into Theo’s chest. “Hampstead Heath. Pistols.”
“Pistols?” Theo grimaced, more from the jab than the challenge. “How utterly barbaric.”
“It is the only honourable course.”
“Is it? Whatever became of exchanging barbed remarks and mutually pretending the other had perished abroad?”
“Silence!” Ben snapped. “Horatio shall be my second.”
“Oh, Lord,” Theo groaned. “Naturally. Of course he shall.”
From somewhere behind the laurels came Cousin Horatio’s eager voice: “Ought I wear my duelling cravat? The one with the embroidered pistols?”
“I wished to be your second!” cried Lottie, bursting forth from the foliage in high dudgeon, entirely without gloves. “I volunteered first!”
“You struck me,” Horatio replied with wounded dignity. “In the face.”
“I was demonstrating my commitment to the cause.”
