The evening was already off to a bumpy start, not that Thornhaugh was expected to waste a moment's time breaking down his opponent. It was beyond incredible how skillful the man was at sniffing out another's weakness, and how with such precision he was able to exploit it without a care, let alone fear, of retaliation, in this case before the very first challenge. But then Darcy knew that Thornhaugh lived (miraculously so) to test the limits of his fellow man, of humanity in general, that he was endlessly, abjectly captivated by the excessive reactions a mere word could elicit. Just as he knew how to strike terror into the heart of a weaker foe with a flash of the eye and brandishing of a blade, so knew he the oft-superior power of language, that the stoutest, sweetest, mildest, or meekest could be violently roused with the right barb flung at the right time.

This facet of his character was first revealed to Darcy in the sweltering Season of thirteen, when his marriage was new and the gossip blistering, when he had stupidly allowed his vulnerable sister to be presented too early and his resilient bride to be marked for ridicule out of stubborn disinclination to openly correct Society's abhorrently false perception of her place in his family, his home, and his heart. He had fouled up, mistaken obstinacy for dignity, baulking in silence while they branded her a bumpkin, unladylike, impertinent, an eccentric to be exhibited for their perverse entertainment, an object of his passion that could not be owned with pride. He had turned the other cheek while they inferred that he had been enfeebled by a pair of fine eyes, that he was in fact ashamed of her inferiority, revolted by her relations, and regretful of his choice. Their presumptions likewise prompted no retribution, no real effort on his part to set them down into their rightful place and hoist his beloved wife into hers.

That is, until Thornhaugh finally made the dare.

Darcy had borne the acid burn of that man's tongue in the midst of their one athletic bout at Angelo's in which the methods applied by his unsavory opponent, though an expert fencer, were not quite measuring up to Darcy's, thereby setting off a drastic move to triumph by less physical means. With both men panting after another vigorous round and another point in Darcy's favor, Thornhaugh's well-timed echoing of popular perception with regards to his marriage ran through his heart like an arrow, sharp and excruciating, driving an already tense Darcy to the brink before a rapt throng of fellow sportsmen. He had nearly responded just as his nature commanded in such moments, with a stiff upper lip and spreading of distance between himself and the discomposing truth. He had almost satisfied Thornhaugh's aim to be handed the victory, nearly storming from the academy as he had stormed from the Hunsford parsonage after a similar blow rousing similar feelings. He had come so close to surrendering, but did not, could not, for what had it served him up to that point but more anguish? In that face-to-face confrontation he had rallied, held firm to his well-honed discipline, taken the en garde stance, battled harder, and then landed the winning point, leaving Thornhaugh in mute disbelief at having, perchance for the first time in ages, underrated his adversary. So was planted, to Elizabeth's trust, the seed of respect for the sort of man this rogue noble typically reviled as much as Darcy reviled the likes of him. And yet that victory had schooled Darcy, had stirred up the courage to fight the next battle that very evening at the famed Almack's venue, where Georgiana was primed to perform a solo before a packed assembly of cynics, sycophants, and childlike thinkers ever dependent on the thoughts of others. There he had pronounced as a bellman at the square his love for and pride in Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, who was then taken into his arms for a scandalous waltz played by his dear sister, his brave blossoming rose just as fed up with the social order and just as ready to rebel for her own reasons. At the dance's end came again stunned silence by all but a very few, including one Marquess Thornhaugh, whose applause was immediate and vociferous.

It was that side of him—the warrior, the radical, the revolutionary—Darcy could not but look upon with reverence.

What he could never admire was how frequently, gleefully, and incautiously this combatant invited danger, that being the constant probability of being called out, maimed, or murdered by an offended party, a risk that bade him master several means of attack and defense but never to employ safer methods of gaining the mental advantage. Even his terminal state of babe-like fragility was no constraint, in fact seemed to further embolden him to dare one possessing more than enough muscle to dispatch him with one clean shot to do just that. The temptation was too enticing to a man of his unique passions. Coupled with full acceptance of his steadily waning lifespan he had no more cares to give but to the rules that he himself had so painstakingly crafted for this one last experience. There was no use in trying to make Blackwell understand this, to have him respect as his mad rival these terms. No, he would learn by trial just as Darcy had, and until then (unless Fred killed him first) would Thornhaugh take pure and utter pleasure in provocation. By virtue of raw, unfettered compulsion could he simply not resist igniting the wick, standing back, and enjoying the blast, even when standing directly in front of the cannon.

"Why not cool down and come back on the morrow for your missus?" He grinned upon entrance with a stoic Miss Baxter in tow. "I assure you that she will be well entertained."

Fred's reaction nearly put an end to the evening then and there, which would have suited Darcy fine but for the fact that they were at neither a fencing academy nor gaming hell but his own drawing-room, and therefore could not stand idly by while one of two ruthless competitors tore the frailer one limb from limb. Darcy moved at the same instant as Blackwell, but with more floor to cover failed to intervene before his wild-eyed neighbor stopped in his charge just short of collision to snarl, "Get ready to snap your fingers, Darcy, for it would be worth a sound beating from big Angus to lay this corpse to rest once and for all."

"And it would be my honor to have you deliver that fatal blow," said a perfectly placid Thornhaugh. "I shall rest in peace knowing how effortlessly I was able to cut a politicaster down to his true animal form."

Darcy held steadfast against the squall, attending the two forces with a resolve not to rely on brute strength for the settling of each and every altercation. Only the employment of wit had ever proven effective when sorting out either man; and thus he used the time within their highly charged exchange to think and respond with calm rationale: "You have broken the terms already, Lord Thornhaugh, by antagonizing the opposition before the official start of the event. Congratulations, Blackwell, you have won the first contest by penalty."

Both rivals took some moments to fully grasp what had just occurred. Blinking stupidly, Thornhaugh glanced at his watch then back at Darcy, his pale neck flushed pink with the realization of his blunder. Had he waited but a minute or so longer…

Fred stared in surprise before shades of satisfaction spread over his fitter, tanner features. He smiled all the way to the sideboard, and flouting the bread knife tore a chunk from the loaf to devour with gusto. "I dare say this might be fun after all," he muffled over a mouthful.

Thornhaugh clenched the fist not wrapped over his walking stick, and then bit out an obscenity that made Baxter recoil in disgust. Darcy rolled his weary eyes and said, "Miss Baxter, I relieve you of your duties to his Lordship for the remainder of the evening; and pray forgive my lack of forethought. Clearly there are things that will be said and done this evening to which no decent woman as yourself ought to bear witness." His expression luckily left her with no doubt as to his meaning behind the added request: "If you would be so kind as to assist Maguire and Bridges with the management of the staff, I should be exceedingly grateful."

"Yes, Mr. Darcy," said the governess, who scolded her charge with a stern glance before quitting the room.

Thornhaugh, apparently feeling the sting of her silent reproof, mustered enough humility to say to Blackwell, "I do not suppose an earnest apology would suffice as satisfactory recompense?"

"Not this time, I think." At this moment Fred took notice of Thornhaugh's much enhanced wardrobe. "Now that is the sort of fashion that stirs a room and wins over a crowd. Well done! A praiseworthy improvement." He raised a bite of bread in Darcy's direction as a salute. "And praises to you, my benevolent friend, for there is no greater act of grace than charity."

To Darcy's surprise was that obvious bit of bait seized upon. "I rely on no one's charity!" Thornhaugh snapped, "nor have I ever—"

"Of course not. Now give up your walking stick."

Darcy stepped forward. "Fred—"

"Darcy," Thornhaugh cautioned, his ebony glare fixed on Blackwell, "do not interfere," and then tossed the club to the nearest footman. If the man were in danger of toppling over with the sudden loss of that prop, there was no indication given as he said simply, "Next game, sir. Winner's choice."

Fred grinned. "You know, I did have something in mind, something well out of the realm of convention and therefore ought to suit you nicely. Darcy, you own a pair of dueling pistols, do you not?"

Darcy again opened his mouth to protest, only to be thwarted by the sharp raising of Thornhaugh's hand. "Please answer, Mr. Darcy."

"I do," he reluctantly replied.

Fred brightened. "Then have them fetched for us if you please, sir. And we shall need a target as well, for I mean to challenge our friend's marksmanship against my own. Let us measure this brittle sod to the legend." He said to Thornhaugh, "Shall we meet out on the front lawn in, say, ten minutes, sir?" And then he sauntered out of the room distinctly full of himself.

When Darcy and Thornhaugh were alone, the latter inquired with a dubious look, "From where were these pistols of yours purchased?"

"St. Étienne," said Darcy.

"Year?"

"Turn of the century. Two or three, I think, just before the war. My father, he—"

"Oh, I deduced already that you are not the original owner. Perchance have these guns ever been fired? loaded? removed?"

Darcy affirmed they had not.

"No, indeed. You were not formed to appreciate that which dispatches so cleanly and with little more effort than the squeezing of a trigger. You have shot plenty of birds, no doubt, as a matter of social conformity; but every kill tore at your heart, did it not?"

Darcy, as usual, could scarce deny the truth of his words, and thus replied with grudging acquiescence to the spot-on assessment, "Guns are a coward's weapon."

"Are they now? I once witnessed a harlot ward off a drunk and belligerent punter with a Toby kept not three feet from her reach at all times. And I remember thinking, 'What a coward is she!'" Darcy was silent. "And what of Matlock, pray? Does he know you think him gutless?"

"Do not distort me. Richard knows my position on this subject and is as settled on his opinion as I am in mine. And before you rattle on again, allow me to state further that I consider not my principles compromised in the recognizing of a hunter's need for food, a woman's right to her own defense, or a soldier's service to King and Country. There is room for both the upholding of my beliefs and respect for another's. Not that I would expect you to understand so civil a notion."

"Do not distort me," said Thornhaugh, smiling. He sunk down, letting the arm of the sofa bear his slight but burdensome weight. "We contrarians seek not understanding so much as a relief from boredom. I think you know that we understand plenty…" He suddenly flashed Darcy's forfeited band of gold between two scrawny fingers that he commenced to rolling from pinkie to thumb with a magician's flourish, absently, like it were an empty charm of no real use but for the performing of this trick alone. "…that we speak to incite, taking pleasure in our own impropriety, meaning no harm yet somehow causing it with our strange compulsion to express feelings, ideas, and general thoughts too active to bear innoxious, unthreatening, excruciating monotony." Darcy, suffering no incognizance of his meaning, feigned indifference to its accompanying taunt as his fingering of the band endured. "Not only are you intimately familiar with our ways but admire them, in fact yearn for the occasional challenge to your long-held philosophies, inopportune though it may be." He rolled the ring once more, then with a sleight of hand vanished it from sight. "Now back to business, ol' boy. Have you not a set of pistols that brook less of a chance of malfunction?"

"They are flawlessly crafted, fully operational models. My father would have had it no other way."

"Good. I am satisfied."

"Just a moment! This challenge caught me by surprise. Furnishing it is easy enough, but I must procure someone better suited to administer the proceedings. The guns will need to be cleaned, inspected, tested…"

"Oh, now where is the fun in that? No, none of that nonsense. Let us get on with things." He checked his watch. "Just go and set the scene as the man says. I shall be out directly."

"Don't be daft! I am not even sure of their weight. You suffer a marked disadvantage in that regard. And then you have the rebound to consider."

"Darcy…"

"I shall station a man at your back, to catch hold of you should the blast—"

"You will not! Now Darcy, you performed competently, I dare say brilliantly, in the first round. Do not disappoint me now, for I will not have you embarrassing me all evening. Go and tend to your role and leave me to mine!"

As if he had forgotten his own infirmity, Thornhaugh launched himself off the sofa arm to walk out in the same overconfident manner as his rival, only to be propelled face forward to the rug with a loud "Oof!" His topper met the same fate not three feet from his sprawled, spindly frame as he groaned in pain and fought for breath. This time Darcy did not bother to try and help him to his feet, for he knew what the response would be; and sure enough was his notion of an attempt put to rest with Thornhaugh's rasping threat to gob blood all over his pretty carpet should such an attempt be made. "My hat, Colston," he gritted out, hand reaching. "Darcy…go!"

The beaver was swiftly fetched by the same footman who had caught his cane, Darcy meanwhile marching off as commanded, hands tightly clasped behind his back in utter annoyance. Damn this whole evening, and it had only just begun!

By some marvel feat of strength did Thornhaugh, with obliging young Colston's assistance, make it to the torch-lit park well within Fred's arbitrarily allotted time frame, his limp pronounced and hand clasped upon the servant's shoulder. Darcy had fully expected his staff, including Miss Baxter, to take a swift and enduring shine to him. His governess, though as weak as anyone to the man's allure, had the wisdom at least to not be duped by his shrewd design of forming alliances as just another means of strengthening the fortress so painstakingly constructed about him as China's great wall. Thornhaugh was yet ignorant of Darcy's design to topple that fortress and rummage through the ruins for the human underneath. When dear Lizzy had so boldly made the offer to adopt him as a member of their family, Thornhaugh reacted in just the manner of which Darcy would have cautioned her, that being panic and aversion to any explicit attempts at salvaging his humanity or his soul. To bare either would be like throwing himself out into the cold, wet, bleak unknown, relying on the kindness of others for warmth. An unthinkable prospect. By God, he would keep himself warm or justly bear a fool's damnation.

Darcy and Blackwell patiently awaited his slow and steady arrival, with several more footmen and big Angus encircling the makeshift, torch-lit site. A table had been set out, upon which rested a bottle of wine, two glasses, loading tackle, and an open mahogany case that housed a pair of dueling pistols brought home by George Darcy from his last and final French tour.

Thornhaugh released his human crutch and hobbled up to the table.

"Put up that watch of yours," said Blackwell. "I mean to have it in my trophy room."

"Do you now? To the right or left of your wife?"

Darcy winced with the expectation of another clash, yet Fred merely sniffed before replying with perfect calm, "Her place is in my bed as your wife's is in her tomb," and then was well pleased with the flash of disquiet his riposte elicited. "No offense to you, Darcy," he added contritely, "for I know how hard you and Matlock tried to talk sense into your poor misguided cousin, God rest her soul."

Neutrality bade Darcy to give no hint of response as he thought on how quickly Fred was learning how to successfully goad this particular enemy, though his understanding of Anne's marriage was pan-deep, as was his knowledge built on naught but gossip.

Thornhaugh's face was empty of all expression as he gingerly removed one of the pistols, Darcy pointedly mentioning that they had yet to be loaded as he observed the man study its sleek design with what could have been admiration…or intent. There was simply no way to be certain, until Thornhaugh snapped into his sportsmanlike state of absolute focus on the challenge at hand. Keenly he studied the rather large archery board stationed close to where he and his opponent stood. Then weighing the gun in his hand ("three pounds or thereabouts"), he placed his treasured timepiece upon the table. "Against that Friesian of yours, Blackwell."

"My what!" Fred had been counting guineas in his palm when Thornhaugh made the utterance that stopped his tally cold. "What need have you for a bloody horse?"

"What need have I for coin? And it is not a horse I desire but your horse. Moreover, what need have you for such a mount? Where is your suit of armor? At daybreak art thou riding into battle, pray? Saw you a floating image, Sir Frederick, amid the round table that sent you on a Godly quest for Camelot?"

Fred countered the jibe with, "Oh, how deeply thou woundest me with such piercing ridicule! Thorny by name, thorny by nature."

"Clearly you are too clever be touched by my schoolyard antics. But honestly, what is your horse's name?" Thornhaugh grinned at Fred's sudden rise in color. "Oh Lord, is it Pendragon?"

"Perceval," Fred answered thinly, the resulting snigger inducing a sharp glance at Darcy who was forcefully concealing his expression behind a raised fist. From that point Blackwell saw fit to argue the unevenness of the stakes. "My mount is worth far more than that pocket watch."

"This would be a fair point indeed, were this not a special occasion in which fairness is forsworn. Let us compare and contrast ourselves for a moment. Though I sit well above you in birth, you outshine me in circumstance. Your corruption is refined while mine is coarse. As you see, my sun is setting and yours…well, no need to go on. We have not fairness, but we do have balance, which is all that life requires."

"You accuse me of corruption? By what evidence?"

"By virtue of your service to the governing class in which the bounty of evidence is boundless. Now take no offense; it is a mere statement of fact, that we are corrupt men, Sir Frederick, as were our fathers before us and theirs before them, and so forth."

Blackwell seethed with resentment, taking a calming breath before uttering, "You know nothing of my father." Thornhaugh's look inferred the opposite, inducing Fred to snarl defensively, "He was—he is all that is excellent!"

"While mine was execrable. Very well, I regret what you clearly took as an insult. I shall trod no more on your illusions, Blackwell, but this matter of stakes bears no further argument; for it is stated in the terms signed by you that monetary value is immaterial. As an object is a mark of sentiment, its value a state of mind or a point of pride, the aim of each contender is therefore to weaken both."

"Were you any weaker, I could kick dirt over you."

"I live in dirt. Bury me."

"You say it as a dare, or a gambler's mantra. I find you more intriguing by the minute, Thornhaugh, but your world is truly beyond my comprehension."

"Is it so very foreign to you? Surely you have occasioned a den once or twice; or does your endless search for the Holy Grail leave little time for such sordid leisure?"

At this, more smothered laughter burst from the otherwise stock-still footmen. Darcy struggled mightily to keep a straight face. Fred flared with anger. "Am I really to endure this—" he stifled the complaint before stating, "Indeed, your world is foreign to me. I much prefer gentlemanlike pursuits—fencing, fox hunting, hare coursing—over your frivolities that leave family fortunes squandered and men broken, destitute…murdered…"

"That it does," said Thornhaugh, adding flippantly, "whereas no such consequence was ever borne out of the quest for political gain. Now shall you put up that black beast of yours or not? Take the risk, Sir Frederick, else why bother? A loss ought to hurt, at least a little, and I can guarantee you of an injury on my end."

The proposed stakes were then and there deemed acceptable as Fred cried, "Bugger it!" declared he had plenty of stock to spare, and then requested of Darcy to have the pistols loaded and target readied, a task to which Hodges proved qualified. Five minutes later stood the two competitors, flintlocks in hand, before the mark that was placed at a distance of twenty yards. "Keep it well lit!" Fred instructed the torch-bearing footmen, then said to Thornhaugh, "My personal best is a center-bottom shot from this radius. Yours?"

"About the same, but from a ship's deck. I took down a nuisance of a herring gull in midair."

Fred's brow snapped up in awe. "My God, that is impressive!"

"I made it my business to master moving targets. I would practice on floating markers at sea, and then the crew began laying wagers on me."

"What age were you?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve!"

"Or was it eleven? In any case, that shot won me ten pounds and the captain's meal in his own quarters, while he was made to ride steerage for a night on a cabin boy's rations."

Fred laughed heartily. "I take it you did not care for the shipmaster."

"He was a prig. But I learned a good deal on that voyage, even though I am now lamenting my minimal experience with stationary marks. You have a good advantage, I think." Thornhaugh bowed. "After you, sir."

The park went quiet as Blackwell took aim with surprisingly no further baiting from Thornhaugh, who gave his watch one more glance before setting it down again, shades of disappointment darkening his gaunt face. As Darcy pondered the meaning behind it, the first shot was made with almost no recoil and shooter steady as a rock. Though the red had been punctured, a most impressive feat from so far away, Fred was plainly dissatisfied, for it was the yellow center that would have secured him an almost definite win. Cried a footman upon close inspection, "Seven-point mark, sir!"

It was a more than respectable score, a mere three points from a perfect ten, and yet Fred kicked the ground in anger all the same. Thornhaugh stepped up to take his turn, gaze fixed hard upon the yellow center. Pressing his palm against the air he ordered tersely, "Five more yards," which raised every eyebrow in proximity. It took a more forceful repeating of this instruction to convince the servants that he had not been joking, and then two footmen sprang to obedience, the target backed that much farther to the shock of everyone but Blackwell, whose dismissive scoff was not quite convincing to Darcy's ears.

Thornhaugh proceeded to ready his weapon in a fashion strongly contrasting that of his opponent. Whereas Fred had opted to aim with arm fully outstretched, his rival made the odd yet intriguing move of bending both arms at eye level as if to hug his own shoulders. He rested his grip upon the crook of his elbow and lined up his shot with needle-like focus, his arm position obscuring his outer vision to essentially narrow his worldview down to the small gap needed for this endeavor. To even the nearest spectators could little but his eyes be seen, his grip so close as to almost touch his nose through which he breathed slowly, deeply, and roughly.

Most unexpectedly, the sight sparked a vivid, violent memory that made Darcy's breath hitch and eyes glaze over. In a flash he relived the shock and panic of being shoved to the ground with bull force just before a shot meant for him was caught in the wrong man's side. No sooner had Darcy hit the dirt than he was nearly deafened by the sharp crack of Thornhaugh's shot to Wickham's voice box, followed by the frantic, gruesome gurgling sounds of his old nemesis futilely grasping his bloodied throat in the desperate death throes of a life wasted.

And then Caroline Cotter's screams…

"Was Lord Somerset a moving target?" Fred baited insufferably, though he himself had been given the courtesy of silence during his turn.

Damn you, Blackwell, thought Darcy when Thornhaugh lowered his pistol. But just an instant later did he realize the motion had less to do with Fred's taunt than the sudden perception of a carriage emerging from the torch-free blackness across the lawn, then another. Perched lanterns blazed atop the opulent pair of transports driving up the lane at a quickened pace.

Darcy examined with a feeling of dread the wholly unexpected visitors careering toward them. The first carriage was unrecognized, while the second…

"By God they have arrived!" cheered Thornhaugh. "And all together no less!"

It was during Darcy's preoccupation with the fast-approaching caravan that a shot rang out, jerking his attention to Thornhaugh, whose shot had been made. All eyes went to the archery board. Cried the footman, "Nine-point shot, milord!"