Now, three days after the altercation at the Parthenon Club, they were approaching the churchyard where Smythe and Hart had agreed Will and Hampton would duel. Dawn was breaking, but they were close to the river that ran through the city, and a chill mist drifted across the road and the churchyard beyond, adding to the discomfort of the early morning and rendering visibility difficult at a distance. As they approached the church, they could see the light of a lantern winking through the mist.

          It had been agreed that both parties could bring a surgeon, and Smythe knew a retired Army surgeon who lived in London, a man named Jensen, who had agreed to come along. The hardest part of keeping the appointment had been getting Will out of the palace. Ordinarily, he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without an escort. But he had wrangled the King’s agreement to go out again with Smythe the night before and to sleep over in the Colonel’s flat rather than return to his apartment in the palace.

          As they neared the church, Will felt a familiar icy calm settle over him. In one important way, this was not new. He had faced men before who were trying to kill him, and he had wounded or killed them instead. This was going to be combat, and he was no stranger to it.

          The three walked their mounts off the street and into the churchyard. At this hour, all was quiet, although there were sounds of the city waking up in the distance -- a few church bells, the whistle of boats raising steam on the river. There were four figures in greatcoats standing by their horses waiting for them. Will recognized Hampton and Hart. The stocky man holding a black bag must be the agreed-upon surgeon. A tall, slender youth barely out of his teens held the lantern they had noticed. He must be a servant, Will decided. Probably one of Hampton’s.

          Will and his party dismounted and tied their horses to a post. Smythe strode forward and shook hands with Hart and the two introduced the doctors. Will missed the name of the doctor Hart had brought. No one bothered to introduce the servant boy. Meanwhile, Will and Hampton eyed each other in silence, not even nodding. Will saw that Hampton was removing his greatcoat and did the same, draping it over his saddle. Under it he wore riding breeches, half-boots and a warm wool sweater. He saw that Hampton was wearing a swallow-tailed coat and waistcoat and had removed the jacket. He noted Hampton wore thigh-high riding boots and wondered if these would hamper the man. But the boots appeared supple enough, so he supposed not.

          Captain Hart walked over to his mount and untied a long case. He presented it to Smythe who opened it, revealing two long swords. As expected, they were cut-and-thrust rapiers. Hart brought the case to Will for him to select a blade. One party supplying the swords and the other selecting one was traditional. The method was supposed to prevent a duelist from supplying his opponent with a defective blade.

          The two swords looked identical to Will. He removed one from the case, tried its grip, and tested its balance. It would do. He nodded acceptance. Hart then took the case to Hampton, who without saying a word took the other sword. The duelists were now armed.

          As the second for the man who had been challenged, it was Smythe’s duty to announce the rules and to begin the duel. He directed the antagonists to a flat stretch of lawn and bade them stand about five yards apart. Then he stood between them.

          “Gentlemen,” he said, “you are to remain where you stand until I give the word to begin, and then you may engage. I will permit you to limber up a moment or two, and you should tell me when you are ready.

          “The terms of the engagement are that the contest lasts until one of you draws the first blood. That man will be the winner, and honor will have been satisfied. Do not continue to engage once blood has been drawn, no matter how slight. Do you understand?”

          Both Will and Hampton said that they did, but Will noticed Hampton’s evil smile as he said it, and suddenly knew Hampton had no intention of following the rule. The man meant to kill him or hurt him badly. Will’s Gifts were nowhere like Anne’s, but he had enough short-term prescience to foresee what was coming. Hampton would go for a quick kill – a rapid feint at Will’s left shoulder, followed by an all-out attack at his center mass.

          “Before you begin,” Smythe continued, “it is my solemn duty to ask if the two of you may not be reconciled. Is there no way to avoid the drawing of blood? Perhaps by mutual apology?”

          Will had known this would be coming, and had thought long and hard about his response, knowing that Hampton would agree to nothing except combat.

          “Well, Colonel Smythe, and gentlemen,” he said in his best Texas twang, his eyes taking in both Hampton and those watching, “I reckon that if My Lord of Hampton will say he’s sorry for slappin’ me, I can apologize for kicking him in the nuts.” He said it with a grin, knowing it would likely only further infuriate Lord Hampton.

          “Colonel,” Hampton said in his affected upper-class accent, “you may please tell the alleged ‘gentleman’ from Texas that he may go to Hell, and likely will, shortly.” His grin was a sneer. “The answer is ‘no.’ Hell, no.”

          Smythe stepped to the side, well away from both antagonists.

          “Very well,” he said. “You may have a moment to limber.”

          Will’s sword had a combination cup and swept hilt with a crosspiece. It was a bit longer and heavier than the dragoon saber he usually favored, but it would do for what he planned. He noticed his pommel was a plain bronze knob, squared off at the rear. He tested the blade’s flexibility and tried a few thrusts. Then he pronounced himself ready. He heard Hampton do the same.

          “You may come to en garde,” Smythe said, his voice flat and unemotional. Both did so.

          “You may begin.”

          What then transpired happened so quickly that Smythe said later it was faster than the eye could follow. Will stepped forward, and then Hampton rushed him. There was the feint, which Will ignored, and the thrust, which he parried easily in sixte, followed with a riposte in quarte that connected with Hampton’s wrist and forearm, opening a long and deep wound. The maneuver would not have worked in combat, where soldiers wore vambraces that protected their forearms, but Hampton was not a combat soldier and wore only a linen shirt. The cut did not sever the tendon, but it was deep and painful, and caused Hampton to drop his weapon.

          He tried to dive for the blade, but Will stepped forward and stepped on it, at the same time bringing his pommel down on the crown of Hampton’s exposed head. The blow did not quite render the man unconscious, but it was enough to daze him and open a scalp wound. He stayed on his knees, groaning.

          Will moved back and kicked Hampton’s rapier further beyond reach. Hart and the surgeon he’d brought rushed to Lord Hampton and knelt beside him.

          “First blood has been satisfied, I believe,” Will said, his Texas accent not nearly so thick now that he wasn’t trying to provoke his opponent.

          Hart looked up with wide eyes and nodded. “It has, Your Grace,” he said using the appropriate form of address. “Although,” he added in a remonstrative tone, “the blow to the head was hardly necessary.”

          “I wanted to make sure Lord Hampton knew it was over,” he said, causing a loud intake of breath from Hampton, who was still on his knees.

          “It-is-NOT-over,” the Marquess managed to get out between clinched teeth and ragged breaths. “Give-me-my-sword.”

          “No, my Lord,” said the doctor, who had peeled aside Hampton’s shirt and was preparing to bathe the wound in alcohol. “You cannot continue. As your physician, I, uh, uh, forbid it. The duel is over.”

          With that, the doctor poured alcohol from a bottle over Hampton’s wound, turning the protest he was forming into a scream and causing him to faint.

          The duel was indeed over.

          Will shoved his rapier’s point into the turf and turned to Smythe and the other doctor, who had not been needed.

          “Breakfast, gentlemen?” he asked, walking to his horse to retrieve his coat. Now that the fight was over, he felt the chill again.