“Walling agreed with me,” Riverdale said, clearly exasperated, “that the quieter we kept this meeting, the better it would be for all concerned. It looks as though Uxbury disagreed and told every man he knows and they told everyone they know. This is intolerable.”

Avery was reminded of that first bout of boxing he had fought at school—if fought was the correct word. A crowd of men, buzzing with anticipation, was gathered about an empty clearing among the trees, their horses and curricles variously disposed in a rough circle behind them. If the Watch did not detect them and arrest the lot of them there was no real justice in the land. Avery suspected that the Watch, or whoever enforced law and order in Hyde Park, would develop a severe case of deafness and blindness—if it was out at all at this hour. The hum of excitement increased when the challenged hove into sight. Uxbury and Walling had already arrived. So had a man dressed entirely in somber black, a largish black leather bag on the grass beside him. The sawbones, no doubt. How predictably ostentatious of Uxbury to engage the services of a physician for a fight that involved no weapon more lethal than the body. Or perhaps there was some wisdom in it.

Every face that turned his way to watch him approach bore the same expression. The lamb to the slaughter, they were all thinking. He curled his fingers about the handle of his quizzing glass and raised it to his eye, and almost everyone suddenly discovered something of more urgent interest to take their attention. Uxbury, striking a pose, was gazing at him across the circle of grass with haughty dignity. Avery examined the expression through his glass. He would wager it had been practiced before a mirror.

Walling strode into the center of the grass, looking somewhat embarrassed, and Riverdale went to confer with him there. Then each returned to his principal.

“Uxbury is willing to settle for an apology over anguish and embarrassment suffered,” Riverdale said.

“And will he make that apology before all these people?” Avery asked, dropping his quizzing glass on its ribbon and raising his eyebrows. “Extraordinary! Let us hear it, then, by all means. Not that I recall suffering a great deal of either anguish or embarrassment, though it is possible I might have if I were the sensitive sort.”

“I understand you are not willing to tender an apology, then?” Riverdale asked.

Avery merely looked at him, and Riverdale turned.

“The Duke of Netherby,” he said in a voice that would carry across the empty space and doubtless to every gentleman gathered about it, “is obliged for the offer of clemency. However, he cannot recall a single word he has spoken to Viscount Uxbury that he regrets.”

There was a swell of approval from the crowd and a few whistles. One unidentified gentleman called out, “That’s the spirit, Netherby. Go down swinging.”

He had spent thirteen or fourteen years avoiding just such a scene as this, Avery thought with an inward sigh as Riverdale helped him off with his coat and he divested himself of his neckcloth and cravat, his fobs and watch and quizzing glass, his waistcoat, and his shirt. But what was one to do when one had been challenged to a duel and the challenger had noised it abroad so that it would be surprising if there was a gentleman in London who was not here?

“I believe,” Riverdale said, “it would be wiser to keep your shirt on, Netherby. Uxbury is keeping his.”

Avery ignored him. He sat down on the uncomfortably rough and uneven stump of a tree and hauled off one of his boots and the stocking beneath it.

“Good God,” Riverdale said, clearly aghast, “you must keep your boots on.”

Avery hauled off the other.

“Good God, Netherby,” Riverdale said again as Avery got to his feet, clad only in his tight breeches—tight but flexible and comfortable. “You must have a death wish.”

From the swell of sound about them, it seemed that everyone else agreed.

Avery rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands.

“Listen,” Riverdale said, speaking low and urgently. “You asked me to act as your second, and it is my duty to offer you as much advice as I am capable of giving. Don’t be a bloody martyr, Netherby. Use your arms and your fists to cover your face and your body. Use your feet to move out of harm’s way—which would have been a great deal easier to do with your boots on. Uxbury has the advantage of reach and height and weight. Stay away from his fists as long as you can. Watch him. Use your eyes. If by some miracle you can get past his reach, use your fists on him. Put up a good show. And when you go down—” He paused a moment and cleared his throat. “And if you go down, stay down. If you can somehow let a minute go by before it happens, all the better. You are not the challenger. He is. Most of the men here do not like what he forced Camille to do or how he talks about her. They are on your side. They will admire your courage in taking on an opponent twice your size, and in refusing to apologize. Defeat will be a kind of triumph.”

“I believe,” Avery said, “Walling is waiting for you to finish your monologue, Riverdale, so that he can get this meeting started.”

His second looked at him in some exasperation and fell silent.

“The fight will begin,” Walling announced. “It will continue until one of the two gentlemen concedes defeat or until one is knocked down and is unable to rise.”

Uxbury strode onto the stage—one could not see that circle of scrubby grass as anything else when he did so—with purposeful strides and grim demeanor and clenched fists. He proceeded to take up a boxer’s stance that would have done Gentleman Jackson proud. He danced a few steps on his booted feet. Avery strolled toward him and stopped a couple of feet away, his arms at his sides.