Page 24 of Sincerely, the Duke
“Where the devil have you been all day?” Wyatt asked, not trying to hide his annoyance at the late arrival.
“Is it the fever again?” Hurst questioned as he started removing the leather straps that held Rick’s wooden pistol case onto the back of the saddle.
“Later,” Rick answered, swinging down from his horse, and handing the reins off to Wyatt. There was no time to tell them about Miss Fine. “I have to ready my pistol, sign up, and place my wagers.”
“We’ll do that for you and hear your excuses later,” Wyatt grumbled. “Get yourself in line for your first shot.”
Rick complied with Wyatt’s command and took his place. The early rounds of the competition dragged on longer than Rick expected, giving him plenty of time to remember the breeze ruffling Miss Fine’s hair and the attractive lilt to her soft laugh as she looked at the abundance of scandal sheets. He also had to bear in mind there were things he needed to get done now that he’d decided he was going to wed in a matter of days.
After many sips from brandy flasks between turns, an assortment of cheers, heckles, and groans from the crowd along the way, and more than a dozen rounds of competition, the small group of seven competitors haddwindled to only Rick and a young, sandy-haired buck, who talked a line as well as he aimed. Mr. Matthew Malcolm was a damned good marksman.
The man didn’t look to be much past his twenty-first birthday, but he was dripping in confidence and arrogance. Together with his boyish good looks and affable personality, his eyesight was sharp as an eagle’s and his aim was solid as a tree trunk. He’d tried to engage Rick in conversation each time their pistols were reloaded, but Rick wasn’t one to pass time with idle chatter. Especially with people he didn’t know and had no plans to ever know. And he had yet to meet the man who could intimidate or impress him by bragging about his shooting skills.
Along with the usual crowd of gentlemen who’d followed Rick’s exploits in marksmanship through the years, the fresh-faced blade had brought a fair number of onlookers to place bets in his favor. Rick was always happy to have a new opponent to go up against, except for the fact the man was having a damn good run of luck. He’d hoped to put him away after a couple of rounds but the upstart was shooting like an experienced challenger.
Unfortunately, Rick was having a difficult time maintaining concentration on his aim. He was usually good at keeping other things off his mind while in a match but thoughts of Miss Fine, his agreement with her, and the things he needed to do kept vying for his attention.
Hastily scheduled matches like this one were usually a simple contest for Rick to win and fatten his followers’ coffers as well as that of the charitable hospital he and Hurst helped Wyatt support. A tin cup was placed on a stand about the height of an average man’s chest. All the contestants had to do to advance to the next round wasshoot the target off in one shot. After the end of each rotation the stand was moved a couple of feet farther down the field. The match went on until only one man was left with a clean shot.
The sun beamed hot on the back of Rick’s neck and glinted off the barrel of his expensively crafted pistol. He’d long ago shed his coat and gloves but kept his hat pulled low on his brow to minimize shadows, movements, or any other distractions. His nape was damp from where moisture had caught against his collar and neckcloth.
The tin cup was getting smaller and harder to see with each completed round, and Mr. Malcolm continued to try and engage Rick in the jovial conversation he’d carried on with the man who’d reloaded his gun after each shot. Rick had learned long ago not to allow opponents, comments from the crowds, or other gunshots that might be going off at the same time to distract him. He couldn’t let his own thoughts do it either.
Mr. Malcolm’s constant banter throughout the afternoon wasn’t taunting Rick but he sure as hell was irritating him. The man had a lot to learn about the correct way to participate in a shooting match. Starting with how to be quiet.
But his dialogue continued.
“Do you ever get tired of gentlemen telling you what a good marksman you are?”
“I’ve heard you never practice. Is it true?”
“How did you learn to shoot so damn well if you don’t practice?”
“You may not have heard about me, but I haven’t lost a match in over a year.”
And on and on it went. When Rick’s time came around again, he settled the pearl grips comfortably in the palmof his hand, tightened and pulled back the hammer. He seldom changed his routine and always took his time. After another steadying breath, he aimed and settled his focus. At the instant he squeezed the trigger, it was as if the sun had moved from behind a cloud and glinted off the cup at just the right angle to spark in his eyes. The shot rang out, but the ping of the ball hitting the metal never sounded.
Rick missed. A flicker of shock jolted through him. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. It had been years since he’d missed such a simple shot. He pushed his hat up farther on his forehead with one hand while he lowered the pistol in his other.
Jubilant clapping and shouts of congratulations sounded from the gallery of younger men who were there for Mr. Malcolm. Moans, gasps, and curses echoed from Rick’s supporters. They were stunned. So was Rick, but he wasn’t a sore loser to anyone who played fair. And, except for his chatty attitude and occasional bragging remarks, common in such games, the young man had.
Rick walked over and shook hands with the happy, blond blade who, up close, looked even younger than his years. “A win on your first match with me. I’m impressed.”
“Not nearly as much as I am,” he answered with a laugh as he received more claps on the back and the usual jostling about winners received from their friends after a great feat. Mr. Malcolm handed off his pistol to one of the men beside him and said, “I’ve been hearing about how good you are since I was sixteen. I’m glad I won. It’s been an honor to go against you and a pleasure to win. My friends here had their doubts, but not anymore. I showed you all!”
His friends roared again and two of them lifted him off his feet as he raised his arms up over his head in victory.
Rick tipped one corner of his hat in a tweak of salute and a nod before he turned away. There wasn’t anything left to say. He’d done his duty as a gentleman by congratulating the man. If he was a true sporting gentleman, he would stay quiet and move on without further discussion about the matter until he celebrated in a club, a tavern, or a brothel.
“I’m in Town for the Season, Your Grace, and available any day of the week you’re up to a rematch,” Mr. Malcolm called out. His friends backed him up with more jeers and laughter.
Seeing no reason to answer, Rick headed toward Wyatt and Hurst. He received severalbetter luck next timeclaps on the back of his shoulders and an encouraging comment or two from some of the fellows as they moseyed over to their horses and carriages to start the trek back to London.
“Damned good shooting,” Hurst said as he came up beside Rick, took the pistol, and started placing it back into the box.
“Damned bad fortune,” Wyatt added.
Rick swore under his breath. “I don’t need you two trying to make me feel better about a loss to a cocky kid.”
