London, England, October 1814

Jonathan stood in the gardens behind the grand house. They were lower in elevation than Pall Mall situated to the front of the structure. The congregation of guests had left the Gothic Dining room through large glass doors that opened right onto the gardens. All of it was magnificently appointed.

It was the first time that day that Jonathan truly felt a little nervous. His experience as a sea captain told him that this was a healthy sentiment because men that did not feel fear ended up dead. Brave men knew how to channel the sentiment and use it to their advantage. Jonathan could do this. However, it was different this time. Amelia was in the crowd looking at him. For the first time in his life, he had something to lose.

What must she feel? Her father was about to face the man she loved in deadly combat. One way or another one of them was going to die. It just remained to be determined whom. It was a sick twist of fate, but that was how it was, and sometimes a man had to accept the cards he was dealt and do his utmost to alter the fate given to him if he could.

Amelia watched Jonathan’s every move. She smiled. He had obviously had a new suit of clothes made for the occasion by one of the city’s renowned tailors. He looked so handsome in his fashionable dark blue tailcoat with the self-fabric covered buttons. His brocaded silk waistcoat matched it perfectly and extended to the top of his trousers, the new de rigeur garment introduced by Beau Brummell. All in all, Jonathan was a shiny new penny.

“May I ask the seconds to approach,” announced the regent. His cheeks were flushed from too much alcohol consumption during the luncheon. He swayed a little on his feet, and the unseasonably hot weather was getting to him.

During lunch, he had been in excellent spirits, insulting Sir Thomas at every turn. However, he never made an uncouth remark about Amelia and the fact that she had spurned Lord Templeton French in favor of Jonathan. It somehow was strange for he was bound to be aware of the gossip and the insult she had accorded the Duke of Brandon and his son.

“Is there any possibility of reconciliation without going through with the duel?” asked Priney of Jake and Sir Arthur.

Jake looked at Sir Arthur with hope in his eyes. The other man shook his head curtly. “I am afraid not, Your Royal Highness. The duel must go on,” said Sir Arthur in a loud and clear voice that carried over the heads of the over one hundred people present.

“Does your man accept, Jake?” asked the regent, looking slightly perturbed.

“Yes, he does, Priney,” said Jake.

Despite the gravity of the moment, laughter eddied over the grounds. The regent could barely contain his mirth. He had forgotten that he had told Jake to call him by his sobriquet when they were at the White’s Club. Jake obviously was not aware that in moments such as this, he was to revert to addressing him by his royal title.

“Good,” said the regent. “Seconds, you may converse with your men, and then I will call you to make your choice of the loaded weapons,” said the regent in a surprisingly clear tone. He indicated with his head. Promptly, two men, obviously from the military, started preparing the dueling pistols.

“Good afternoon, Amelia. It is good to see you again,” said a familiar voice. “Although I would have preferred it were under more auspicious circumstances, but sometimes one cannot choose, eh?”

Amelia turned around. It was the Duke of Brandon. Contrary to all etiquette, she took the elderly gentleman in her arms and hugged him as if for dear life itself.

“My, my, my dear. You must have really missed me. ‘Tis a shame you did not share the same sentiments for my son,” he said. There was no trace of malice or any other angry sentiment in his voice.

When Amelia stepped back, all she could see was the duke’s customary mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I am so sorry about that, your Grace. I know it was wrong of me to do what I did. Especially after you have been so kind to me.”

“Now, now, there is no need to apologize. I know that my son is not the most heartwarming individual. It comes from my wife spoiling him too much when he was but a boy. I tried to make her stop or at least dampen her ardor, but you know how some mothers are.”

The Duke smiled at Amelia. His gaze swept over the lawn until it came to a rest on Jonathan. “So, you love this American do you?”

Amelia turned her head. She watched Jonathan for a few heartbeats longer. Jake had put him in position a few feet away from her father. The expressions on both men’s faces were stoic. In the meantime, Jake was selecting a weapon from an ornate wooden box, presented to him by one of the regent’s servants. After he had chosen, Sir Arthur took the remaining weapon.

Both full-stocked flintlock dueling pistols, fashioned by Joseph Simmons of London, were loaded. They were beautiful weapons with gold lines and platinum vents. The handles were made of polished wood, and the sides by the hammer had intricate designs in gold.

“Yes, I do,” said Amelia, at last, referring to the duke’s question. Seeing Jake and Sir Arthur taking the weapons had something so final about it.

“Then this must be a most trying moment for you, my dear,” said the Duke.

“It is, your Grace. One of the hardest I have had to endure in my life.” The other one was being in the presence of the old duke’s son and knowing there was no way out of their engagement. But she would never say that. No matter how boorish the man, for a father always finds it in him to love his son, no matter what.

The Duke of Brandon sighed. “It is such a shame I don’t get to have you as my daughter-in-law anymore. But I do understand your not wanting to marry my son.” The expression on his face became hard. “I have made arrangements for him to obtain…how shall I say…a little more pluck.”

Amelia couldn’t help but arch her eyebrows. If her mother were nearby, she would immediately reprimand her for pulling faces. Ladies just did not do such things. “Oh!”

“Yes, I thought a small spell in India might do him some good. I have a few good connections with the British East India Company. They were delighted to have him. He left a few days ago.”

“What if something happens to him?” asked Amelia, knowing of every peer’s obsession with securing an heir to the title.

“I have a brother you know. He has a son. The young man has his head screwed on in the right place. Instead of carousing around London bedding harlots and making a fool of himself, he is in the Duke of Wellington’s staff.” The duke winked. “So, all is not lost, my dear.”

Amelia gulped. She had never expected the sweet old duke to be so hard. But she guessed men in his position had to be. Jonathan had been severe, and she assumed, that on occasion, he could be brutal. It was the times they lived in. The duke tapped her on the shoulder.

“It looks like it is about to begin,” he said. “I will leave you now, dear Amelia. I think that you would rather witness this ordeal as privately as possible.”

Amelia grabbed his arm. “Your Grace, please don’t go. It would mean a lot to me if you stayed by my side.”

He nodded. “Of course, my dear.”

“Set the markers,” announced the prince regent.

Promptly, two men walked forward from the center of the pitch in the opposite direction carrying swords. After twenty paces each, they stopped and plunged the swords into the turf.

“The markers have been laid. Seconds, have you chosen your weapons and are they loaded and ready?” The prince was in his element. He was doing an excellent job as a quasi-master of ceremonies. When both men nodded and verbally affirmed, he continued, “Seconds, you may hand over the weapons to your charges.”

Amelia could barely breathe when she saw Jonathan take the gun from Jake. Her gaze swerved nervously to her father who took his from Sir Arthur. Both men knew what they were doing as they weighed the pistols in their hands.

“Pistols to shoulders and about face! When I start counting you may advance to the appointed place. Anything other than that will result in the offending person forfeiting the bout.”

The boom of the prince’s voice that had lost all of its squeakiness startled Amelia. Promptly, the duke placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Amelia. Close your eyes if you must.”

“ONE – TWO – THREE – FOUR…”

The count seemed interminable. Amelia thought that she could feel every heartbeat pounding in Jonathan’s chest. Her eyes were fixed on him. Yet somehow, she couldn’t see anything. She knew that he had removed his tailcoat and that he fought in just his waistcoat. She was not able to look at her father. A voice in her head told her that she should, making her feel guilty. But something inside of her blamed him for all of this.

“EIGHTEEN - NINETEEN – TWENTY!”

“Close your eyes, dear. You do not have to see this,” repeated the duke, kindly.

Amelia shook her head. She had to see it all. Looking at Jonathan, she saw the same steely resolve she had seen on board the Triton. The man truly was a warrior. She knew he must feel it, but there was not a trace of fear to be seen on his face.

A look at her father confirmed that he was equally as determined, no matter how likely that may seem to judge by his beefiness. He may not be a warrior, but he was a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. Amelia’s father was like a terrier. He’d never let go until he won or died in the process. In their own particular ways, they were both brave men.

“Gentlemen, cock your pistols,” broadcasted the regent.

CLICK! CLICK!

The sound was almost earsplitting in the otherwise silent environs. Amelia could feel her heart pounding in her ears. Oh, what must it be like for Jonathan if I already feel like this? I must be strong for him. He must not see the fear in my eyes. Amelia straightened her posture. She felt her resolve flow back into her. The duke sensed it too. He nodded at her, impressed by her courage.

“You may turn…and await my command to fire,” said the prince who truly acted the field marshal in the manner his attire suggested.

Time seemed to slow to a standstill. To Amelia, it was like the slow tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway at her father’s London residence. Time always moved forward at the same speed no matter the circumstances – it was just the way of things. However, there were moments like this when perception was the only thing controlling the advance of time. It made it seem as if it was being dragged through hot treacle, making time appear elusive and interminable.

“FIRE!”

BANG!

The first shot had been fired almost at the same time as the prince gave the command. Who was it? Who fired first? Amelia felt dizzy. Her gaze flitted between her father and Jonathan. Both men were still on their feet. The crowd was silent. Many of the onlookers, particularity the ladies, held their hands to their mouths.

“Look, your American friend still has a ball in his chamber,” said the duke. “He is the one who decides who lives or dies. The smoke swirls around your father – he was the one who shot first.”

Amelia had not bothered to notice this. She quickly looked at Jonathan and frowned; something’s wrong – he swayed on his feet a little. The expression on his face was strained. To Amelia it appeared his lifeblood was seeping out of him with every passing moment.

Like a predator stalking prey, Jonathan lowered his pistol until it was pointed directly at her father. Sir Thomas did not flinch despite the knowledge that his death was imminent. As before, time oozed by with barely any acuity. Her heartbeat became more erratic and persistent. Is he going to kill my father?

No matter how happy she was that Jonathan still stood, Amelia did not want her father to die. His fate was now in Jonathan’s hands. One…two…three…her heartbeats kept going on and on as nature intended. She wanted it to stop, to fall down and wish it all away.

“BANG!”

Amelia’s hand flew to her mouth. She stared at her father who still stood. He did not move a muscle. She looked at Jonathan again. Smoke eddied around his person, partially hiding his head from view. When it subsided was when she first noticed him swaying on his feet.

“It appears we have a draw, Ladies and gentlemen. Commodore Mitchell missed,” cried the prince. “Seconds, are your charges satisfied that their honor is still intact?”

“Jonathan!” screamed Amelia, running forward. When she got to him, he lay on the grass. Blood had stained his white linen shirt. “Jonathan, Jonathan, it’ll be all right,” she crooned. But she knew something was seriously wrong. The color of his skin was already a deathly white.

“He spared me. There was no way a man of his skill could’ve missed that shot,” said Amelia’s father, walking up to them. He looked down at his onetime opponent with soft eyes. It was so different to facing a man standing, whom you considered appointed you grievous insult, when you see them lying on the ground bleeding.

“Fetch my physician,” commanded the regent, as he wobbled up to the wounded American.

“Jake, will he be all right?” asked Amelia. When she saw the expression of worry etched onto his features, she thought that she might faint.

“It is in the hands of God now, Amelia,” he said.