Like No Other

Chapter 25: The Aftermath

                                                         Chapter 25

                                                      The Aftermath

        By nightfall, the news of the duel and its rather incredible outcome had spread like a wildfire among the fashionable gentlemen’s clubs in town. Arguments rang predominantly amidst a babel of speculations; some would have it that the Earl had chosen to delope because it was plain as pikestaff he was the superior marksman, and would have killed or mortally wounded Wickham easily. This argument was then corroborated by the suggestion that it was indeed mercy for poor Wickham, and he should’ve been grateful that Stokeford didn’t give him his due despite his contemptible behaviour towards him. Odd as it might seem, but no one had really taken into account that ‘poor’ Wickham had been nearly successful in putting an end to the Earl’s life.

        There were others, too, who’d dared to argue that for all his fierce look, Stokeford ain’t a crack shot after all. This proved to be too much for several of the gentlemen present, and so Lord Giles, himself included in this number, entered the dispute by drawling: “My poor deluded fellow, where have your wits gone begging, I wonder?”

        “Well, but you must admit that Stokeford hasn’t fought a duel till now,” the man said obstinately. “At least, never heard of it. Daresay he’s bang-up in all shooting matches, but it’s different when you’re shooting a person. Never shot a fellow in all his life, or deuce take me if he did! A damned hum, is what I say!” Murmurs of agreement followed this assertion. 

        Lord Giles regarded him languidly above the rim of his wineglass. “Oh, but I did see him shoot a fellow once you know,” he replied, and suddenly all attention was on him. “Nearly seven years ago, if my memory serves me. Stokeford had shot one of the ruffians who’d attacked a — gig, I think,” he paused, and took a sip of his wine.

        “Well?” someone prompted impatiently.

      Smiling lazily at their attentive faces, he went on: “Well, what do you think happened next? Stokeford fired at the galloping man and got him by a mile. A masterly performance, I should say, considering how far the range was.”

        “Now that I think of it, I’ve heard that story before!” exclaimed the man beside him. 

        “Then you have my felicitations, my dear fellow,” responded Giles ironically, to the other men’s amusement. “So you see, ten paces was a bagatelle and our dear Stokeford could have wounded Wickham had he wanted it as. For some reason known only to himself, he missed his fire and voila! He now carries the keepsake of their duel, and that’s all there is to it, gentlemen. An unhappy conclusion, I must say.”

        Most of the men nodded and concurred. Lord Giles was a veracious source of tell-tales after all, and every word that escaped from his lips must be gospel-truth. “But what if something’s gone amiss?” insisted a young gentleman who’d been listening to Giles wide-eyed. “Perhaps — don’t you think there’s a hitch in Stokeford’s pistol?”

        This provoked an outrage among the supporters of Lord Wickham and once more pandemonium ensued. Sighing, Lord Giles said to himself that he washed his hands of this pack of fools, stood up and left the scene that began to evince every sign of trouble.

        The day after the duel, an agitated Miss Carstairs called on her friends at Bruton Street to break the news. Her red eyes instantly came to the two other girls’ attentions and prompted an anxious inquiry if something had happened to upset her so. “Indeed, indeed! The most terrible thing!” she cried and retreated to her handkerchief for a while.