10
Martin studied the pistol in his hand, feeling the weight of the metal and the polished wood grip, which was cold in his palm. All around him the field was quiet, the predawn sky lit in a pale purple light. The coach that brought Stamford and his second, the man from the night before, Stephen Albright, had only just arrived to present him with his choice of pistol.
“What you think? Does it shoot fair, you suppose?” Rodney whispered next to Martin.
“Devil if I know. I rarely handle the damn things.”
“What?” Rodney hissed. “Bloody hell, man, do you even know how to shoot?”
“Of course I do.” He knew how to shoot well on a pheasant hunt with a rifle, but that wasn’t the same as firing a dueling pistol.
“Are you satisfied with the weapon, Mr. Banks?” Mr. Albright inquired. He shot a ne
