Because he knew this. And Winstead had mocked him.

“You’re an idiot,” Daniel replied, shaking blood from his face.

“I will have my satisfaction.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Daniel hissed. “I will have satisfaction.”

“The Patch of Green?” Hugh said coolly.

“At dawn.”

There was a hushed silence as everyone waited for either man to come to his senses.

But they didn’t. Of course they didn’t.

Hugh smiled. He couldn’t imagine why he had anything to smile about, but he felt it slinking along his face nonetheless. And when he looked at Daniel Smythe-Smith, he saw another man’s face.

“So be it.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Charles Dunwoody said, grimacing as he finished his inspection of Hugh’s gun.

Hugh didn’t bother to reply. His head hurt too much.

“I mean, I believe you that he was cheating. He’d have to be, because, well, it’s you, and you always win. Don’t know how you manage it, but you do.”

Hugh barely moved his head, but his eyes traveled a slow arc toward Dunwoody’s face. Was Dunwoody accusing him of cheating now?

“I think it’s the maths,” Dunwoody went on, oblivious to Hugh’s sardonic expression. “You always were freakishly good at it . . .”

Pleasant. Always so very pleasant to be called a freak.

“ . . . and I know you never cheated at maths. Heaven knows we quizzed you enough at school.” Dunwoody looked up with a frown. “How do you do that?”

Hugh gave him a flat stare. “You’re asking me now?”

“Oh. No. No, of course not.” Dunwoody cleared his throat and backed up a step. Marcus Holroyd was heading their way, presumably in an attempt to put a halt to the duel. Hugh watched as Marcus’s boots ate up the damp grass. His left stride was longer than his right, although not by much. It would probably take him fifteen more steps to reach them, sixteen if he was feeling ornery and wanted to butt up into their space.

But this was Marcus. He’d stop at fifteen.

Marcus and Dunwoody exchanged guns for inspection. Hugh stood by next to the surgeon, who was just full of useful information.

“Right here,” the surgeon said, smacking his upper thigh. “I’ve seen it happen. Femoral artery. You bleed like a pig.”

Hugh said nothing. He wasn’t going to actually shoot Daniel. He’d had a few hours to calm down, and while he was still livid, he saw no reason to try to kill him.

“But if you just want something really painful,” the surgeon continued, “you can’t go wrong with the hand or foot. The bones are easy to break, and there are a hell of a lot of nerves. Plus you won’t kill him. Too far from anything important.”

Hugh was very good at ignoring people, but even he couldn’t hold out against this. “The hand’s not important?”

The surgeon rolled his tongue over his teeth, then made a sucking noise, presumably to dislodge some rancid piece of food. He shrugged. “It’s not the heart.”