The next day broke grim and grey. While Master Alex was still abed, tucked up between silken sheets, no doubt dreaming of damsels in need of rescuing from their virtue, I’d been hard at work ensuring the duel went without a hitch — and by hitch I mean the untimely slaying of England’s foremost gentleman adventurer and renowned chasseur de skirt.

The meeting would take place on Hampstead Heath, near a small stand of elms across the way from the Royal Academy of Alchemy. If any of the blue-fingered potion-cookers were awake at that ungodly hour they showed no sign; the shutters were latched and still. Not one wisp of the usual strangely coloured vapours escaped the crooked chimneys.

The same could not be said for our opponent. The Comte de Artois stood a little way off across the dew-kissed meadow, resplendent in riding boots and cape. Perhaps it was just a trick of the chill air, but Artois appeared to steam with rage. He was accompanied by his towering batman Dravot, all gold teeth and glistening ebony muscle. If looks could kill, the guvnor would have been dead already. The Frenchie glared at his love rival with unconcealed loathing. All the better for us — with luck his simmering fury would cloud his senses, perhaps even his notoriously deadly aim.

Mercifully we had avoided that bane of all serious duels — a crowd of onlookers. Much of London was no doubt still snoring, possibly soaked in gin as per usual. Those few hardy souls present were either Fleet Street’s finest or top-brass from the Casus Club, Pall Mall’s premiere establishment for gentlemen of a heroic bent and deep pockets. If only the hoi polloi knew what I knew about some of these buggers, the outfit’s reputation would slip a peg or two, I can tell you. It was the responsibility of the club’s master-at-arms to load and prime the duelling pistols this morning.

I should make clear what I mean by ‘pistol’. These were the muzzle-loading, flintlock variety, the archaic sort our forefathers carried at Waterloo and Balaclava — one shot was all they were good for, if that. Not even the toffs would be idiot enough to duel with revolvers, or worse still, those new-fangled automatics — though that’s how I’m told the gentry conduct themselves in the Confederate States. But then both flavours of Yank have always been comfortable with a towering body count. The Mississippi must be chock-full with the corpses of well-ventilated colonial toffs. Perhaps Mr Darwin could use their swirling gene-pool as proving ground for his outlandish theories.

No, believe me, trusty old flintlocks were danger enough. Inaccurate at range, belching more smoke than a Whitechapel workhouse, but firing a lead ball powerful enough to blow a head clean off the shoulder — that’s if you were fool enough to get in the way. Of course, if they were loaded with some less lethal projectile, they made just as much smoke and noise, without the deadly effect.

And now the hour of destiny had arrived. As I stood yawning in the damp mist next to my employer I began to have doubts. If events proceeded to plan no-one would buy the farm, or purchase any other plot of agricultural real-estate, for that matter. The problem with plans is they have a regrettable habit of unravelling. Oh well, too late to back out now. Here came the carriage containing the bigwigs from the Casus.

The cab pulled up behind a trestle table prepared by the junior members already in attendance. Out of this vehicle spilled the club secretary, a dour sawbones complete with bulging medical bag, and the master-at-arms. This last gent seemed less than keen to look me in the eye, which I took as a good sign. Next, club president Sir Percy Tiverton was helped down by his footmen, to be seated in a cumbersome wheeled chair provided for his comfort. The previous night’s exertions weighed heavily on him. The wheels of his perambulator sank into the verdant grass, and there was much humphing and hawing to get him into position. Sir Percy never missed a good duel.

The stern faced master-at-arms produced a large wooden box from the carriage and placed it on the table. Inside were the antique duelling pistols belonging to the Casus, along with the paraphernalia needed for their loading. They were a fine pair of barkers, burnished to a high shine and inlaid with filigrees of gold. Over the years these widow makers had claimed their share of prideful men. I prayed ‘is lordship’s name would not join those engraved in black marble back at the club.

The master-at-arms reverently removed the weapons from their velvet bed and began loading. Perhaps he felt the weight of my gaze upon him, because he shot me a glance. I hoped he was considering the consequences of failure — a spindly fellow, he looked not the type to fair well breaking rocks at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Grimly he began loading each pistol; carefully priming the pan and selecting ammunition from his bag of shot. All eyes upon him (mine most keenly) he weighed the first ball in his gloved hand, before dropping it down the muzzle and ramming home the wadding. He then did the same with the second weapon. When finished he picked up each piece by the barrel and made his way to the waiting duellists.

As the challenged party my guvnor got first choice of gun. I must admit I looked on with no small trepidation as he paused for a moment, before selecting the pistol on his right, just as I had coached him. The Comte was left with the remaining piece. With nary a sound I exhaled the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding.

Pistols in the air, the duellists went their separate ways to their prepared marks twenty paces distant along the green sward. The rest of the onlookers withdrew a safe distance, expressions rapt, breath as baited as any trap. The surgeon made a great show of readying his amputation saw and glinting scalpels. I had hoped the bottle of brandy was in lieu of anaesthetic, until I saw the sly devil take a discreet swig. Perhaps it would steady his hand.

As my master’s second I accompanied him to his mark, whispering as we ambled, ‘remember the drill, sir, and all will be well.’

If Master Alex was concerned for his safety he showed no sign. ‘The deed is done, then?’

I took up position five paces distant and gave the slightest nod of my head. The boss took a deep breath and prepared to play his role. There was no turning back now. Opposite us Dravot removed his master’s cloak and retired a similar distance, ready to offer assistance.

Before the trestle table the master-at-arms cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, are you prepared to settle your disagreement amicably? This is your last chance.’ The poor sod wanted to grant the duellists every opportunity to back down.

The Comte slowly shook his head. ‘Non.’

All eyes turned to Master Alex, who was busy inspecting his nails, as offhand as you like. ‘Let’s get on with this blasted tomfoolery — I’ve got a busy day ahead.’

The master-at-arms looked sick to the back teeth, perhaps letting slip a feeble whimper, but raised a large white kerchief overhead. ‘When I give the signal you may both aim and fire. May God have mercy on your mortal souls. Are you ready to begin?’

The guvnor gave a curt nod and casually proceeded to twirl his waxed moustached. A more imaginative individual might have been unmanned by the thought of all that could go wrong — of course ‘is lordship was at no such disadvantage.

The Comte, who hadn’t taken his eyes from his prey, slowly nodded, spitting daggers to the bitter end. He was savouring every moment, whilst no-doubt eager to progress to the bloody main event. With a click rendered all the louder in the prevailing silence, he cocked the hammer of his gun.

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Satisfied, if perhaps silently praying for his own mortal soul, the master-at-arms stood on no further ceremony, swooshing down the kerchief with a flourish. Likewise the Comte beat around nary a bush, levelling his heavy pistol and taking careful aim. For his part the guvnor stood stock still, gazing up at the trees and turning an ear to the birdsong, as if lacking a care in the world.

The Comte squeezed his trigger; there was a deafening crash and a billow of smoke. He peered through the mirk at his target, a look of mounting horror dawning on his face. His foe was still standing, weapon to the sky, perhaps meditating on the day ahead. The Comte gazed down at his own piece in amazement and muttered something in French. In disgust he cast it to the turf.

The crowd gasped. Sir Percy cried out in excitement, ‘missed, by damnit!’

The Comte had not missed.

It was all to the good the gents from the Casus were so corruptible. Ensuring ‘is lordship’s safety had necessitated the expenditure of some long-banked credit, among the marbled corridors of power. I tallied the ledger now: the calling in of a long-owed favour from the club secretary; the tender of one small bribe to a night porter to look the other way; the spelling-out of a reputation destroying blackmail to the master-at-arms. This last had been the most risky, involving as it did gaining access to the fellow in the wee small hours — a potentially scandalous liberty for a duelist’s designated second. But I’d had an important delivery I’d needed to make to the chap, whose sordid indiscretions with at least half the senior class of the Westminster Choral School I’d lately heard detailed by the club secretary. What, you ask, was this delivery?

Prior to my trip to the Casus I had visited a back-street iron monger just off Piccadilly. Despite the late hour I was known to the proprietor who, as fortune had it, I knew lived above his shop. After hailing the fellow from his bed I purchased from him a pot of paraffin wax, some brushes and silver paint. It had been the work of less than an hour to fashion a sphere of wax, precisely two-thirds of an inch in diameter, to which I applied a generous coating of paint. This covering lent a degree of rigidity to the round otherwise lacking. Sadly, the ever present constraint of time had permitted the creation of only one such fake bullet. It was of course this canny item which I delivered to the master-at-arms, along with my threat, on the stroke of midnight. When the moment came he’d known my handiwork by its drastically reduced weight. On firing the thing broke apart in the chamber, never to be found, or render serious injury; a dum-dum as half-witted as any Peer of the realm. Fortunately for us the master-at-arms was an expert at tampering with balls.

While these thoughts raced through my head Master Alex was in no similar way encumbered. The guvnor appeared unconcerned by the dramatic turn of events not twenty yards yonder. He seemed to notice the Comte for the first time, performing a languid double-take. I think only I noticed the small globule of wax he spat from between his lips; at least I hoped so. Pausing only to smooth down his whiskers s’more, perhaps removing several minute flecks of silver paint, ‘is lordship stood straight and raised his own gun. He closed one eye, cocked the hammer, and slowly took aim at the Comte.

To his credit the Frenchman stood tall and raised his chin. ‘Vive La France!’ he rasped.

Despite clearly instructing him on what he should do next I suffered a momentary panic. My scheme had necessitated the guvnor’s own piece be prepared with a deadly load. Master Alex could be a hot-headed sod at the best of times, and a charge of murder was not part of my plan for the day. In the heat of the moment, and with his paramour’s husband between his sights, would the guvnor do the sensible thing — the honourable thing? Would he bollocks. My mouth had gone dry — this was not part of the script. As I formed a mental list of the capital’s best lawyers my boss smiled coyly and lowered his weapon.

‘You ‘aint worth it, Bonaparte,’ he said with a shrug.

Before I could sigh with relief the guvnor placed his pistol across his chest, as nonchalant as you like. Without so much as a glance where it was pointing he pulled the trigger. There was a second deafening crash and plume of smoke.

There have been occasions on our various adventures when ‘is lordship has proved himself to be an adequate shot, but that’s the extent of his skill. I’ve seen him shoot a mounted Afghan from a galloping horse, but only at close quarters, when filled with the adrenaline of battle. I do not believe for the life of me he intended what happened next.

This pistol’s load, a solid lead ball of the decidedly deadly variety, exited his gun and must have entered some alternative dimension of mad luck and good fortune. That’s the only explanation for the lack of fatalities. Like some supersonic bearing propelled through Satan’s infernal bagatelle it now embarked on a brief career that made up for in divine providence what it lacked in longevity.

The projectile bisected the gaggle of onlookers with a fizz, leaving a smoking trail along the top of the wet grass, before slamming into an iron spoke on Sir Percy’s carriage, ricocheting with a spark. On its return journey it again somehow conspired to miss every buttock, before reaching the unfortunate Comte, neatly removing the first two fingers of his right hand. It continued on its charmed journey, to disappear into the swirling mist.

The Comte looked down at his maimed paw and screamed in a mixture of pain and frustration; I’m unsure which was the greater. Dravot hastened to his master to stem the bleeding. The Comte’s piano playing days were over.

Not in a million years could this shot have been repeated, not with careful planning by a symposium of slide-rule toting boffins, yet Mr Alex pulled it off without even a glance. That was the day his fame as a marksman was added to his already bulging charge sheet of heroic endeavours. You couldn’t make it up.

All but overcome Sir Percy slapped the arm of his wheeled chair. ‘Deloped by God, missed on purpose! Aint that Faversham a cool one — and what a shot!’

Riotous agreement broke forth from the gaggle of onlookers. To a man they rushed over to ‘is lordship to gush their heart-felt praise. I think only the lip-service they felt need pay any semblance of neutrality prevented them carrying him from the field in triumph, shoulder high. There was much slapping of backs and hip-hooraying; of course ‘is lordship lapped it up. The consensus was that honour had been served. This would only add to the reputation of the club.

But not everyone was so happy. Despite his missing digits the Comte struggled to have-at his mobbed opponent. Even Dravot was having difficulty holding his master back. ‘Cheating bâtard!’ screamed the incandescent Frenchman.

Sir Percy gave the casualty short shrift. ‘Cork your whining, sir; a lesser man might have blown your bleedin head ‘orf. Tis but a flesh-wound.’

I’ll say this for Sir Percy, on some matters he was commendably old-school. For his part the Comte was finally restrained by Dravot, perhaps he was weakened by the loss of blood. Artois was hauled away still cursing in French, hopefully to an infirmary. The surgeon was too busy lauding Master Alex to notice. Somehow the Comte had been made to look even more ridiculous than he had already, a total fool — and for him that was worse than the bedding of his wife. After this morning he would never forgive the guvnor — another brooding nemesis to add to our growing list. It was with weary certainty that I realised, one day I would have to kill him; damned shame.

At his insistence Sir Percy was wheeled over to shower his personal congratulations on ‘is lordship. This gave me the chance to squirm between the knot of well-wishers to hear what was said.

Sir Percy beckoned Master Alex closer. ‘Listen, Faversham, I’ve been called back to the family seat in Devonshire. The wife’s in a flap over some fuss or another. Jumping at shadows, she is.’

My boss smiled down sympathetically. ‘They do get some odd notions into their pretty little heads, don’t they.’

Sir Percy nodded, ‘well, I needed to make the journey in any case. The day after tomorrow I’m holding a second presentation for my book — this time without the riffraff — a far more select affair. Will you attend as my special guest?’

Before I could intervene with some suitable excuse ‘is lordship jumped the gun, flattered and filled with good-cheer as he was. ‘Of course, sir — it would be an honour to come! Sounds like a grand holiday in the country — wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

My heart sank. As ‘is lordship was carted off to a celebratory boozy breakfast at the Casus I resigned myself to my fate. I would have to begin packing for a wearisome trip to the provinces — for another dusty lecture on long dead kings, surrounded by dustier academics. Oh the joy.

But my broodings were soon interrupted. Nearby a couple of doughty club stalwarts, the same pair from the night before, were ruminating on the morning’s events.

‘What a card that Faversham is!’

‘And a gentleman to boot.’

‘Could have killed him.’

‘Chose not to. What a shot.’

‘Admirable mercy. I hear he’s rooting the Frenchie’s missus?’

‘Good luck to him, I say. And good luck to her. If Faversham dances the blanket hornpipe like he shoots I’d warrant she gets not a moment’s sleep.’

‘See if you can find the fingers.’

‘Whever for?’

‘I have a mind to construct a memorial to this day. Will look fine on the mantelpiece of the club smoking room. In the grass, there they are.’

Beside them a Fleet Street hack was furiously scribbling in his notebook. I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. It had been an eventful day, and the sun was barely risen.