The Fencing Master's Daughter

by Giselle Marks

  Edward, as centre of attention, mused about the angel, who, in the better light of the drawing room, was found to be every bit as beautiful as he had dreamed. Her form was gently curved, her height just over five feet seven inches and her eyes, a pale emerald green glittering with an inner fire. The perfect skin of her countenance was as pale as bone china, of her hair colour the hideous bonnet showed not a glimpse. Edward cared not, brunette, blonde, or red-haired; she was his idea of perfection.

  At second glance Edward realised she was not as young as he had first thought, her age being at least twenty. Her clothes were serviceable and plain but worn with a natural grace and elegance. Not a sign showed of her exertions. She moved lightly, like a dancer, and her voice was calm and cool. Even when slightly raised in imperative tones, it remained musical and lilting. Her mouth, he did not dare to dwell upon, but it was rosy and prim and Edward had already found himself considering how it would feel crushed beneath his.

  He turned to examine her companion, the redoubtable Henri, who had fared worse from the little contre temps. He was very red and purple in the face, his coat and neck-cloth both somewhat rumpled and soiled by the fight in the alley. His breathing was a little fast, as if he was not accustomed to such physical exercise. His face disappeared into his chest with no sign of a neck and was large and lumpy. A nose that had been broken more than once was of considerable misshapen size, set askew in the middle of his visage. His eyes were tiny and dark, deeply set amongst a crowd of wrinkles and folds of flesh. His huge dark eyebrows appeared to almost join, like two grotesque caterpillars crawling over a scarred and blotchy forehead. Now that that gentleman had removed his beaver, Edward could see that his forehead continued a long way past the normal hairline into a large and wrinkled pate. What remained of his greying black hair was drawn into a black bow in the old-fashioned style of twenty years previously. His age was hard to guess but must have exceeded forty and was probably much older. Even though his body carried much excess weight his back remained ramrod straight. It was clear from how he deferred to the lady that his position was not that of spouse or lover, but very definitely trusted servant. He had uttered very few words and then only in reply to the lady, consisting mostly of “Oui Mam’selle” in a thick French accent.

  The drawing room had become crowded by numbers of retainers who had been attracted by the furore, apparently they could find nothing better to do, than stand around gawping and wringing their hands, over the disaster that had befallen their beloved master. Into this affecting scene was ushered the Bow Street Runner who had been summoned, accompanied by two of his colleagues, totally overawed at being in the presence of a genuine earl. The gentleman whom Jenkins announced as a Mr Brean attempted to tiptoe in inconspicuously despite the heavy reinforced boots he and his colleagues wore. The three officers of the law stood, awkward and speechless, awaiting someone’s notice, unwilling to intrude into the scene of aristocratic chaos.

  Wafting into this dramatic tableaux, appeared a small, but exquisitely dressed, lady, with dark curls dressed high with pearls and feathers. Her half-mourning gown of lavender was clearly donned to attend the Duchess’s Ball later that evening. Society had commented on her refusal to wear full mourning for her apparently unlamented step-son George, the previous earl. Few had actually dared to utter a word in her hearing.

  Henrietta, Dowager Countess of Chalcombe, had tossed her pretty head and continued on in her own way without a care. Most of the ton were pleased the vivacious dowager was now accepting invitations, even though she refused to dance in public, in deference to the traditions of mourning. Even the stiff-necked sticklers who passed comment found it hard not to admire her elegance and joie de vivre.

  “Jenkins, send the staff back to their duties, so my son has some room to breathe,” Lady Chalcombe demanded. The silent exodus of the staff was accomplished in as few seconds as it had taken for Lady Chalcombe to sum up the situation.

  “I am Lady Henrietta Chalcombe, the earl’s mother, please be seated … Miss? Jenkins go and fetch refreshments for our guests please at once,” she said.

  “I’m terribly sorry about allowing the staff to hang around, my lady,” Jenkins declared apologetically as he left the room.

  “I am Mademoiselle Madelaine Deschamps, my escort is Henri Vallon, my father’s manservant and cook,” the angel stated. Henri bowed deeply in response to his naming.

  “Henri and I came across Milord being attacked by footpads. Henri, attacked them, managing to kill one, wound another and so we rescued the earl…” she explained to her ladyship and the runners. She gave a detailed description of the attackers to Mr Brean and explained the whereabouts of Cutlass’s corpse. “Then we helped the earl as he was injured to a hackney carriage and brought him straight home.

  This account supported as it was by Henri’s chorus of “Oui c’est vrais, Mam’selles” would have made Edward laugh, if he had not still been feeling so very queasy and faint. Whilst giving this affecting tale to the Runner, the lady managed to glance towards the reclining earl with a stern expression, as if to dare him to refute her narration of the event. He managed to raise one dark eyebrow, the sardonic effect of which was somewhat lessened by the generous bandaging of his head and the still ashen green colour of his complexion.

  “My lady, this is your son’s purse. I paid the hackney fare from it. I hope the earl will make a speedy recovery,” Mademoiselle Deschamps declared. She curtsied correctly to Lady Chalcombe while making their goodbyes.

  “But you must allow me to reward you for rescuing my only son,” Lady Chalcombe declared, shocked that they were leaving so soon. “At least take some refreshments and we will have a carriage brought round to take you home” she insisted.

  “I apologise, my lady but we cannot stay, we are expected and are now overdue,” the young lady said. Then she and Henri beat a hasty retreat.

  Chapter Two - Suites sequelles

  The departure of his rescuers left Edward feeling extraordinarily bereft, but the passage of a little time, and the consumption of a measure of brandy, at least eased his nausea and headache to a more bearable level. The noisy arrival of his lively younger sister, Sophia, was a trial he could only just manage to bear. She was dressed in full mourning for their half-brother George, but was totally determined to put in her appearance at the winter ball, escorted by her husband, Sir Anthony Wynstanley.

  “Sophie,” Edward acknowledged his sister’s arrival from the sofa he had been deposited on.

  “Oh Edward, are you all right? You look positively dreadful,” she shrilled at him

  “I’m sure I shall recover soon, but unfortunately tonight, I am sorry but I shall not be up to attending the ball,” he said trying to sound genuinely disappointed, but her high pitched voice was already exacerbating his headache.

  “We were so looking forward to your company, weren’t we, Anthony?” she wittered, drawing her husband into the conversation.

  “Yes of course, sorry you can’t come, hope you get well soon. That looks a nasty bang to your head,” Sir Anthony commiserated. Which Sophia repeated three octaves higher, but with no extra content. Edward knew his sister cared about him, but always found her voice irritating.

  “Thank you for those kind thoughts, Sophie and Anthony. I will just have a quiet night at home. I can’t face eating dinner either, as I feel a little nauseous, so if you will excuse me tonight,” Edward said, gently easing himself from the couch. Taking himself off to the library with the aid of his disapproving valet, Plovett, he settled by a roaring fire with a decanter of brandy and the Times, to attempt to read the latest dispatches from Lord Wellington’s campaign. Lady Chalcombe checked briefly on him after dinner, found his colour so much improved that she promptly agreed he would do perfectly well remaining quietly at home. Edward found she was easily persuaded to continue to the ball with his sister and his sister’s spouse.

  The Chalcombe town carriage had only just driven off, when Mr Brean, the Bow Street runner, made
his second appearance of the evening. He was shown in by a very stiff-rumped Jenkins into the library, at the earl's direct request. Jenkins would have far more happily denied his access, having voiced that opinion to Mrs Forbsham, the housekeeper, saying the earl would have been better by far, to seek the comfort of his bed.

  “Good evening, my lord. I hope you are feeling a little better?” declared Brean, shuffling his feet a little as the earl had not directed him to sit.

  “I feel somewhat better, Brean. What have you got to report?”

  “The body of the dead felon has been found, just where I was told it would be, it has been taken away and we are seeking persons who can identify him, my lord.” He looked uncomfortable, but Edward did not want to prolong the interview. Mr Brean continued. “We have asked questions around the area, my lord, but no one admits to having seen anything or to knowing the identity of the dead man. I am not complacent about arresting the other felons, I wish I could say I expected to imminently arrest the other felons, but at present, I have no real clues to go on, my lord. I will inform you if we make any progress in the case. Now I had better be off and let you rest your head, sir.” Brean said taking his leave and trying to walk quietly to the door.

  “Before you go, could you furnish me with Mademoiselle Deschamps’ address?” Edward asked although he was tired even from that short interview.

  “I am sorry, my lord, I did not think to ask the young lady for her address. I should have done so, but I am fairly sure she did not reveal where she lived,” Brean stated dejectedly.

  “It is all right Brean, I am sure it is not important, you may go,”Edward said exhausted trying to be polite to the runner.

  “Thank you my lord,” gulped Brean, who disappeared through the library door as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Edward discarded the still unread paper and mused on the day’s happenings. Certain that by undertaking pertinent enquiries he would have small difficulty in uncovering the dwelling of the heroine of his rescue, he put that irritation to one side, because there was another matter that concerned him much more. It was not that rare an occurrence for an affluent individual to be attacked and robbed in the back streets of London, and he admitted to himself, that he had been at fault to have attempted the walk without any escort. Yet it had not seemed to him that the intention of his assailants had been solely to rob him of the contents of his pockets.

  Tricorn Hat's order to finish him, had filtered through his disordered thoughts and even then it had markedly surprised him. Why should common thieves desire to dispatch their victim, if all they'd sought were the guineas in his purse and the golden watch and chain he wore? True, it would remove a witness to the crime but if, as the runner had told him, it was unlikely they would be caught, that did not explain it at all. For a man who had left all his enemies behind in Spain and Portugal, most of whom were French and wearing a uniform, it was truly peculiar for a group of English footpads to attempt to murder him, and stranger still that a pair of French émigrés should be his unlikely saviours.

  He dismissed immediately that there was a connexion between the attempt on his life and the angelic Mademoiselle’s rescue. There had been no desire on her part to further the acquaintance or to acquire a sizeable monetary reward for her assistance. If anything, she had sought to minimise her part in it, for certainly if told, the story would shock society that a respectable young female, should do anything as unladylike as exterminate a footpad. That she was clearly an accomplished swordswoman, unlikely as that might be, Edward had no doubt. She had been totally cool-headed in the face of battle, quickly dealing death to the threat of Cutlass' craven attempt to take his life. Edward admitted to himself that despite being embarrassed at being rescued by a woman, even worse by such a beautiful woman, that he was profoundly grateful to her.

  He suspected too that she had been well aware of his attraction to her. A girl as beautiful as she must have been made many offers of a particular kind from gentlemen. If, as he concluded, she was respectable but of limited means, then she might well have learned to avoid encouraging gentlemen's interest. Her motives in leaving so speedily, once she had assured herself of his restoration to his family were therefore quickly explained. It also meant she would be unlikely to consider the offer of a carte blanche, that his first thought had been to extend to her. She was certainly an enigma, he knew he wanted her; and, short of offering marriage, thought it unlikely he would succeed in getting her.

  To add to this injury he knew exactly how deeply indebted to her he was for her timely intervention and that her refusal to accept a reward would be unlikely to be changed by further offers of his own. That he must repay her in some manner was a matter of honour to him. Approaching her for any other reason without expressing his gratitude and rewarding her first was unthinkable. Nor could he bear to consider the prospect that she would never be his. How to solve either of those problems was a conundrum, his aching head refused to deal with at present.

  Even the disfiguring bonnet became very understandable, if she had frequently received unwanted attentions, as he was positive she must have. Then it would explain why she deliberately tried to avoid notice by covering her hair and cladding herself in the ugliest of clothes. Edward believed that was exactly what she had done and he could hardly blame her for it, though it saddened him. He pictured her clothed in the finest silks and muslins, richly adorned with sparkling jewels, an expense he would willingly undertake, but the picture kept straying to him taking her slender form in his arms. Showering her with passionate kisses and moved on further to his slowly undressing her. He shook his head making it hurt even more, but the picture lingered in his thoughts.

  He deplored the circumstances that meant he had made so poor an impression on "Mam'selle".How could he offer her his protection, when she had so capably proved that the boot was on the other foot? Glancing at his bruised face festooned with slightly bloodied bandages in the ormolu framed library mirror, he doubted even the most desperate debutante would be gratified by his attentions in his present condition. Edward determined to make a much better impression on Madelaine at their next meeting. It was a depressing thought that, for all his vaunted good looks and charm, he had ended up looking a right cake to the only woman he had met in London who interested him at all.

  The bravely wounded soldier should be, Edward felt, striking an elegant and heroic pose which would have the acknowledged beauties of London flocking to his side. Honestly assessing his own marriage value, he had title, breeding and fortune, not to mention an historic country estate and an opulent town house in his favour. He was considered handsome by most, had been popular with his men and fellow officers and was adored by his mama and dependants.

  He was a good soldier, mentioned in dispatches three times, and Lord Wellington had personally stated how sorry he was to lose his services. None of which guaranteed him any success with the redoubtable lady in question. Well he would just have to persuade her he was the man for her and if her birth was even barely acceptable, she would become his wife.

  Clearly the runner, Mr Brean, had had no great expectations of finding his assailants, so tomorrow he intended to put enquiries in hand himself to find the two remaining felons and discover why they had sought to put period to his life. However unlikely it might be, it appeared that, for some reason or other, they had intended not to rob him, but to do murder. That he had done nothing to make them wish to do so, he was absolutely assured, so the only logical explanation remaining was that some individual unknown had paid them to kill him. He looked back over his recent and more remote past searching for suggestions of an enemy holding a grudge. He had cuckolded no angry husbands; he had caused no injury or offence to anyone of any degree. He was not a contentious man and failed to identify how he had managed to offend anyone sufficiently to create a murderous wish to slaughter him.

  That Sir Horace Charrington, an elderly country squire of an amiable disposition and his closest heir should seek to do away with hi
m was laughable in the extreme. No matter how unlikely his morbid conclusion seemed to him, if murder had been intended, it followed that after the failure of this attempt, there would be others. Nor was there any likelihood that next time there would be an angel to rescue him. It was up to him to be careful, very careful indeed. At least until he could contrive to discover what was behind this murderous attack. Deciding he had had enough of his thoughts for the evening, he summoned Plovett and, considerably improved by the consumption of several brandies, headed for his rest before the ball party could return to fuss over him. A new day would be time enough to unravel the mysteries of the ravishing Mademoiselle Deschamps and his unknown adversary.

  The following day found Edward considerably recovered, though both his shoulder and head still ached abominably. He rose and dressed with his usual care and managed to submit to Plovett’s fussy ministrations with good humour. The nausea and dizziness had abated, leaving him with as healthy an appetite as ever. He consumed an excellent breakfast of baked ham and devilled kidneys in solitary splendour, as his esteemed Mama was not likely to rise until twelve o'clock after the debauches of the previous evening's ball.

  Entering his commodious library he was pleased to find his secretary Julian Creighton already hard at work with the correspondence of his estate. Seated at a large desk behind pristine piles of papers, Julian looked up at his entry and stared at the bandage swathing his head.

  ***

  Jenkins had personally served Julian his breakfast some hours before, even though the young man ate earlier than my lord, and it meant serving the earl considerably later.

  “My lord was attacked yesterday and he received a nasty crack on the head, which his doctor has bandaged. He might not come downstairs this morning, Master Julian,” Jenkins addressed him with the informality based on having known Mr Creighton since he was a boy.