My Pleasure (20 page)

“Miss Nash?” Mrs. Winebarger said softly. “Are you quite all right? You look rather fierce.”

With a start, Helena realized the Prussian lady was regarding her solicitously. “Thank you, I am fine. I see your husband once more has had to decline Lady Tilpot’s invitation.”

Mrs. Winebarger idly stroked a purr from her calico companion. “The tournament consumes his thoughts as well as his hours. I think,” she leaned in confidingly, “that for the first time in a very long while, he feels he has a real rival. Perhaps two.”

“Mr. Munro?”

Mrs. Winebarger nodded. “And Lord DeMarc. The viscount seems determined to mount a formidable challenge. Why, in preparation the viscount has been getting in thrice-weekly matches at Mr. Munro’s salle.”

So that is where he disappeared to when Helena went with Lady Tilpot on her rounds.

“Does he?”

“Indeed. My husband says he will be there tomorrow afternoon.” She looked sanguine. “It is important to know one’s opponent’s habits. And DeMarc is a very serious opponent.”

“Mrs. Winebarger,” Helena said slowly, an idea taking hold. “I have a great favor to ask you.”

“But of course, what is it, my dear?” Mrs. Winebarger asked, looking not in the least offended.

“I would like you to ask Lady Tilpot if I might escort you on some errands tomorrow afternoon. I am usually obliged to accompany her, but if you asked her, she might well agree.”

“And what errand will we be running, Miss Nash?” Mrs. Winebarger asked, a twinkle of interest in her eye.

“We will be going to Mr. Munro’s salle, L’École de la Fleur.”

Mrs. Winebarger broke into a wide smile. “But of course, my dear,” she said kindly. “It is about time you indulge your feminine curiosity.”

FEINT:

attacking into one line with the intention of switching to another or pulling out before the attack is complete

“THANK YOU AGAIN, Mrs. Winebarger,” Helena said the next day as the Prussian lady’s carriage deposited them outside Ramsey Munro’s salle.

“Think nothing of it, my dear. It was worth asking if only to hear the preposterous excuses The Tilpot came up with for why it was impossible for her to lend your company to me.” She dimpled mischievously as she shifted the sleeping Princess from her lap to a cushion beside her. “But I had only to hold out for her the carrot that Robert might escort me to her soiree next week, and suddenly the impossible became not only possible but it was her sincere pleasure to accommodate me. And not just for the afternoon, but any time I like.”

The carriage rocked to a stop, and Helena’s courage faltered.

“Is it true that ladies with a risqué reputation frequent Mr. Munro’s salle?” she asked as Mrs. Winebarger’s tiger went ahead to ascertain the particulars of the situation.

Mrs. Winebarger peered out at the street. “That is the on dit.”

“He has his choice of any of them, I suspect,” Helena murmured.

Mrs. Winebarger looked around. “Having a choice and availing oneself of it is not the same thing, Miss Nash. Mr. Munro is an extremely handsome man and a marvelous swordsman. His grandfather was just as handsome and just as good a swordsman.”

“His grandfather?”

“The marquis of Cottrell.” Mrs. Winebarger glanced at her curiously. “You did know he was born on the wrong side of the blanket?”

“I never gave it any thought,” Helena replied honestly.

“Didn’t you? How unconventional. You’ll probably see the old man today. He has taken to attending the practices. Although, according to my husband, he and Mr. Munro apparently don’t speak.”

“Your husband is most
au courant
.”

“Yes. The world of true dueling enthusiasts is a very small one. Ah! My tiger has found the attendant. Shall we?”

They descended from the carriage and climbed a short flight of steps to where a trim, middle-aged gentleman wearing an eye patch bowed disinterestedly.

“We have come to watch the practice,” Mrs. Winebarger announced.

“Yes, ma’am,” the attendant said in a voice that suggested he’d heard the same countless times. “This way, ladies.”

He preceded them into a wide, unfurnished foyer, where a cluster of a half-dozen females donned shawls and hats, apparently getting ready to leave. At once, Helena identified Jolly Milar, her brown curls bobbing excitedly as she whispered to a young lady in an extremely a la mode mint-green gown, her short ruffle of ginger-colored hair tilted—dear God.

“Charlotte?”

Helena’s youngest sister turned, eyes the color of green agates, bright with amusement. But that was Charlotte, perpetually amused. Perpetually unconcerned. Perpetually on the brink of disaster. And then she was across the room, flinging her arms around Helena’s neck, as unaware of the proprieties as she was unconcerned with them.

“Charlotte, what are you doing here?” Helena asked in a low voice.

“Helena!” Charlotte cried. “But this is wonderful! I swear, Helena, I hold out hope for you yet.”

Remembering herself, Helena ushered her winsome little sister over to Mrs. Winebarger and introduced her. Mrs. Winebarger, displaying her usual sensitivity, murmured a greeting and excused herself to give her tiger some last-minute instructions.

Gratefully, Helena swung on her youngest sibling. “Charlotte, again, what are you doing here?” Her troubled gaze passed over her sister’s companions. In addition to Jolly, she recognized Charlotte’s boon companion, Margaret “Magpie” Welton, but she did not know any of the other young ladies. They were a gay, bright-eyed, and vibrant lot. Very vibrant.

“Why, I came to watch some fine athletes disport themselves. But as we have been here for nearly two hours, we are most sharp set and decided to go find some refreshment. Hopefully, with some of those same athletes following us,
n’est-ce pas
?” Charlotte winked and then laughed at Helena’s expression.

“More to the point, sister mine, what are
you
doing here?” she asked, tucking her arm through Helena’s. “Tell me, darling, have you come to see the Prince of White Friars? Or has one of his pupils caught your fancy?”

“No one has captured my fancy,” Helena lied.

“Oh, fie on you, Helena!” Charlotte said impatiently, the short cap of loose curls glinting as she tossed her head. “One would think you had no fancy to capture. True, you were never what one would call corky, and always kept the line, but I never would have called you straight-laced. And you had bottom, my dear, true pluck.

“It’s that Tilpot creature who has done this to you. You simply must escape her clutches before you become the Ice Maiden Society thinks you are.”

“What?” Helena exclaimed.

“ ‘Pon rep!” Charlotte exclaimed. “I cannot believe you are actually unaware of the sobriquet with which you’ve been dubbed. But then, you aren’t really ever in Society, are you? Not real Society. That old cat and her cronies hardly qualify.”

She pursed her lips, but her eyes danced. “Yes, dear sister, ’tis true! You are known as the Ice Maiden. Helena the Unassailable.”

“Good Lord.”

“Don’t poker up like that. I would love to be thought unattainable.” She sighed before darting an impish look at Helena. “Until I desired to be attained, that is. Regrettably, I doubt I could lend the necessary verisimilitude to such a pose.”

“Charlotte!” Helena exclaimed again uncomfortably. That had ever been Charlotte’s style and Helena’s
bête noire
: Charlotte’s unrepentant candor. Some thought it a delightful, if reckless, child’s prank, but Helena suspected that defiance made Charlotte say the things others only thought.

“This must be your sister,” one of Charlotte’s companions, an extravagantly tricked out young woman, enthused.

“Yes. My sister, the most beautiful woman in London,” Charlotte said with unfeigned pride. And that was the other hallmark of Charlotte’s unfortunate, wondrous, disastrous personality: her unhesitating and unconditional affection coupled with her absolute refusal to be overruled in anything she wanted.

Then, with the same ruinous honesty, Charlotte continued, “Just think what she’d be if dressed well.”

The young woman laughed. “Well, you weren’t exaggerating. She is stunning.” She tugged on her glove, apparently not expecting to be introduced. Helena could only conclude that the fashionable-looking beauty, whoever she was, knew she was not someone Helena would approve of Charlotte knowing.

“Come along, Lottie,” Margaret Welton called breathlessly. “Jenny thinks the Comte Sancerre is drinking coffee on Bond Street because you said you would be there this afternoon! And if we don’t go now—oh! Hallo, Miss Nash! Fancy seeing you here!”

“Miss Welton,” Helena inclined her head. There was now no possibility of her appearance here going unnoticed, and less of it going unremarked. Magpie Welton was as gregarious as her nickname suggested, and as discreet as a town crier.

Charlotte understood. She bit her lip to suppress an amused smile. “That is the trouble with spotless reputations, Helena,” she whispered. “Any mark shows.”

Charlotte looked around, her color high, her smile brilliant, and called, “I am coming, darlings!” before turning back to Helena and bussing her affectionately on the cheek. “There, my dear. For luck. And I have always thought he was gorgeous!”

Before Helena could respond to this outrageous comment, Charlotte had danced back to her companions. Like butterflies, they flitted down the corridor and milled about the doorway until it opened and out they flew.

“Ahem.” The one-eyed attendant drew Helena’s attention. “There are several other ladies presently watching the practice, and as there are such a lot of you, I must beg that you respect the participants’ need for concentration and remain mute. Now, if you would follow me?”

Helena and Mrs. Winebarger fell into step behind him, Helena taking the opportunity to whisper urgently to her benefactress, “Ma’am, if I might beg one last favor?”

“You may,” Mrs. Winebarger returned.

“After the exhibition, I would like to find my own way back to Lady Tilpot’s.”

Mrs. Winebarger’s brows flickered into a concerned frown. “An extraordinary request, Miss Nash. I am not sure I approve. Certainly The Tilpot would not.”

“Please.”

“Very well,” she capitulated. “You are hardly a green girl, and I can hardly have claimed not to have done some rather interesting things in my own life. But be careful.”

“Thank you!” Helena breathed as the attendant pushed open a sturdy set of doors at the end of the hallway and stood aside.

They entered a ballroom stripped bare of every ornamentation and superfluous bit of furniture to create a great open expanse, the light flooding in from the uncurtained second-story windows above. The only reminder of the room’s past function was the gigantic crystal chandelier sparkling overhead. A dozen straight lines had been painted on the bare wood floorboards, and along these, several men dressed only in tight-fitting trousers, shirts, and waistcoats lunged and retreated, thrusting swords against invisible opponents.

Along the far end of the ballroom clustered a group of ladies and gentlemen. As Helena approached with Mrs. Winebarger, she saw what held their rapt attention: the viscount DeMarc locked in battle with Ramsey Munro. A referee stood anxiously by, waiting for the first strike.

This was not the Ram Munro who’d shuffled with fallen-angel grace as he’d countered and parried the moves of his hapless opponents at the debauch in Cheapside. This Ram Munro moved with a dancer’s artistry and control, his body poised and tensile, back straight, shoulders angled, long legs supple as he crouched.

But DeMarc appeared equally adept. Moreover, as combatants they were quite evenly matched, both being tall and lean with long reaches and powerful legs. Their bodies moved back and forth as if locked on some straight, invisible track, the space between them remaining as exact and fixed as in some elaborate dance set to the staccato chatter of swords.

Some movements, too subtle for Helena’s novice eyes to see, drew murmurs of approval; others garnered slight inhalations of concern. At the far end of the cluster of spectators, an elderly gentleman stood with a discontented expression on a countenance so handsome he could only be related to Ram.

“Inside!” he shouted in annoyance. “Inside!”

Ram gave no indication that he heard. “I see you have been practicing your diagonal parry, DeMarc,” he said in a conversational voice.

“Kind of you to notice,” DeMarc answered, but without Ram’s sangfroid. “Am I mistaken, or are your beats more concentrated of late? The tempo seems accelerated.”

Ram shrugged. “A duel is much like a seduction, Viscount. Each lady—as each opponent—succumbs at her own rate, neither too quickly nor too slowly for the man who understands the virtue of patience. And the rewards.”

The viscount lunged, the point of his blade dipping low. But Ram countered, intercepting the blade and returning the line of action higher. Thwarted, the expression on the viscount’s face tightened like a closed fist. “You know, Munro, you really are an exceptional swordsman.”

“Too kind,” Ram murmured.

“But you are not a gentleman.”

Ram flashed a smile at his aggrieved opponent. “Do tell.”

“A gentleman does not talk about seduction in front of ladies.”

“What ladies? Are there ladies here?” Ram sounded amazed, but his eyes did not stray from DeMarc. Delighted laughter spilled from those same ladies. “Viscount, I begin to perceive why it is you have rarely beaten me—”

Some slight movement, some tiny opening must have presented itself, for Ram abruptly stopped speaking and the swords’ conversation took over. An insulting hiss, a rebuke, and a disparaging sneer. Then, as quickly as the chatter had begun, it stopped. The duelists fell back a pace from one another, the odd, contemplative air returning to the match.

“And why is that, Munro?” DeMarc asked, but his breathing was a bit heavier now, and a light sheen covered his forehead.

“If you have noticed there are ladies in this room, you are simply not focusing enough on the match. Now I, on the other hand, could not say if ladies surround me or dancing bears.”