My Pleasure (23 page)

“Absolutely.”

“No scandal will ever touch her in any manner,” he said, his voice losing all semblance of its customary nonchalance. “Her name will never be misused, whether by the lowest knave or the highest prince.”

Gaspard’s remaining eye blinked, but he managed to stifle his amazement. He had never heard Ram talk in such a manner, more as though he was making an oath than stating an intention. “No, sir.”

“Good.” Ram smiled suddenly, as if fully aware that he’d disconcerted the Frenchman. He relaxed, taking the note Gaspard still held out, albeit with none-too-steady fingers, and tapping the envelope thoughtfully against his jaw. “I have never lost my concentration like that. Never. It quite oversets me.”

At once Gaspard realized Ram was referring to his bout with DeMarc. “It was the woman,” Gaspard said sympathetically.

“You are not comforting me, Gaspard.”

“It is not meant to be a comfort, sir. It is meant to be a warning.” And suddenly the older man grinned. “How do you think I lost this eye?”

Ram smiled back, knowing full well that the loss of Gaspard’s eye had nothing to do with a woman, and tore open the envelope, withdrawing a thin sheet of paper scrawled over in a hand he did not recognize. As he read, the smile died on his lips.

“What is it?” Gaspard asked. Ram’s gaze was riveted, fixed on some inner thought, and it seemed not to be a pleasant one.

“Arnoux,” Ram answered. “This letter is from Arnoux.”

“The guard from LeMons dungeon?” Gaspard asked incredulously.

“Yes,” said Ram. Dissipated, cynical, and bored, Phillipe Arnoux had been no better and no worse than the rest of the guards who had had the “care” of the prisoners in the dungeons; he was only younger. A member of the minor aristocracy who had had the foresight to back the rebellion, he had moved from one regiment to another, finally ending up with an attachment to the prison.

When he beat a man it had been a desultory business, meaning no more to him than whipping a surly cur from his path. The only time he had exhibited any real fervor had been during the sword fights the guards had arranged between some prisoners and themselves. Duels arranged, they claimed, to sharpen the skills of their men. Duels in which the victor must always be the guard.

Oh, the prisoners—undernourished, vermin ridden, and weakened by captivity—were allowed to defend themselves. But it had been made abundantly clear that if a prisoner caused any lasting injury to a guard, he would pay with a finger. Or a hand.

Or an eye.

Ram had been a special favorite, being not just good, but exceptionally good. He had gotten better. For while it was most assuredly not a very fair way of orchestrating a duel, those unfair duels where he fought to keep from being maimed at the same time as he held back from causing any lasting harm, had honed his skills far better than all the lessons his father arranged for him, even better than those lessons the monk Toussaint had taught him at St. Bride’s.

Arnoux had been the best of those who’d challenged Ram.

“What does he want? What does he say?”

The corner of Ram’s mouth lifted in its old, cynical curve. “He is arriving in London under special diplomatic protection as part of the retinue of a French contestant.”

“What? He wishes to lift a toast to old times?” Gaspard said bitterly.

“No. He wants to tell me who betrayed us to the French.”

Gaspard’s eye widened.

“And he wants a lot of money for the information.”

BALESTRA:

Italian. A forward leap, typically followed by an attack

“INDEED, MR.TAWSTER, I have it from my friend’s own lips that Ramsey Munro challenged a roomful of gentlemen to a duel to the first blood.”

Helena, studying Mr. Turner’s latest painting in the Royal Academy show at Somerset House, swung about looking for the speaker. Ramsey? Dueling? Was he hurt?

At once she saw Lord Figburt, sitting on a marble bench between the vicar and Lady Tilpot. Only concentrated effort kept Helena from demanding the essentials. She strained to hear more.

“Yes. I have heard the same scandal broth myself. Won them all, didn’t he?” the vicar asked in awed tones. “Blessed Virgin, but he must be extraordinary!”

Helena’s shoulders relaxed, and she shut her eyes as relief poured through her. Ram was not hurt. It had been two days since she had gone to his salle, and during those two days there had scarce been a moment when she had not thought of him.

He had been keeping apprised of her and her sisters’ situations for years, obliquely, without interference or communication. He had been all the while preparing to honor his oath to her family. Such commitment to a vow, such honorable intentness, touched her deeply, struck an answering chord.

“More’s the pity,” Lady Tilpot sniffed. “The fellow is infamous. Some woman’s name is bandied about, and he has the audacity to challenge his betters! Probably just some Cheapside trollop.”

She exchanged superior looks with her friend Mrs. Barnes, who’d joined their excursion. As with most of this Wednesday afternoon crowd, they were far more interested in inspecting each other than the paintings. But it was “the” place to be seen, and therefore Flora must be here. Helena looked around for the girl.

Flora was heading toward what the wits had christened the Exhibition Stare Case, due to certain nasty young men’s predilection for gathering round the base of the spiral staircase when a young lady mounted it to see what could be seen from beneath. At the last minute Flora veered off, something bright and pretty having caught her magpie eye, and Helena returned her attention to the speakers.

“Still, that does seem rather excessive,” Mrs. Barnes was saying in knowing tones. “Even for a baseborn blackguard.”

The blood rose in Helena’s cheeks. It had been her name being bandied about. She was certain of it. She had returned to her rooms after seeing Munro two days ago to find an unsigned letter awaiting her. And with it a desiccated rose. “There are consequences for acting the wanton,” it had read.

It had to have been DeMarc. He had seen her at Ram’s salle, and his views on the women who went there were clear. Thankfully, the viscount, whether he’d not been invited or had chosen not to attend, was not with them this afternoon. Now she wondered if his absence was a matter of cravenness. She had no doubt that his revenge had been in sowing the germ of a dreadful rumor, knowing full well that if any blemish attached itself to her name, Lady Tilpot would send her packing.

But she doubted DeMarc was afraid of looking her in the eye after such a despicable act. He was more likely to come to gloat. Something else must have kept him away.

She had tried to do her best to act on Flora’s behalf. Each day she scoured the newspapers looking for some message from Oswald. There had been none. And each day that Flora’s pregnancy progressed, the girl’s apprehension for her erstwhile husband grew. She was making herself sick with worry. For the sake of the child she carried, Flora needed to hear from Oswald.

“No, not a common woman,” Lady Tilpot agreed thoughtfully. “It must have been a lady. How delicious. Who was the lady who prompted the challenges, do you suppose?” She placed her chubby finger alongside her nose, her little raisin eyes glittering. “Come, Lord Figburt, do tell us.”

“But ma’am”—the boy’s face had gone red—“I can scarce say as I do not know. Mr. Munro won the challenges, as you know, every single one, and as such, those whom he fought would scarce be worthy of the name of gentleman if they revealed the identity of the lady Munro went to such lengths to protect.”

Lady Tilpot’s little chins quivered with irritation. “Bosh! Someone must know. And I shall find out.”

“Please, ma’am,” Lord Figburt said unhappily. “I did not mean to incite your interest, I only mentioned the matter because it was by all accounts a magnificent, nay, an unparalleled exhibit of swordplay. Munro is superb!”

Helena listened in amazement. Could this be the same boy who had drunkenly accosted her in Vauxhall Garden? Earlier today, when he had been introduced to Helena, he’d met her gaze with respectful admiration, but not a whit of recognition. He’d matured in a few short weeks, his bearing straighter, his expression courteous. Ram’s doing. He obviously idolized and therefore sought to emulate his master.

“Hm.” Lady Tilpot did not bother hiding her irritation. “Well, young man, I am of the opinion that it is unwise for members of the lower classes to fancy themselves maestros and so forth. Leads to that Jacobin nonsense that has destroyed France.”

“France is hardly destroyed.” The women looked at Mrs. Winebarger, who, having finished her contemplation of the latest portrait of Prince George, had returned to her companions. She had not come with them but had exclaimed at the happy chance that had led to her meeting them there. Lady Tilpot and Mrs. Barnes could do nothing but agree. For her part, Helena was delighted. She liked the lady.

Her current comment was met by a stony and lengthy silence that was only broken when Mrs. Barnes, puffing aside a feather, intoned, “You are Prussian, are you not, Mrs. Winebarger?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, then. That explains it.”

Mrs. Winebarger’s cheeks pinked, and young Lord Figburt plowed into the even stonier silence. “He won’t be in the lower classes any longer.”

“Excuse me?” the vicar said, looking confused.

“Ramsey Munro. He is going to be a marquis.”

“Ha.” Mrs. Barnes revealed the edge of a set of extraordinarily yellow little teeth. “Ha. Ha. Most amusing, Lord Figburt.”

“I didn’t mean it to be amusing, Mrs. Barnes. I am quite serious,” the boy said earnestly. “Ramsey Munro is being made heir to the marquis of Cottrell.”

“Cottrell?” The vicar’s eyes widened. “Why, yes. There is a resemblance, isn’t there?”

“Of course there is, Vicar,” Lady Tilpot said instructively. “As soon as the young man appeared in town, it was clear who his parents were. Or, at least, who one of them was.

“Cottrell’s son was a ne’er-do-well. Left town under quite questionable circumstances and went to live in Scotland. That being the case, Lord knows how many Cottrell eyes one might find north of Edinburgh. I am sure the countryside is awash in them.

“He died in Scotland, too. In some tavern brawl over a woman, I believe. So it would seem that the seed has not fallen far from the tree.” Her lips puckered with amusement.

“But—” Lord Figburt began, his young face ruddy with his determination to defend his paragon.

“But nothing, young man; the marquisate falls under the directive of primogeniture,” Mrs. Barnes declared and received a nod of approval from Lady Tilpot. “A bastard cannot inherit. Ramsey Munro is a bastard, and that is the end of it.”

“I dislike to disagree, ma’am—”

“Then don’t.”

“I must. You see, the present marquis has lately discovered that Mr. Munro’s parents were indeed legally wed and in the Church of England. So Mr. Munro is not”—he colored, swallowed, and glanced at Mrs. Winebarger—“er, merry-begot.”

“What?”

Every head in the Great Room turned to see what had occasioned such a noise. Lady Tilpot scowled and then, seeing Helena’s profile turned in her direction, called out curtly, “Go find Flora, Miss Nash! The girl will get a crink in her neck what with staring up at all these pictures so long. Crinks ain’t charming.”

In a daze, Helena rose. Her head swam as she moved automatically through the crowd. Ramsey Munro was going to be the marquis of Cottrell.

Ramsey Munro, swordsmaster and probable rake, had lived much as she lived, in a world of impoverished gentlefolk, untitled gentry, and the bastard children of their peers, existing on the fringes of Society, not a part of it, yet not apart from it. Ramsey Munro, bastard grandson of a marquis, was someone an impoverished gentlewoman might know. Ramsey Munro, the heir to the marquisate of Cottrell, was far above her touch.

Well, she thought, a little light-headed, a bit numb, just as well. She had Flora to think about and Oswald to find.

And tomorrow was her first fencing lesson.

ENGAGEMENT:

when sword blades are in contact with each other

RAMSEY MUNRO, eyeing his students in the salle, heard the clock chime the hour with a mixture of anticipation and dread, and that amused him. Ten minutes. All the years he had lived, the things he’d done, and the things that had been done to him, and here the imminent arrival of this young woman had him confounded and anxious and aroused. Ten minutes and Helena would be whisked discreetly to his private chambers on the upper floor while Viscount DeMarc made his cuts in the salle. That she did not come for the reason one would hope when a young lady was whisked discreetly to one’s private chambers only made the situation more piquant.

“Make some attempt, Lord Figburt, to keep your feet from slapping the floor,” he called out as he walked down the line of students.

The door opened behind him, and he heard Gaspard greet DeMarc. He ignored the viscount’s entrance, knowing that to do so gave grist to the gossip mill that had him refusing the viscount’s subsequent challenges out of fear of losing. In truth, he simply did not quite trust himself to cross swords with a man who purportedly hounded Helena. Which, he supposed, was again amusing.

He was far too old to succumb to callow possessiveness. He should have been able to meet the viscount’s usual stiff superiority with an ironic lift of his brow. But he couldn’t. He looked at the viscount and wanted to grab him by his perfect white cravat and drag him into the kitchen and demand to know if he was bothering Helena. But Ram resisted.

DeMarc infatuated with Helena was one thing—more than one man had fallen under her cool, enigmatic spell, himself being a prime example—but obsessed with her? He would have said DeMarc was incapable of being obsessed with anything other than his own consequence. And yet he knew better than to dismiss DeMarc out of hand. There was something not right about him.

He forced himself to nod a greeting. DeMarc was not the first man he despised to whom he had taught swordplay. In LeMons dungeon he had taught a smuggler named Callum Lamont some of his skills.