My Pleasure (33 page)

“Two days,” Helena repeated suspiciously.

“Yes. Well, that is the final round of competition for the International Dueling Tournament. The preliminary flights are held today and tomorrow.”

“Flights?” Helena repeated in confusion. Why were they talking about the tournament unless…Oh, no. Oh, please. No.

“Yes,” Flora nodded sagely. Apparently, over the course of her evening with Oswald, amongst other things she had become proficient at swordfight tournament terminology. “The flights are the divisions of competitors ranked by their previous winsor their reputations. Some gentlemen haven’t had to fight in the preliminary rounds. Like Count Winebarger and Michel St. Joan.”

Oswald winked at Flora. “And do not forget Mr. Munro.”

Helena’s heart trip-hammered in her chest. “Mr. Munro?”

“Yes!” Flora said excitedly. “Mr. Ramsey Munro. The gentleman at Aunt Alfreda’s ball, and do not pretend you do not know who I am talking about, because the tittle-tattle is that he could not be kept away from you and that you sat for twenty minutes in the garden together.”

“What about Mr. Munro?” she asked.

“He is the reason that Ossie and I shall be able to be reunited.”

“What?”

“It is true, Miss Nash.” Oswald came round the bed to stand next to Flora, seated at the end. He took her hand, and Flora, with a sigh of contentment, rested her cheek against the back of his. Rather like a spaniel leaning into her master’s side. “I have studied the field for months, and after speaking to everyone who is anyone in the sport, it became clear to me that, though the tournament boasts the most celebrated names in the field of dueling, Munro will prevail.”

Helena regarded him with dawning horror. “You are betting that Ramsey Munro will win the dueling tournament?”

“Yes!”

But Ramsey was withdrawing. “You can’t,” she said faintly.

“Oh, there’s no ‘can’t’ about it,” Oswald said, rocking back on his heels. “Believe me, Miss Nash. I know what I’m doing. Munro is as nerveless a fellow as God ever made.”

“What has nerve to do with anything?”

Oswald leaned forward, his glance darting left and right as if he suspected someone was eavesdropping. “Few people know this—if they did I wouldn’t be on the way to making nearly so much money—but Munro was held in a French dungeon for over two years.” He nodded sententiously.

“Everyone knows that.”

He straightened, blustered a bit, and finally nodded his concession. “Well, that, yes. But what they don’t know is that during those two years he was forced to fight duels with the guards.”

That she hadn’t known.

“Duels in which if he injured the guard, he would pay with the loss of some piece of his anatomy. So he had to hone his skill to a perfect pitch, winning without harming his opponent; or losing, somehow, without being grievously injured himself.” Helena’s hand moved over her belly, sickened. Oswald might have been discussing a cockfight, not a living man.

“He had to learn to separate emotion from talent, something few men, even the best, have ever been able to do. Can you imagine what a great advantage that must be in a tournament? But not many know about that. And thus the odds do not reflect it.”

“He is not favored to win?”

“Oh, no. He’s a relative newcomer to the sport, having been in London fewer than four years. He has a reputation, but not nearly so great as that of others. I have begged, pleaded, borrowed from everyone I know, and have managed to accrue fifty-three thousand, four hundred and eighty-eight pounds, which I have wagered at the rate of twelve to one in his favor.”

“You can’t. Give it back.”

“Too late for that,” Oswald said happily. “Already made the bet.”

“But what if he doesn’t fight? They’d give you back your money then, wouldn’t they?” she asked desperately.

Both Flora and Oswald were regarding her mournfully, trading glances that clearly bespoke their disappointment in her. “These aren’t men who give back money. Might shift the wager to another player. But, frankly, I would be terrified to do that. Don’t know the rest of the field from a hill of beans.”

“But you said you’d studied it!”

“Well, studied in a sort of relative way. It’s Munro I’ve been studying. Why do you think I had you meet me at that, er, rather risqué entertainment in White Friars? Don’t go to those sorts of places myself. I’m a married man! I went because I heard Munro was giving a demonstration.”

“And if Munro loses?”

Oswald bounced on his toes. “Ain’t going to.”

“But what if he does?” she demanded and wondered why Flora wasn’t asking these questions instead of just sitting there staring up at Oswald as if he was Apollo come in his sun chariot to take her away.

“Have to slit my throat, I suppose,” he finally said, sighing heavily. “Only honorable thing to do.”

At this, Flora blanched, clutched her heart, and surged upright, throwing her arms around Oswald and sobbing into the shoulder of her pink dressing gown.

Mr. Oswald patted her on the back and looked balefully over her head at Helena. “How could you, Miss Nash? And her breeding and all?”

“I have to go,” she said slowly.

He smiled a little tightly. “That might be for the best.”

She backed out of her room, closing the door behind her. She moved as if in a dream. She could see no choice in what she intended to do. She would dress in one of Flora’s gowns, greet Lady Tilpot at breakfast, and tell her that Flora was in the throes of yet another megrim. She would listen to Lady Tilpot’s penny-by-penny account of last night’s whist game, and then, afterwards, give the boy who swept the street crossing six pence to carry a note to Ram Munro.

And with it a golden rose.

REDOUBLEMENT:

a new action that follows an attack that missed or was parried

THE ROYAL AMPHITHEATER was filled to capacity. Though generally reserved for equestrian demonstrations, the auditorium had been resurfaced with fresh sawdust for this, the last day of the International Dueling Tournament. Nervous contestants, awaiting their turn to be disqualified from the competition or to go forth to the next round, milled about the perimeter of the arena, while inside the marked areas pairs of gentlemen matched their talent against one another until one of them was the first to score five hits against his opponent. If he succeeded, he went on in the competition.

Each battle tested not only skill but spirit as well, for even though the rules strictly denounced the drawing of blood, blood was often drawn. Consequently, as the tournament progressed each bout grew more fierce as exhaustion and nerves overtook the contestants.

It was early in the evening still and another three rounds to go before the championship was held. The ton, finally bored with the season’s passion for masquerades, attended the event in full force, galvanized by a fantastical and unimaginable rumor that had leaked out of the amphitheater and raced like wildfire through Society: An Englishman, Cottrell’s bastard grandson—who was a bastard no more, but that was another story—was marching through the ranks of competitors with a determination that seemed to suggest that he actually meant to win the damn thing!

The three levels of balconies surrounding the arena already teemed with spectators, and yet each moment more and more people arrived, ladies as well as gentlemen standing four deep, crowding every available box and doorway. Having made a substantial loan to the amphitheater’s owners for rebuilding the venue last year, Lady Tilpot had managed to secure a prime box.

“Milford is coming on next,” Lady Tilpot confided to the party of social luminaries she hosted. She had taken to calling Ram by his courtesy title, Earl of Milford, with a familiarity that set Helena’s teeth on edge. “Don’t know who he’s up against. Don’t ’spect it will matter. He will win, of course.”

“I’d heard he was withdrawing,” said one of the swarm of young blades.

“I, also,” said Lord Figburt. Figgy, too, had entered the competition as an unranked entrant. He’d made it to the third round yesterday before losing and was feeling quite pleased with himself. “I wonder what happened.”

I happened, Helena thought, still amazed by her own audacity. The words she had written Ram had taken a long time to compose, and yet they had been so few:

You must win the dueling tournament.

Helena

With the note she had sent the gold rose.

There had been no reply. Not a word. But he’d arrived at the competition yesterday morning and had set about mowing down his competition like a dark scythe.

“Pride,” Lady Tilpot sniffed. “National pride. Something other young men would do well to emulate.” She twisted her bulky form around and gave a dour stare to her niece tucked well back in the box with that unfortunate hanger-on, Oswald Goodfin? Goodriddance?

Flora returned her stare with an apologetic smile, giving a slight shrug, as if to ask what she could do without being unspeakably rude. And what could she do? Lady Tilpot wondered balefully. The other seats were all occupied. Flora could hardly ask him to move and make way for a more desirable potential mate. Or could she—

“Ah! There he is!” Mrs. Winebarger, seated behind Helena, pointed her fan toward the far side of the arena. Helena stretched up in her seat to see Ram’s dark head moving through a sea of gentlemen. They parted before his smooth, purposeful stride as he stepped over the raised curb that delineated the ring.

The English crowd roared with approval, stamping their feet and shouting their approval. For decades the French, Prussians, and Italians had dominated the art of swordsmanship. Ramsey was their native son, come to champion them.

For a champion he seemed woefully unaware of his status. He did not acknowledge the crowd. His face was set, stern and cold, eons away from the dashing, knowing sophisticate those in Society who knew him had expected. He lifted his sword from the table where the combatants’ weapons had been brought prior to the duel, and lowered it to his side. In contrast, his opponent, a tall, barrel-chested Spaniard, seized his blade and executed several sweeping slashes through the air.

“Señor Calvino is very good,” Mrs. Winebarger murmured. “Aggressive and decisive. Or so says my husband.”

“Yes,” Lady Tilpot drawled insincerely, pivoting on her rump to eye Mrs. Winebarger. “Too bad about your husband. Pity. I’m sure he would have deported himself well.”

Mrs. Winebarger had sadly informed them that her husband had been injured yesterday when his opponent had skewered his thigh a second or so after time had been called. While he was lucky no arteries or tendons had been cut, he would be unable to continue in the competition. He could, she told them, barely walk. “Yes,” she said sadly, “he would have done well.”

“I am surprised you left him alone in his defeat. Though of course we are delighted you felt able to do so.”

“I felt strongly that I had to be here,” Mrs. Winebarger replied, but her cheeks carried little flags of color.

Below, the duel had begun. Ram’s focus was the first thing one noticed. He moved with restrained calm, his stillness in direct contrast to the Spaniard’s seemingly uncontainable vigor. The Spaniard did not lunge, he bounded in on the attack, his long sword arm stretched to the limit. But every attack Ram deflected; every line, he somehow turned; and at the end of each of Calvino’s assaults, the tip of Ram’s blade darted in to score a point, and then two, and then a third.

The Spaniard, realizing he would lose the match if he did not take command, utilized his greater size and mass, bludgeoning his way through Ram’s guard to score twice in quick succession. Bolstered by his success, he lunged again.

But Ram had learned his opponent’s tactics quickly and just as quickly adjusted for them. He stepped in, bringing the action close. The blades flashed and darted, striking with deadly precision.

“Four!” the referee shouted, pointing at Ram. And then, “Five!”

The crowd went mad as the Spaniard, panting and red faced, snapped forward at the waist, bowing deeply in Ram’s direction. Ram returned his bow with seeming impatience and then, ignoring the wild cheers and whistles that hailed his victory, disappeared into the crowd.

“Good. Fast and effective. I approve,” Lady Tilpot declared. “When will he fight next?”

“He’ll have about an hour’s rest, then he’ll fight the winner of this round for the final bout.”

“Ah. Excellent. And who would that be?”

“The Frenchman St. George or the Italian Il Cavaliere, Vettori.”

“Well,” Lady Tilpot said, “it should prove a very entertaining spectacle then. And I don’t suppose we have time to go in search of some little comestible while we wait? No.” She answered her own question dolefully, but then her expression lightened.

“But you, Miss Nash, whatever do you care about dueling and fencing and such? You don’t. So do make yourself useful and go fetch some cakes and berries and some lemonade. Cheese would be nice. And if there’s butter and honey for the cakes, all the better.”

She could hardly refuse. Which meant she must hurry. She stood up at once and was surprised when Mrs. Winebarger rose beside her. “I will help you, my dear. Doubtless it will take more than one person to transport all of that.”

Lady Tilpot didn’t even pretend to object. Mrs. Winebarger’s usefulness to her had come to an abrupt end with her husband’s incapacitation.

“Thank you,” Helena murmured, following her into the corridor.

Once outside, Mrs. Winebarger linked her arm through Helena’s and purposefully led her toward one of the niches lining the outer wall. “I have been looking for an opportunity to talk to you all day,” Mrs. Winebarger said urgently, taking a seat and indicating that Helena should do likewise. Reluctantly, Helena did so.

“Please, Mrs. Winebarger, I do not want to miss Mr. Munro’s—”

“Miss Nash.” Page held up her hand. Her blue-green eyes were strained, and lines of tension bracketed her mouth,“You are the reason I have left my Robert this day.”

“What?” Helena asked. “I don’t understand.”

“My dear, you must promise to listen to everything I have to tell you. You must promise not to walk away from me after my first sentence. Can you promise me this?”