Louise Gouge - A Lady of Quality

“Touché.” Winston straightened, unable to hide a triumphant smirk amid the applause of the other gentlemen.

The boy should have lifted his foil in a salute. Should have congratulated Winston on his victory. Should have removed that ridiculous mask to reveal his identity.

Instead, he threw down his weapon and shoved his way through the crowd, disappearing down a back corridor, utterly depriving Winston of his chance to act the gracious victor.

* * *

Catherine du Coeur thought her heart might leap from her chest. Pulling off her mask, she stumbled against the wall, but caught herself from falling as she scurried down the back corridor of Monsieur Angelus’s fencing academy.

Never in her twenty years had she encountered such arrogance. True, she knew little of London’s aristocracy, but Lord Winston’s pride would put a peacock to shame. Vanity and conceit were written across his all-too-handsome face, which was framed with blond hair so curly she could almost envy him. Then there were those intense gray-green eyes and that straight, narrow nose he’d peered down to look at her as if she were some sort of inferior being. She could see from the way he carried himself, the way he ruthlessly defeated her, that he would have no scruples about using false evidence to send an innocent Christian gentleman to the gallows.

Perhaps she was just making excuses. God had been merciful in staying her hand when she had the chance to plunge the unprotected foil into the baron’s evil heart. No, she would not be the one to kill him, merely the one to expose and destroy him for what he did to Papa.

“Very clever, my dear.” Mr. Radcliff came out of the shadows at the back door and flung her black woolen cloak around her shoulders. “How did you remove the button?” He gave her arm a paternal pat. “And why did you hesitate? You could have killed Winston and been done with it.”

She pulled the hood over her head. “Hurry. We must get away before anyone pursues us.” To gain her admittance to the academy, Mr. Radcliff had forged a letter as if from Papa to Monsieur Angelus, who was all too willing to let his old friend’s “son” fence at the Haymarket academy. She could not imagine what Mr. Radcliff included in the letter to persuade Monsieur Angelus to overlook the scandal and lies attached to Papa’s name. But it would only add to her father’s disgrace if that “son” was discovered to be a girl.

They exited the back door of the elegant stone building into the sweltering heat and entered the waiting hackney. Only when they were seated and on their way could Catherine breathe out a long sigh of relief. When she inhaled, the stink of horses and sewage nearly sickened her. How she longed for her country home, but until Papa’s name was cleared, she must endure the miseries of a London summer.

“I did not remove the button. It broke off when the baron knocked my foil to the floor.”

“Ah.” He pointed to the gloved hand Lord Winston struck. “Is the injury severe?”

“’Tis nothing at all.” No doubt bruised, but fortunately, ladies wore gloves at all times, even in the summer, so she could keep the injury covered. She brushed back her hood and pulled a linen handkerchief from her sleeve to mop away the perspiration streaming down her face. “Is London always this hot?”

“It is unusually warm this year.” Mr. Radcliff retrieved a black linen fan and waved it before his pale, slender face. Understanding filled his dark gray eyes, and she could see he would ask no more questions about her duel with Winston. This gentleman knew she could not commit murder. Just as Papa had always done, he was letting her learn through her experiences. And today she had learned much about Lord Winston. Now she could plot her revenge.

She gazed at Mr. Radcliff fondly across the small carriage. How like an uncle he was with his care for her family. Vaguely resembling his cousin, Lord Winston, he was perhaps five and forty years old, a little older than Papa and Mama. But he appeared much older due to his thin, frail body and wispy gray hair. The three of them had been friends long ago. This winter past, when Lord Winston had falsely accused Papa of being a Bonapartist and conspiring to assassinate the French king, who had taken refuge in England, Mr. Radcliff had helped Papa escape imprisonment. Then he befriended the family when no one else would. Now, as secretary to Lord Blakemore, he had secured a position for Catherine as Lady Blakemore’s companion, providing her with fabricated references to keep anyone from associating her with someone all deemed a would-be assassin. Catherine’s family owed him so much, but he asked nothing in return for all of his kindnesses.

A rush of gratitude swept into her chest. “Dear friend, I wish you could attend the marchioness’s ball this evening.” She gave him a playful smile, such as she might bestow upon Papa. “I would dance every dance with you.”

“What?” He chuckled. “And scandalize your gracious employer, not to mention my beloved wife?” His expression fell. “No, no, my dear. Such gaiety is not for the likes of me. I had my youth. Now it is your turn.”

She guessed he had suffered some great loss, but she would not ask him about it lest it remind him of his sorrows. Perhaps in helping her, he was somehow finding comfort.

The hackney wended its way through the London traffic much too slowly for Catherine’s taste. Today was her half day off, and she needed to be back at Blakemore House soon to prepare for the ball. But Lady Blakemore was a tolerant employer, so she did not worry excessively. Moreover, this afternoon’s charade had served an important purpose. She had evaluated her enemy and knew his greatest weakness, which was nothing short of overweening pride. How easy it would be to use that fault to destroy him or at the least force him to admit that his evidence against Papa was false.

She would somehow arrange an introduction, flatter him and win his friendship, perhaps even his love, then coax him into confessing his crime to her. Last, she would go to Lord Blakemore and beseech him to ruin Lord Winston with the information. Even though he was a peer, Winston would be punished, perhaps imprisoned. Papa would be absolved of all guilt and could return home. Only then would she be satisfied with her revenge.

A vague memory scratched at the back of her mind, a Bible verse advising that vengeance belonged to God alone. But surely the Almighty would understand she was the only one who could save Papa from execution for a crime he did not commit.

* * *

Winston surveyed the ballroom, looking for another partner. Of the three young ladies with whom he had already danced, not one excited his interest. Their mutual indifference was obvious in the way they continued to cast glances at the uniformed soldiers who dotted the room like a measles rash. Not that he would have any of the silly chits, but surely his wealth, his pedigree and his barony of writ that extended back to the days of Henry III should garner some interest among the marriageable misses in Society. No doubt it was the uniform. Had Father not forbidden Winston to join His Majesty’s army to fight Napoleon, he, too, could be attracting a bevy of colorful butterflies.

What vain and foolish thoughts. What care did he have for their frivolous choices? His features and physique were passable, or at least not repulsive, yet he would much rather strengthen his inner man, his character, as Father had always instructed from the Scriptures. Likewise, in his necessary pursuit of a wife, he must search for a sensible, refined lady of good pedigree. Yet after twice losing his targets to other gentlemen, his confidence had begun to falter, especially tonight as the gallant, crimson-coated heroes forced him to the sidelines. On the other hand, what better place to observe which young ladies might have the essential character his wife must possess?