Fortune's Son (18 page)

“You can't be serious,” said George.

“A thousand guineas and a lady's honor is no jesting matter,” Philip answered.

“But a challenge? By my troth, I can't fathom why you would have done such a thing. What the devil transpired after I left?”

“It all seems a bad dream and rather a blur now, but that swiving whoreson Weston was hell-bent on getting her alone. When she would have withstood his importuning he publicly defamed her, and rendered me unpardonable insult when I objected. There were a number of witnesses, which means I now have two accounts to settle with the sodding bastard.”

“At least you have the advantage as the injured party to choose time, place, and weapon.”

“As to that, the meeting is already set. Tothill Fields, the day after the morrow. Half six. Smallswords.”

“Smallswords, Drake? He's a known expert. Studied for years abroad under a French master and is more than eager to ply his sword. According to rumor of his prior escapades, you may take that in both senses of the word. The injudicious use of the one necessitating the plying of the other, I suppose.” George laughed.

“Nevertheless, I'm prepared to meet him.”

“Don't be an ass. This matter is hardly worth risking your life over. God knows why you, of all my acquaintance, have become so embroiled. I say 'tis past time to rid yourself of the baggage.”

“It's too late,” Philip said.

“Look, ol' chap, I've already been warned to distance myself from you after the incident with Dashwood. And now you've antagonized Weston to the point of an actual meeting? Do you plan to disaffect yourself from the peerage one member at a time? What devil has possessed you?”

“I'm as confounded as you, Bosky, that these ridiculously quixotic tendencies have surfaced, but there you have it. Now, pray act as my second, and we'll make a party of it at Tothill Fields.”

“I told you, Drake, I want none of this affair.”

“And I am
in
want
of a second.”

“It shan't be me. I've a political future to think of.”

“Your Clerkship of the Meltings?”

“That was
Clerkship
of
the
Irons
and
Surveyor
of
the
Meltings
, if you please.”

“A thousand pardons, your eminence.”

“I won't be mocked.” George scowled. “These things can turn very nasty, you know. Remember the infamous duel between the fourth Duke of Hamilton and Lord Mohun?”

“Can't say I recall any of the particulars.”

“It all began with a dispute over the estate of the Earl of Macclesfield when he passed away without issue. Hamilton and Mohun both laid claim to the estate, and after years of litigation without resolution Mohun called Hamilton out. According to eyewitnesses, Hamilton mortally wounded Mohun but was himself killed by Mohun's second, George MacCartney. Both seconds were subsequently charged with murder, but escaped to the Continent. You see? Two deaths and two murder charges. In all, a very ugly business!”

“Honor, above all, must be satisfied, George. Without it, how can a man look himself in the mirror?”

“Damn it all! If there's no dissuading you, at least go see Figg. Though you're an abominable friend, I'd still hate to see you dead.”

“Such mawkish sentiments, Bosky! I'd no idea.”

“Hang yourself, Drake.”

***

Until his retirement a decade prior, James Figg was the indisputable English champion in all matters martial. Only once defeated in barefisted pugilism, he was also an expert in the cudgel, quarterstaff, and the English smallsword.

A brawny man at nearly fourteen stone, and standing over six feet, he had begun his career challenging prizefighters at local fairs until catching the eye of Lord Peterborough. An avid sportsman and gambler, Peterborough offered Figg his patronship and moved the fighter to London, and in his decade-long career that followed, Figg suffered only one defeat in over two hundred fifty recorded matches. Figg had bowed out gracefully at the peak of this illustrious fighting career to focus on more lucrative and less lethal aspects of his chosen vocation, promotion of sporting events and lessons to the aristocracy in the gentlemanly art of self-defense.

While Philip had already received some instruction in French smallsword, he knew he was little prepared to face any true swordsman experienced in the
duello
. He was also lacking the requisite seconds. Although George still refused to fill the role, he was not in the least opposed to accompanying him to Figg's Amphitheatre, where he assured Philip of finding a more suitable recruit. They arrived to find Captain Godfrey just finishing his own session with the master.

“Misters Selwyn and Drake, isn't it?” Godfrey greeted the younger gents with enthusiasm. “Haven't seen either of you since Whitaker routed the Venetian. A capital match, that. Eh, Figg?”

“Didn't I say we'd teach the Italians humility?” the master interjected. “I hope you gents had the wisdom to place your stakes on my man Whitaker.”

“Indeed,” George replied. “How could I ever oppose my countryman, particularly a protégé of the great Figg? Turned a nice penny on it too, though nothing like his Lordship of Peterborough. He's said to have won over a thousand on the match.”

Figg's answering smile neither confirmed nor denied the rumor. “So, Mr. Selwyn, have you finally decided to take up the sport?”

“Not I, sir!” George exclaimed. “Although I'm quite the aficionado of the art, I'd as lief remain outside the ring. It is actually for my friend here that we are come.”

Captain Godfrey remarked, “If you are in want of instruction, you have surely come to the right place. Figg here is a matchless master of the arts martial. I've purchased my own knowledge with many a broken head and bruised body by his hand.” The captain laughed.

Figg appraised Philip's trim but athletic form, concluding at last, “You've not the muscle, but I daresay you'd be quick enough on your feet.”

“Actually, 'tis your swordsmanship expertise I seek. I have a sudden need to sharpen my skills.”

“Backsword or smallsword?” Figg asked.

“Smallsword.”

“What do you know of the smallsword?” Figg asked, appraising the silver-hilted weapon at Philip's side with a disparaging grunt.

“I've little formal training,” Philip answered, flushing under the master's obvious scrutiny.

“Who is your opponent?” Figg demanded.

“He is reputed a master of both the Italian rapier and French smallsword, but for obvious reasons must remain nameless,” Philip replied.

Knowing Philip risked arrest as an antagonist in a duel, Figg nodded understanding at his reticence to say more. “When is this… meeting?” he asked.

“On the morrow.”

“On the morrow?” Figg laughed outright. “Mayhap you'd do better to swallow your pride and live to see the next day.”

Philip protested, “You don't understand. My reputation and my honor are at stake.”

Figg remarked, “And honor has put many men in the grave. Now lad, while willing enough to take your coin, I'd hate to hasten such a young sprig to his maker. What the devil can you possibly hope to achieve in a single day?”

Philip replied, “In truth? I would hope to learn how to best avoid his blade.”

Figg nodded with satisfaction. “Spoken rightly enough. If you'd said you sought to best your opponent, I'd have sent your cocky arse packing. But if 'tis truly defense to preserve your person and your precious honor—
that
we might can achieve.”

The master turned to the captain. “Godfrey, I would see now if the pup knows the pommel from the point.”

“My body and blade are at your service.” The captain grinned and the trio followed Figg into his
salle.

***

Although fencing had been a part of Philip's early education, over the past few years he'd had little use for the gentlemanly art when his typical antagonist more often wielded a knife or cudgel. In those instances, his instincts and reflexes had served him well to disarm or disable as the situation necessitated, but a duel was a matter outside of his experience.

When two men came together in a face-off with blades, the rules of conduct were stringent. Choreographed by masters of the art over the centuries, the gracefully macabre dance
duello
was comprised of prescribed moves and countermoves, each
guarde
met and matched, each parry alternately interspersed with well-rehearsed ripostes, lunges, and thrusts.

Upon entering the
salle
, Philip doffed coat and cravat, wrapping the latter around his left hand for protection in a parry. He then unsheathed his blade to face his opponent.

Selwyn and Godfrey, acting as seconds, marked the positions of the would-be combatants, leaving a two-foot distance between their respective weapons.

Philip faced the large, shaved-headed, fiery-eyed master with trepidation. In classical textbook fashion, Philip extended his sword hand in
tierce
carte
, the point slightly higher than the hilt, directed toward his opponent's face. His left arm arced in a semicircle behind his head to balance and parry.

With a nod from Godfrey, the opponents acknowledged their readiness by raising swords in a silent salute. “
Allez
,” the captain spoke the command.

Locking his eyes on his opponent's, Philip was first to engage. Shifting his balance warily onto the ball of his extended right foot, he made a tentative advance to test his steel against Figg's.

Without a blink, the master smoothly circled Philip's blade in a long scrape of metal and in the same motion thrust at the ready target. Instantly perceiving his vulnerability, Philip beat back Figg's blade in a rapid retreat and disengaged.

“Good instincts.” Figg grunted approval.

“And fast reflexes,” Godfrey added with an encouraging smile.

The contenders resumed their
guarde
and Godfrey signaled again.

This time Figg went on the offense. His blade connected with Philip's in a lightning-fast flash of steel. Philip moved to meet the master, fort to foible, in a parry, but having engaged him on the inside Figg lowered his point over and across, to bind and command Philip's steel, following with a clean thrust to the flank, a mortal strike had it been made in earnest.

The actions were fast, smooth, clean, and elegant, and Philip had not stood a chance. “
Flaconnade
,” he explained at Philip's bewildered and mortified expression. With his left hand still on Philip's blade, Figg lowered the point toward the ground. “You stand no chance at all if you meet any skilled opponent in such a textbook fashion.”

Philip answered, “While there are any number of moves I might have employed, Mr. Figg, I daresay a head butt, an eye gouge, or kick to the bollocks would hardly be counted gentlemanly.”

“The lad's after my own heart.” Figg laughed. “'Tis what I loved about my years in the ring: there were no such restrictions. Honor be damned as long as you won. Nevertheless, if you wish to engage with swords you must adopt another technique to better your advantage. Are you familiar with the works of Sir William Hope?”

“Aye, sir. Who has not heard of the Scotsman? My earlier study included
The
Fencing
Master's Advice to his Scholar.
”

“'Tis the French method, taught in every traditional
salle
, but I refer to Hope's lesser known system of defense.”

“
The
New
Method?
” Godfrey suggested.

“Aye,” Figg answered. “While not so elegant as our French-inspired ways, it is yon friend's best hope of befuddling a classically trained swordsman.” Figg explained to Philip. “In defense, Hope said to leave style and grace for the classroom; instead he devised a technique whose elegance is found only in its security of a man's protection. Hope's
New
Method
provides such a system designed for a gentleman with no great expertise.”

Figg continued. “There are only a small number of parries and thrusts, easy enough to learn, but they never caught on due to their perceived inelegance. But there's no disputing their practicality. 'Tis precisely the technique you must adopt. Godfrey, would you care to demonstrate the hanging guard
en
seconde
to our eager pedagogue?”

Happy to oblige, Godfrey assumed an awkward-looking stance, with his blade directed toward Philip's thigh. The downward position of the blade, Figg explained, allowed optimal protection of the gut, the primary target for penetrating weapons.

“The greatest advantage of this hanging guard is that a man's adversary can only attack two ways, either without and below his sword, or without and above it.” Figg elaborated. “A man's protection is in the cross his weapon makes upon his adversary's and the more exact and dexterous he is, the more firm and certain will his defense prove. These guards and parades are few and simple, meant to block any manner of thrust or riposte.

“If your opponent should thrust without and above your sword, you must turn him off by moving your sword arm a little upwards and to your left. This also allows you to gain the foible, the weakest part of his sword, and prevent him forcing home.”

By example, Godfrey struck.

Philip deflected the point with a parry left.

“Good lad!” Figg said. “Now you have parried, you may attack from your parade with a riposte as you please.”

Over the next few hours, Philip laid aside almost everything he'd ever learned of swordplay. Under Figg's guidance, his body shifted from aft to fore, with his right leg bearing more weight for a solid defense. With single-minded application to Figg's instruction, Philip perfected what was at first an ungainly series of parries and thrusts, but once adapted to it, his superior reflexes prevailed. He gained confidence with each parry and deflection of Captain Godfrey's sword. While he had no false notion of defeating Weston, Philip left Figg's
salle
feeling much less
ill-prepared.