Regency Masquerade (2 page)

It
had been a devastating shock when her father had fallen ill a few months back
and died in their lodgings in Florence.  When he had finally realised the
seriousness of his illness, in fact the very day before he died, he called
Frances to him.  “You must go to London ... find Julia Murray – Lady Julia,
she’ll see you right.  Just tell her Henry Metcalf ...” a fit of coughing had
prevented him from finishing.  He gripped her hand tightly and whispered his
last words to her.  “Remember, Lady Julia Murray ... give her my ...”  Another
bout of coughing shook him and he lay back exhausted against the pillows.

After
his death, Frances had numbly made the funeral arrangements, paid their bills,
packed her two trunks and set off to England with their manservant John Hopgood
for her sole companion.  She had automatically chosen her male garb for the
journey as it made everything so much easier, and faster.  A single woman could
not put up at a respectable inn without a female companion or travel by herself
in a carriage.

When
she eventually landed in England, she saw no reason to abandon her disguise. 
“Peter Francis” had therefore travelled to London by coach  from Dover and
booked into the Pelican with the minimum of fuss.  Her plans were to lie low
while she located Lady Julia Murray and find out what she could about her. 
Frances had no intention of throwing herself upon the charity of a perfect
stranger.  She had enough money from their last gambling venture to allow her
to live in a moderate fashion for several months.

She
had planned to live quietly in London for several reasons other than money
however, not the least of which was her desire to be unrecognised should she
have the opportunity to become a woman again.  Although she had every
confidence in her disguise, she realised that a close friend of Peter Francis
would remark audibly on his replacement by Frances.  She would just have to
stay away from Richard Carleton.

The
next day was bright and sunny, a fresh breeze blowing a couple of small white
clouds about the blue sky.  As Frances strode briskly through Hyde Park, she
wished rather wistfully that she didn’t have to live quite so quietly.  The
theatre for instance – how she would love to see some English Shakespeare! 
There was so much happening in London at the moment, plays, operas, balls.  For
the first time in her life she thought it would be fun to be a young girl
enjoying a London season, dancing and flirting the nights away.  She sighed. 
It would also be very pleasant to hire a horse and ride in the Park – perhaps
her purse would stretch to that once or twice during her stay.

She
really must get a move on and find this Lady Murray.  It was difficult to know
quite where to start.  She had no acquaintances in London to ask and her
tentative enquiries at the Pelican had not borne fruit.  She had taken to
buying a paper and looking through the Society news, but so far she had had no
luck.  What she had noticed though was a short column about a masked ball that
was being held by Lady Dalrymple in three days time.  Lady Dalrymple was one of
the season’s foremost hostesses commented the paper, and the occasion was sure
to be a sad crush.  Unbidden, the thought had slipped into Frances mind that
surely, in such a sad crush, one more person would not be noticed?  And how
better to find out about Lady Julia than at a ball where the gossip buzzed like
a swarm of bees?  Perhaps she could even ask someone to introduce her?  But the
risks!  What if she were caught trying to get in the house and was taken up for
a burglar?  The idea continued to tease her however and she was still deep in
thought when she heard her name called.  “Francis?”

Startled,
she looked up into the amused face of Richard Carleton.  At the same time she
realised that she had left the Park and was now making her way down Oxford
Street.  She blinked and smiled, “My apologies sir, I was daydreaming”.

“Sound
asleep more like!” joked Carleton.  “Are you on your way to anywhere in
particular?  If not, perhaps you would like to join me at Mancini’s Fencing
Salon?  He has a new thrust he has promised to show me.”

Frances’
eyes lit up. “That would be fascinating, I accept with pleasure sir!”  Only
then did she remember, too late, her vow to steer well away from Mr Carleton! 
Oh well she mused philosophically, I’ll just have to avoid him tomorrow. They
turned off Oxford Street shortly and soon found themselves climbing the steps
to the two upstairs rooms where M. Mancini conducted his fencing lessons.

He
was a short, dark-eyed Italian and Frances heart gave a sudden lurch of fear
that she might have met him in Italy before she realised he was a complete
stranger.  He came quickly forward to greet her companion, hand outstretched. 
“Ah my Lord Carleton, you have come to learn the “kiss of death” yes?  And your
friend?  I have not met him before I think.”  The inquisitive brown eyes were
turned directly on Frances and she gazed steadily back, masking the jolt his
use of “Lord” Carleton had given her.  A Lord?  She should definitely have
avoided his company.

She
bowed in the Italian style and introduced herself, “Peter Francis, Maestro.” 
The eyes lit up.  “You speak Italian?  Have you learned your sword play there
as well?”

CHAPTER
THREE

Rather
reluctantly, Frances nodded.  “I had a few lessons with Maestro Ricardo.” 
Surely it would do no harm to mention this?  It was the truth after all and one
of the first lessons for an adventurer was to stick to the truth as often as
possible!

“Ah
...” Mancini looked at her with interest.  “Perhaps when I have finished the
lesson with Lord Carleton, you would care to...?”  He broke off as Frances
shook her head.

“I’m
sorry Maestro,” she said, flushing a little.  “I’m afraid I cannot afford
lessons at the moment.”

Mancini
looked a bit taken aback then said enthusiastically, “No matter.  This time
there is no charge because I would like to see something of how the great Ricardo
teaches”.  Frances bowed to inevitability and accepted the offer, inwardly
fuming at her own recklessness which had led her to accompany Carleton in the
first place.

Carleton
regarded her quizzically, “You have hidden depths, Francis.”

“So
do you, ‘my Lord’”, she retorted.

“Come,
come,” urged Mancini, “Let’s start, my Lord”.

Carleton
took off his coat and selected a buttoned foil.  “En guard”.  The two men went
quickly through a series of warm up movements before they began fencing in
earnest, Mancini occasionally commenting on his noble pupil’s performance. 
“Higher there my Lord ... well done ... no!  wait til I am fully extended
before you try that one ...”  Frances watched interestedly, her gaze moving
from one man to the other.  Mancini was obviously the professional.  He moved
with practised precision, his wrists as flexible as India rubber and his speed
sometimes almost faster than the eye could see.  Carleton on the other hand was
a good amateur, who was strong in defence and quick in attack.  He gave a good
account of himself and twice got a blow through Mancini’s guard.

Frances
began to prepare herself for her own bout to come, taking deep measured breaths
and flexing her knees and wrists.  She watched closely as Mancini demonstrated
his “kiss of death” to Carleton.  It involved an orchestrated clash of blades
at a certain angle and then a carry on thrust to the throat.  It reminded
strongly of a manoeuvre Ricardo had taught her, although she thought hers might
be trifle neater.

All
too soon the men were saluting each other and Carleton was moving to one side,
wiping the sweat off his brow.  “Your turn Francis.”

Outwardly
calm, she moved forward to select a blade, forcing herself to think solely of
the techniques she would use and to think of nothing else beyond the next ten
minutes. They were more evenly matched for height and weight and their eyes met
across the blades raised in salute.  Mancini went through a similar set of
preparatory exercises as he had with Carleton and Frances followed his lead
carefully, conserving her strength.

“Right,
let’s see what you can show me,” invited the Italian, breaking off
momentarily.  Frances nodded and let him take the lead again, content to defend
herself and bide her time.  After a few minutes she detected a slight
restlessness in her opponent and a moment later she recognised the opening move
of his “kiss of death”.  She met him blow for blow, then, as he made the final
thrust, she twisted her own blade up in a curious motion that sent Mancini’s
sword flashing up past her shoulder, and landed the button of her own foil at
the base of his throat.

“Magnifico!”
breathed the astounded teacher. “How did ...?  No keep on ... later.”  The bout
continued but the Italian was now on his guard.  Frances had used most of her
strength and concentration on achieving her initial success and struggled to
hold her own.  Mancini soon had his blade against her heart and she surrendered
breathless but smiling.

“I
must crave your pardon Maestro and stop there.”  He looked rather incredulous
and she trotted out the explanation she had used in the past.  “As you can see,
I have some skills but alas not the strength to follow them up.  I had the
wasting sickness when I was a lad and my limbs have never gained full
strength.”

“What
a shame young sir!” he exclaimed in dismay. “With more practice, you might have
become a master – Ricardo taught you that trick?”  Frances nodded.  Mancini
continued to shake his head regretfully.

“Perhaps
you’d have a turn with me sometime Francis?” enquired Carleton from the wall
where he had been watching curiously.

“If
you like... but I’d be no match for you my Lord, your arm is too strong,” she
replied casually.

“I
must say you’re cool enough about it,” he commented, his expression unreadable.

“I
have no choice sir!  However it doesn’t affect my shooting.  I’ll wager I could
meet you equally enough with pistols!”  Thinking he was taunting her, Frances
answered rather hotly.

“Steady
on young Francis, I meant no offense,” Carleton laughed.  “Though it would give
me great pleasure to engage in a friendly shooting match with you – I have
already had some evidence of your skill with firearms remember?”

Frances
looked searchingly at him but could see no trace of mockery.  “I’m sorry my
Lord,” she apologised gruffly.  She turned to Mancini. “I must thank you very
much for your time maestro and bid you good day.  I have an appointment in an
hour and must get home to change now,” she spoke in Italian.  He returned her
bow and shook Carleton’s hand.  “Next week as usual?” he queried and the other
man nodded. 

Once
outside, Frances turned to Carleton.  “I must be away my Lord.  Thank you for
bringing me this morning, I have not fenced for some time and it was good to
feel a sword in my hand again.”

“I
enjoyed watching you,” he confessed.  “You have a brilliant style for one so
young.”

“I
had the best teacher in Maestro Ricardo,” excused Frances, “and I started
early.  One does in Italy.”

They
walked in silence for a few yards, then Carleton spoke.  “Would you care to
meet me in Manton’s Gallery for some shooting one day?  We could have a wager
as you suggested, a small wager, perhaps, between friends?”

Frances
flushed, “I did not mean that.”

“What,
backing down?”

She
glanced up and saw he was teasing.  “I would not wish to rob you my Lord,” she
answered demurely.

Carleton
laughed, “Friday then? Are you free?”

Frances
considered.  That would be the day after Lady Dalrymple’s masked ball.  She
nodded. “I shall see you there at ... what time?”

“Two?” 
She agreed and they parted company.  Of course she couldn’t meet him Frances
told herself, but it had been easier to agree.  Certainly he would be offended
when she failed to keep their appointment but at least that would make him
unlikely to seek out her company again.  Perhaps by Friday she would already be
under Lady Murray’s protection.  The thought was not as cheering as she had
expected.

She
turned her mind to the masked ball.  If she went, would she go as male or
female?  She’d be more likely to learn about Lady Murray as a woman of course ...
and it would be more fun ...  It was all nonsense, wishful thinking, naturally
she’d spend the night quietly in her room as usual.

Carleton
strolled back to his own house, his thoughts also turning to the Dalrymple’s
masked ball.  Perhaps Rosamond would be there.  At twenty nine, Carleton was
still unattached, without even the mistress that most men of his class had on
the side.  He had found no-one yet that he wished to marry and was too
reserved, fastidious even, to seek out a casual relationship which was
distinguished, as he saw it, by lust on one side and avarice on the other.  As
far as the succession went, he had a cousin with a healthy young family, who
could easily take over if he failed to provide an heir.  Not that he had given
up just yet!  He still hoped to find someone who would share his interests as
well as his bed, perhaps Rosamond was the one.

On
the morning of the ball, Frances was still considering whether to attend or
not.  Doubtfully she looked at her two dresses, one plain and deliberately
servant like and the other a reasonably pretty morning dress with blue trim but
definitely not a ball gown.  “Well that settles that,” she told herself
firmly.  However, when she found herself strolling down Bond Street an hour
later, she realised her subconscious had not listened.  She paused outside a
particularly modish shop and made a bargain with herself.  “Alright then, if
there’s a gown in there that will fit me, I’ll buy it and go to the ball.  If
there’s not, I won’t.”