The Fencing Master's Daughter Read online

  The Fencing Master’s Daughter

  Giselle Marks

  ©Giselle Marks 2016

  ISBN 1535535679

  ISBN-13 978-1535535670

  Acknowlegements

  Sarah J Waldock, Editor, Cover Artist, writer and Friend, without whom this would remain unpublished.

  Author bio Giselle Marks

  Giselle Marks is an English writer, poet and novelist, born in London, who has been writing in various forms most of her life. Currently Giselle lives in the beautiful Isle of Man. Her family is grown, contented and expanding. She spends most of her time writing.

  Her books ‘The Fencing Master’s Daughter’ and ‘The Marquis’s Mistake,’ were published for a few months and received good reviews before the publisher folded.

  She was asked to contribute a Regency romantic novella to ‘The Chocolate House – All for Love,’ which is a charity anthology supporting GOSH, Great Ormond Hospital for Children based in London. Her novella is entitled ‘A Rose by Any other Name…’ With her fellow writer and cover artist Sarah J. Waldock, Giselle wrote and illustrated ‘Fae Tales’ an anthology of fae and mythic tales updated to modern times and intended for teenagers and adults. Both books are available.

  Following the republication of The Fencing Master’s Daughter she will be releasing the ‘Princess of Zenina,’ the first in the sci-fi / fantasy Zeninan Saga and ‘the Purchased Peer’, a Georgian Romance. She has also completed another Regency romance ‘A Compromised Rake’ and the first of a Regency gypsy series, ‘Jessica’s Tale – Book One, The Gypsy Countess series,’ although she is considering alternate titles.

  The Zeninan Saga introduces Princess Marina, daughter of the reigning Queen of Zenina, a female dominated planet which protects a disparate empire in a dangerous universe. Marina seeks to avoid her destiny, but her decisions sometimes lead to greater problems.

  Other long- term projects include a possible book of her poetry. Her poems have been published in Female First and she has entered two of their contests, scoring a win and a commendation. Giselle has had short stories published in a number of anthologies.

  @GiselleMarks1

  http://ginafiserova.wix.com/gisellemarks

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7304857.Giselle_Marks

  Index

  The Fencing Master’s Daughter

  By Giselle Marks

  Prologue

  Chapter One Attaque

  Chapter Two Suites sequelles

  Chapter Three Decouverte

  Chapter Four Acrobatique

  Chapter Five Jeu de Cartes

  Chapter Six Impasse

  Chapter Seven Chercher la femme

  Chapter Eight Rencontres

  Chapter Nine D'avance

  Chapter Ten Découvrir

  Chapter Eleven Le Sauvetage

  Chapter Twelve Dérangement

  Chapter Thirteen Intervalle

  Chapter Fourteen Escarmouche

  Chapter Fifteen Champêtre

  Chapter Sixteen La Chasse

  Chapter Seventeen Bavardage

  Chapter Eighteen L’Animaux et Les Enfants

  Chapter Nineteen La Vérité

  Chapter Twenty Pourriture

  Chapter Twenty-one Joyeux Noël

  Chapter Twenty-two Le Saint-Etienne

  Chapter Twenty-three Décès et Remède

  Chapter Twenty-four Enlèvement

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  London October 1812

  The friends sat down at a small table in the inn’s parlour, where a number of men were seated, talking quietly, drinking pints of ale. Most of the occupants looked to be clerks or foremen of some kind. In the background from the public bar there was much noise and raucous laughter.

  “Girl, can you get us a couple of bottles of wine and five glasses please,” Captain Danforth Eversleigh asked one of the serving girls. She bobbed in reply and scuttled away.

  “This inn is better than I expected, Dan, although I would have preferred to have had a private parlour.” Major Sorley Firth declared in his soft Edinburgh brogue. “Bit of a mismatch, the mill wasn’t it? The champion floored the challenger so easily,” he continued.

  “Repeatedly,” muttered Eversleigh. The noise next door increased once more, as a fight broke out, but the sound dropped to a hum as one of the inn’s employees was heard ejecting a couple of their patrons.

  “Aye, repeatedly, hardly worth the journey,” the Scot agreed.

  “It was advertised everywhere and they must have had a good take at the gate, considering it was over in minutes and it took ages to get our carriage out from among all the crowd,” complained Lieutenant Michael Hailey, the youngest and lowest ranked of the group.

  “It was nice to get out in the English countryside together, though,” Captain William Makepeace said, as the girl brought up a tray, containing the wine, glasses and a corkscrew.

  “Thank you, I’ll open the bottles,” Dan said paying for the wine and tipping her a tanner.

  “Thank you, Captain,” she said smiling invitingly at him as she tucked the sixpence away. Four of the men were dressed as officers of the British army, the fifth man, who sat quietly, was in civilian clothes, although he wore a foil at his hip.

  Captain Eversleigh made short work of pulling the corks. The bottles, they assumed, were Portuguese, but as they were not labelled in any way, they could not really be sure. However, they had not expected anything better, because of the war against Napoleon Bonaparte’s forces. Glasses were poured and sampled.

  “The wine’s better than I expected,” Makepeace declared, “What do you think, Major?” he said turning to the man in civilian clothes.

  “I’ve drank worse in Portugal. But I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer. My mother expects me to escort her to the Duchess of Gloucester’s ball tonight,” he said softly.

  “I’m glad you’re recovering from your leg wound, sir, we feared you might lose the leg, after you were so near to that cannon ball exploding at Salamanca. We really miss you in the regiment. I’m sorry you had to sell out,” young Hailey declared, shaking his hand as the civilian stood to leave.

  “Can’t we tempt you to stay for just another glass? There’s plenty of time before you need to get home. It won’t take a hackney much about half an hour to get there. I was going to tell you about the donkey race Lawrence Macey and Gilbert Raikes had. I don’t think either donkey went in the same direction even for a minute,” Dan said trying to persuade him to sit back down.

  “I didna think that balls were your thing, Edward, stay just for another hour,” Sorley pleaded.

  “They’re not, Sorley especially as my mother is throwing every vapid debutante at me in her determination to get me married off. It’s been wonderful catching up with you all. But I must reluctantly leave. I am sorry your furlough is so short, or we could not spend more time together. Please give my regards to all my friends back with the regiment. I need to exercise this leg and get back to full fitness, so I will walk back as it is not raining,” he shook hands with the others and then grabbed his beaver and greatcoat before heading to the door. Captain William Makepeace accompanied him to the door and out into the chill air.

  “Your brother dying so unexpectedly has rather thrown you in the briars. It must be strange suddenly finding your status has changed so dramatically. If you were still merely the Right Honourable Edward Chalcombe, you could be returning with us to the war. You are very much missed, even Nosey complained of your selling out,” William declared clasping his hand tightly.

  “Thank you William, I wish you every success. I will have to learn to adjust to being bowed and scraped to, now I must go, Adeus meu amigo,”
Edward said lapsing into Portuguese.

  “Goodbye, my lord, and death to the French,” Makepeace declared turning to return to his comrades in the inn.

  Chapter One – Attaque

  Dusk came early to the misty back streets of London town. The tall ebony-haired gentleman in his dark blue greatcoat strode on despite the inclement weather, deep in thought. A casual observer might have suspected from his sun-darkened countenance that he was a foreigner to the Sceptred Isle, a casual conclusion that missed important clues to his identity. This gentleman had returned to Albion’s shores only a few months previously would have been a more accurate surmise. If our imaginary observer looked very closely at the walker, a slight limp became apparent and the gentlemen was speeding his pace as if aware he was tardy for an important engagement.

  Closer inspection would have provided a classical profile and a distracted expression deepening into a scowl. His clothes were an immaculate fit and obviously very expensively cut, yet the gentleman’s bearing intimated that he was more used to wearing uniform. Edward Charrington, the seventh Earl of Chalcombe, until recently Major Charrington of the 3rd Dragoon Guards, was missing his uniform and also missing the Cavalry sabre that was accustomed to hang at his side. Already he felt a distancing from his comrades and wished he was returning with them to drive the French invaders from Spain. The starkly cut clothing he wore was plain even by Scott’s standards, with only three shoulder capes. However, the athletic structure of the man beneath the superfine cloth stated clearly that this was not one of the town’s idle elite. He thought back to the conversation he had not long left where he had felt awkward at being the only civilian among the group.

  The light foil he wore was also an anachronism, for few non-military gentlemen carried them these days in town for everyday wear, even though fencing remained a requirement in which every gentleman must boast a degree of competency.

  The streets were quiet. Sound seemed to be muffled by the thickening mist, and those denizens he had espied lurking in the shadows. He had that prickly feeling that came before a battle and he uneasily unbuttoned his greatcoat to give easier access to his sword. He turned from one narrow lane into another which looked much the same, with dank grey brick buildings hemming him in on either side, an ideal place for an ambush he thought, before reminding himself that he was now a civilian living in the civilised city of London.

  He thought back to his friends from his former regiment, who were in London, briefly, on furlough before returning to Portugal. His former comrades were now settled in to the hostelry near Black Friars intending to make a night of it. As a career officer, Edward resented having to stay in England when his brother officers returned to the war against the Corsican monster and his generals. He had unexpectedly inherited the title at the age of thirty, when his elder brother George had died from a seizure. Then he had been wounded himself, and with the addition of his distraught mother’s pleading letters, selling out became necessary. His wound was healing now, but he limped more as he tired, especially in this damp wintry weather. It was already getting dark and he regretted not summoning a hackney cab instead of walking the three miles home.

  Yet no sooner had he dismissed these discouraging thoughts, than he was confronted by a huge silhouette. The creature coming towards him was at least his height and of considerably greater girth. A dirty grizzled face beneath a grimy old-fashioned tricorn hat glared in his direction, his beefy hands clutching a very large cudgel. Tricorn had the cocky arrogance of a man who had fought often before and was not used to losing. His stance as he came on indicated no intention of letting Edward Charrington pass.

  Edward stepped to his right to move around the obstruction, discreetly loosening his sword as he moved. Almost immediately another man loomed from the shadows on his right side blocking his egress. His foil swished from his scabbard to meet the new threat, for this man held an ancient cutlass. It looked like it hadn’t been sharpened for a long time, but Edward did not doubt that it could still cause a nasty wound or kill. Bringing the foil up he slashed towards Cutlass’s right hand, hoping to disarm him, but the blackguard was faster than he had expected, whisking his arm out of reach and stepping back to make another attack. Tricorn then brought his cudgel down towards Edward’s head but he swerved to avoid the blow receiving only a nasty crack to his shoulder. Charrington had every confidence in defending himself against his two assailants when Tricorn cried out something, a name perhaps and Edward became aware a third footpad had crept up behind him. He cried out in surprise and pain as he went down, a vicious blow from a club had crashed down upon his skull from behind.

  Edward dazedly watched the men close upon him, but could do nothing; he dropped his foil as he slumped to the filthy street. Then in a detached way he ascertained that he was no longer alone with his attackers, he tried to call out for help but no sound came. Belatedly his assailants also noticed the intrusion of two passers-by, turning from his prone form to assess the new challenge. Coming towards them were a most ill-assorted couple. A tall, slight girl with the face of a Botticelli Angel, wearing a dark redingote and a most unflattering bonnet, and a short rotund man, with one of the ugliest faces Edward had ever seen, bearing a heavy walking stick. Edwards’s brief hope disappeared as he surmised that they would be little assistance against three armed men.

  The couple continued forward, seemingly unmoved by the apparent nature of the crime taking place. They would clearly pass by ignoring the fracas and pretend they had seen nothing. The Footpads obviously concluded that these two were no threat to their enterprise and turned back to Edward as the couple prepared to pass the group. “Silence him,” muttered Tricorn Hat to Cutlass, who pulled back his weapon to slice open Edward’s throat.

  The girl seemed to stumble as she glided pass the group, bending down and coming up with the foil in her hand, the business end flicked towards Cutlass with such speed and style that Edward thought he must be dreaming. Cutlass made a late attempt to parry the thrust, but he was gasping and spurting blood over Edward as the foil found its mark neatly within Cutlass’s chest.

  Meanwhile the ugly little man had engaged with Tricorn Hat and was comprehensively and viciously belabouring him with his stick. That stunned individual was getting the worst of the battle and receiving a cruel drubbing. The lady spun gracefully and raised the foil to attack the third assailant whom Edward could now see for the first time. He was a spindly man with a wispy ginger beard and a face that resembled a mangy weasel. He was dirtily clad in the sort of costume most sailors wore.

  The blunt instrument had been a belaying pin; and very effective it had been, Edward’s muddled thoughts argued. The weasel backed as the girl brought the sword forward, attempting to batter down the blade. One smooth step forward and the lady lunged and the foil twisted. Weasel cried out in pain. Weasel was holding his wrist, trying to stem the blood pouring from a slash that must have cut deep across tendons and arteries. The belaying pin fell to the ground and weasel’s eyes briefly registered both pain and disbelief. The point of the foil moved towards weasel’s eyes and waited for a brief second. Weasel gulped and ran into the night. Tricorn’s bravado deserted him and he too backed away and fled into the shadows.

  Cutlass was going nowhere; his eyes stared towards the darkening sky with no life illuminating them. His body crumpled in a bloody heap motionless in the dirt of the gutter.

  “Vite! Henri,” cried the angel in dark serge, “Help me up with this gentleman, they may return with friends.”

  Edward found himself hauled to his feet, but could not stand unaided. The couple draped his arms over their shoulders and frogmarched him down the street, in the direction he had been travelling. Edward was irrelevantly aware of Henri smelling strongly of garlic, sweat and spices, and the angel of sweet roses in bloom. His feet refused to obey him and help them in their rescue and his head felt like it was going to fall off at any minute. He felt sick and giddy and his thoughts floated as if far away from his body as he was dr
agged onwards until they reached a busier thoroughfare and better-lit street.

  “Sir, what is your name, where were you going?” the young lady asked of him. Edward found only a groan came out as he tried to answer her.

  “Henri, hold him up while I go through his pockets,” the angel said, patting him down.

  “They did not take his purse or watch. Ah! Look here is his card case, he lives in Grosvenor Square. See if you can call a cab, Henri, please,” she requested.

  In an unusually short time Henri had managed to hail a cab and between the two of them to bundle him in. The lady gave his direction of Grosvenor Square with assured but slightly accented English. The stuffy cab seemed to swallow him, as he drifted painfully in and out of consciousness. Then he was being shaken awake as they reached their destination. Henri got down and loudly knocked up the house, demanding assistance with their wounded master. Jenkins, the family butler for decades himself summoned two strong footmen to carry Edward bodily into the house. From whence he found himself deposited upon a settee in the yellow drawing room at the directions of the beauty still bearing his bloody foil.

  As his wits slowly returned, he listened and watched in detached fascination as she gave Jenkins directions to send at once to Harley Street for his physician and to Bow Street for a runner. Servants dashed to fetch blankets, vinaigrette and a bowl of water to bathe his head at her orders. Meanwhile Edward stared at his rescuers and tried to pull his disjointed thoughts into some semblance of order. Finally, she recalled the foil and delicately handed it over to a footman with precise and correct instructions as to how to clean it.

  The prompt arrival of his doctor created a new storm but his findings were only a slight cut to his head, some bruising especially to his shoulder and a mild concussion. That worthy’s desire to bleed him was instantly deemed superfluous by his angel and his physician found his person sent about his business without further delay.