Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5) (8 page)

“Not yet. I sent for him. He should not be long.”

Miss Denholm picked up one of the rapiers and held it up, pointing the tip at the window and staring down the length of the blade. “We should have plenty of time for a lesson, then.”

“I don’t think —” Lady Olivia protested.

Miss Denholm cut her off with a snort. “Well, he shall want to speak to us, and I, for one, have no intention of simply standing about, awaiting his indulgence. No point in that, eh?”

Lady Olivia flicked a last glance at Alexander before she shrugged. “Very well.” She picked up one of the épées and walked around the desk to find corks to place on the sharp tips of the weapons.

“Where are your masks?” Alexander asked sharply.

“They…” Lady Olivia sighed. Her gaze strayed to the wardrobe.

Alexander went to the wardrobe and after searching several drawers, he pulled out several wire mesh masks. He placed them on the desk next to the remaining two rapiers. “Wear them.”

“They — there is blood on them.” A look of distaste wrinkled Lady Olivia’s nose. She held her épée down at her side, pointing the weapon at the floor, and thrust her other hand behind her back, clearly unwilling to touch the masks.

Alexander drew out his handkerchief and wiped off the dried flakes of blood. “There. Your academy will not do so well if you are disfigured,
mi niña bonita.
Wear it.”

Miss Denholm picked up one of the masks and turned it over, studying it. “Do men wear these things? I have never seen one before. A bit awkward, are they not?”

“It may be awkward, but you cannot fence without it. And yes, men do wear them.” He didn’t add, “on occasion.” He frowned at Lady Olivia until she flushed and picked up one of the masks.

“Awkward,” Miss Denholm repeated, her lower lip thrust out.

“Then let this start your lesson.” Alexander picked up one of the masks. “You have heard of Texier De La Boessiere, the French master, have you not?”

Lady Olivia obediently nodded, but Miss Denholm just stared at him with blank, blue eyes. With her red lower lip still protruding, she looked like a large, frustrated child about to have a tantrum.

“He developed these to assist the fencer maintain his position and neither advance nor retreat. That should appeal to you, Miss Denholm. Stand your ground and fight.” He reached over and gently wrested the rapier from her hand. “Épées,
por favor
. If you please.” He picked up the remaining épée and, holding it up with the blade resting on his left forearm, he examined the weapon.

The balance and workmanship were excellent, and he thought he recognized the collection of swords as those used by Lady Olivia’s brothers when he tutored them.

Miss Denholm smiled, tucked the mask under her arm, and picked up an épée. “Lead on, Lady Olivia!”

With a sigh, Lady Olivia picked up a mask and led the way to the ballroom on the ground floor, to the rear of the house. They barely entered the huge, empty room before Miss Denholm was fastening the mask over her face and waving her épée back and forth in front of her.

Alexander dropped his blade on the floor and moved swiftly toward her.

Once more, he gripped her wrist to hold Miss Denholm’s arm still. “If you please.” He held his hand out to Lady Olivia, palm upward.

She eyed him and Miss Denholm’s naked blade and handed him one of the corks. While he protected the tip of Miss Denholm’s épée with the cork, Lady Olivia removed her bonnet and pelisse, placed a cork on the tip of her own blade and donned her mask.

Miss Denholm moved away from him and pointed her sword at Lady Olivia, as if she were about to charge.

“Relax,
por favor
,” Alexander said, picking up his own épée from the floor.

Lady Olivia’s face was hidden by her mask, but her movements were hesitant as she walked out into the center of the room. She moved into a semi-profiled position, and although her chest expanded and contracted with a long, deep breath clearly intended to steady herself, her overall stance suggested uncertainty, rather than the cool confidence she should exhibit.

On the other hand, Miss Denholm strode with alacrity to face Lady Olivia. She was at least six inches taller than Lady Olivia and seemed to be vibrating with energy and confidence.

“Now,” Lady Olivia said, her masked face turning briefly in Alexander’s direction. “Think of a circle around you, drawn by the furthest reach of your arm and sword.” She demonstrated by holding out her épée and slowly turning. “Each of us has such a circle that moves as we move. When we face our opponent, our circles may overlap, and when they do, that presents an opportunity for attack.” As she spoke, she turned without thinking to face Miss Denholm.

Leaving herself open.

Alexander stiffened and moved closer, although staying well out of the way of the two women.

The tension in Miss Denholm’s shoulders and arms increased until she seemed to quiver with anticipation. Her masked face followed every gesture, every move made by Lady Olivia. She looked like a muscular tiger keyed up to attack.

Miss Denholm suddenly touched the side of her sword to her mask in a salute and lunged forward, hacking the air from right to left and then backhanded, forcing Lady Olivia to defend herself and retreat as best she could. Sharp barks accompanied each slashing motion by Miss Denholm, and as Lady Olivia retreated, Miss Denholm pressed forward harder. Her motions were crude, and at one point, she threw herself so close that she punched Lady Olivia’s shoulder with her free hand to force her to stumble back far enough to give her room to hack at her shocked teacher.

While Lady Olivia managed to defend herself, Miss Denholm’s superior reach and strength, combined with her aggressive attack, forced her to give way. Her back hit the wall. She pushed forward one foot, then two, her blade sliding up Miss Denholm’s and dislodging the cork.

“Halt!” Alexander ordered, racing forward.

Miss Denholm plunged forward, pushing Lady Olivia’s blade aside and punching her in the shoulder again to jolt her against the wall. Instead of stopping, Miss Denholm stepped back to grant Lady Oliviaroom to maneuver and raise he
r
épée.

“Halt!” He grabbed Miss Denholm’s wrist and whirled her away from Lady Olivia, inserting himself between the two ladies and trusting Lady Olivia to obey his command to stop. The icy calm of cool indifference slipped over him as he held the blade in his hand.

Miss Denholm, good sense overcome by the excitement of the moment, slashed at him, entirely without grace or form. It was easy to slip in under her guard, and in a few strokes, he disarmed her. Her blade went clattering with dull thuds across the wooden floor.

“I say! Excellent sport!” Miss Denholm exclaimed, her massive chest rising and falling rapidly. Her breath whistled through the mask as she panted and paced back and forth in a tight path in front of Lady Olivia. “Again?”

When she moved in the direction of her épée, Lady Olivia stepped forward. “That is enough. We must work on form first, not leap into a duel.”

“But I was winning!” Miss Denholm laughed and made a dash to circle around Lady Olivia and Alexander to retrieve her weapon.

He held his blade out, blocking her path. When she slipped her forearm under it as if to push it out of her way, he stepped back to flick her épée further away with the tip of his sword.

“I was winning, was I not?” she complained. “I want to try again.”

“No. Not now. You must learn proper form and not behave like the bull charging the red cape,” he said.

A movement from Lady Olivia signaled that she had removed her mask. She pressed her forearm against her forehead and pushed up some dislodged curls. “We must be more methodical in our approach.”

“Methodical.” Alexander chuckled and strolled over to collect Miss Denholm’s épée and remove temptation from her greedy grasp. “Beware the novice for he will attempt maneuvers an expert would not.”

“She,” Olivia corrected distractedly. “
She
will attempt maneuvers and so on.”

“
Si, mi niña bonita
— she. Perhaps your brother, Edward, can assist you. He has the form and proper attitude for the sport.”

Of all the Archer boys he had tutored, Edward Archer was by far the most promising. He might appear quiet and staid, but when he held a sword, his calm silence transformed into the cool indifference that inspired both fear and mistakes in his opponents. At times, Alexander had wondered if Edward, the student, would eventually surpass Alexander, his tutor.

It seemed ironic that Lady Olivia, who lacked the instincts for the fight, desperately wanted to excel, while Edward, who had the instincts and talent to become a master swordsman, had no wish to do so.

“Edward?” Lady Olivia stared at him, her cheeks flushed and gleaming with perspiration. A long curl of rich brown hair had escaped again to hang over her brow, and she kept pushing it back with her wrist as she exclaimed, “
Edward
! I am sick to death of having Edward held up to me, as if he were a master fencer rivaling the famous Domenico Angelo himself. He hasn’t fenced in ages, and I daresay he is entirely incapable of teaching anyone the first thing about it.”

“
Lo siento
.” He bowed at her, hiding his grin. “I regret, I spoke without thought.”

“Yes, you did,” Lady Olivia agreed.

Before she could continue, they heard the unmistakable sounds of booted feet in the hallway.

A deep male voice echoed down the hallway into the ballroom, “Anyone here?”

A staccato burst of light footsteps dashed toward them, growing rapidly louder. The young lad Alexander had sent for the constable ran into the room and came to an abrupt halt. His eyes widened like a startled rabbit as he glanced from Lady Olivia, to Miss Denholm, and finally, to Alexander.

Alexander dug into his pocket and extracted another coin, which he flipped to the boy. “I trust you had no difficulties.”

“No, my lord. They’s in the hallway.” He rubbed the coin between his grubby thumb and forefinger, scrutinized it anxiously, and slipped it into the pocket of an ill-fitting, tattered waistcoat he wore below his jacket. With a grin, he touched the brim of his cap. “Thank you kindly, my lord. Ladies.…” He winked and ran back out as if he feared they might try to stop him and demand the return of the coins.

Olivia collected the fencing accoutrements and carried them quietly upstairs to her office, hoping to avoid the constable and his men as long as possible. The action also allowed her to escape from Cynthia and Lord Milbourn for a few precious minutes so she could think.

Cynthia’s vigorous attack had rattled her. She’d completely overwhelmed Olivia to the point where all she could do was to defend herself and try to maintain some space between them.

It was not a particularly admirable start to her lessons.

Olivia’s shoulder ached where Cynthia had hit her, and she suspected a lovely dark bruise was forming. Her thoughts swayed between aggravation and anger. She’d thought she was prepared to teach. Apparently, she was mistaken.

And Lord Milbourn’s comments only undermined her confidence further.

Edward! Always Edward!
What made him so much better than the rest of them? He wasn’t even interested in fencing and only went to lessons when his tutor discovered him in some corner reading a huge, boring book about English law and forced him to join his brothers.

So why was he the one with the talent? A man who only wanted to be left alone to peruse dusty jurisprudence tomes and argue arcane points that no one cared about. Why couldn’t Lord Milbourn see how many hours she’d spent training, or how much she wanted to excel? She ought to be several times better than Edward by now, and yet she struggled to maintain a middling proficiency that was more novice than expert.

If only
he
hadn’t been there to witness her floundering defeat at Cynthia’s Amazonian, muscular hands.

She locked the wardrobe and rubbed the side of her jaw. The muscles ached, and she realized she’d been gritting her teeth.

By the time she descended to the ground floor, Constable Cooke and his band of exceedingly morose men were standing in the hallway, talking to Lord Milbourn and Cynthia. Even though Olivia stepped as quietly as she could, Lord Milbourn glanced her way and nodded at her, dragging her into his interview with the stocky constable.

She took a deep breath and hung on to etiquette to save her. “Miss Denholm, have you met Constable Cooke and Mr. Idleman, the coroner?” Olivia clasped her hands at her waist.

“Oh, yes.” Cynthia grinned with delight and rubbed her palms together, creating a rasping noise like a pile of dead leaves caught by the wind. “I have never met a constable before. Or a coroner. Quite exciting.”

“Undoubtedly,” Olivia said and clamped her lips together to avoid sighing.

One day soon, she was sure to get a visit from Cynthia’s formidable parents, demanding to know why their daughter was meeting such people at all. When they did, Olivia would only be able to assure them that she had no desire to meet such people, either. Too bad she had very little choice in the matter.

Constable Cooke turned to face her, his pudgy fingers crushing the brim of his hat. “Another sad day, Lady Olivia, very sad.”

“And sadder still for Mrs. Adams,” Olivia replied tartly.

Constable Cooke’s brown eyes stared at her with a blank look.

“The charwoman,” Olivia added. She gestured toward the baize door. “The misfortunate woman lying in the kitchen.”

The coroner, Mr. Idleman, nodded and added a note in the small book he carried. His jurymen stood in a ragged cluster behind him, and Olivia thought she recognized most of them from their first visit to the academy. Several nodded and touched their forelocks respectfully when they caught her glance. Their somber, pious air reminded her of the groups of men she often saw lingering outside a church on a Sunday, waiting to gossip, discuss local business, and ogle the ladies.

Mr. Idleman looked up when he finished writing, his pencil poised over the open book. “When was the last time you saw,” he glanced down at his notes, “Mrs. Adams?”

Olivia frowned in thought. When
was
the last time? The woman had certainly been good about keeping out of sight and out of the way. So good, in fact, that it appeared she hadn’t actually been to the academy to do her job, either. The floors and furniture were just as dusty as they’d been the first time Olivia walked through the townhouse.

“Lady Olivia?” Mr. Idleman prompted her.

“Well, I met her when I engaged her, of course. That was sometime in January. I’m not sure of the exact date. And I saw her again when I gave her the key to the townhouse.” When the coroner frowned, she hurried to add, “There was no one here to let her in. She needed a key to clean. I could not possibly be here every morning to let her in.”

Mr. Idleman pulled out a thin, ragged piece of linen that was looped through several keys and tied in a knot. “Is your key one of these?”

She accepted the bundle of four keys and studied them. They were all large brass keys, well-worn and dented from heavy usage. They clanked together with a dissonant clatter, held by the knotted piece of fabric. None of them had the elaborate scrolls at the top like either her key, or the one she’d given to Mrs. Adams. A chill caressed the back of her neck.

A key to the academy was missing.

“No. I don’t recognize any of these keys.” She shook her head as she handed the pathetic collection back to the coroner.

“Were the doors to this townhouse locked?” Mr. Idleman asked, deep lines of disapproval bracketing his mouth.

Once again, the walls seemed to move inward, imperceptibly closing in on her, inch by inch, squeezing all the air out of the room.

She took a deep breath and forced a calm expression, remembering Lord Milbourn’s comment about maintaining an air of cool indifference to disconcert one’s opponent. The excitement and triumphs of his lessons seemed distant and unattainable.

“Yes. I unlocked the front door myself. When we arrived this afternoon,” she said at last.

Cynthia nodded. “I watched her unlock the door. You can take my word for it.”

“Thank you, Miss Denholm,” Mr. Idleman said.

“The kitchen door was locked too, sir,” one of the men behind the coroner said in a low voice. “We checked.”

“What fun!” Cynthia exclaimed, grinning and clapping her hands. “A true mystery!”

Several other men nodded, although their gazes seemed to be locked on their feet, and they were positively crushing their hats between their plump hands.

“It is indeed a mystery.” Mr. Idleman’s pursed lips indicated he had no love of such mysteries.

“Gentlemen,” Lord Milbourn said. “Logic would suggest that Mrs. Adams met her fate elsewhere and was moved here.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mr. Idleman interrupted. “I see no reason to make such an assumption. The kitchen door, as we said, was locked.”

Lord Milbourn’s dark brows rose. “Did you not search the kitchen when you were here two days ago? How remiss of you.”

Constable Cooke’s red cheeks puffed out and deflated as he sucked in air and released it in aggravation. “We searched every inch of this domicile.
Every
inch. She wasn’t here Wednesday, I will swear to it.”

“Her, er, accident was more recent, then,” the coroner said, although his voice quavered with doubt. He stared at the constable as if seeking his support.

“What is your conclusion based upon?” Lord Milbourn asked with an interested smile though his eyes danced with amused cynicism.

“Why…” The coroner glanced around at his men. He cleared his throat several times. “Why…?”

They continued to study the floor.

“Why, the poor woman was not here on Wednesday. She must have been…” He cast a quick glance at Lady Olivia and cleared his throat. “She must have perished after that date.”

“Interesting conclusion.” Lord Milbourn caught Olivia’s gaze. She could read nothing in his dark eyes except a kind of detached intelligence. “I suggest that whoever struck Mr. Grantham needed a key to open the doors. It seems reasonable that he got that key from Mrs. Adams, and that she did not survive the encounter. After Mr. Grantham was discovered here, the same individual used said key once again, more recently, to gain entrance to the house. He then left the charwoman in the kitchen.”

“It is one theory,” Mr. Idleman admitted grudgingly. “However, the evidence —”

“The evidence leads me to suppose Mrs. Adams has been dead for several days.” Lord Milbourn bowed at Olivia. “I beg your pardon for my crudeness, Lady Olivia. However, there is a redness to Mrs. Adams’s cheek that indicates she was lying in a different position soon after she died. She must have been moved later, exposing the blood that had previously settled in her cheek. I feel sure you will see it if you examine her again.” He studied the fingernails of his right hand, already bored with the situation.

“It may be as you say, my lord,” Constable Cooke said, his brows jutting out so far that they left his eyes in angry pools of shadow. “Or maybe not.”

“Of course, we will certainly examine the body again,” Mr. Idleman said. However, the smug set of his mouth and the upward tilt of his nose indicated that he had no real intention of doing so. He’d made his decision, ill-judged though it might be.

Even Lord Milbourn’s sharp stare at the coroner suggested he was aware of the incongruence between the coroner’s statement and his attitude.

“Is there anything else you require?” Olivia asked. “I would like to return home, and I’m sure Miss Denholm would like to depart, as well.”

“Not at all,” Cynthia said with a laugh. “All the time in the world. Carry on, men.”

“It is getting late.” Olivia’s jaw clenched, sending another shooting spasm of pain through her head.

“Please allow me to escort you, Lady Olivia. We can then leave these gentlemen in peace.” Lord Milbourn bowed and gestured toward the door. When he caught Olivia’s gaze, his face remained impassive, but his eyes twinkled in the dim, grainy light of the hallway.

Olivia slipped a hand around Cynthia’s elbow, determined to drag her out with her, if need be.

“We may be a while longer, Lady Olivia.” Mr. Idleman held out a hand. “We would be obliged if you would leave the key with us. So we may lock the doors.”

“It hardly seems to matter, does it?” Olivia objected. “It seems perfectly simple for hordes of murderers to come and go as they please. Locking the door seems quite useless.”

“Nonetheless.” Mr. Idleman didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he shook it slightly in a silent demand for the key. “We would be obliged, my lady. And I will return it this evening.”

With a sigh, Olivia fished the ornate brass key out of her reticule and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Lady Olivia.” Mr. Idleman bowed. “May Constable Cooke make a copy of the key?”

“A copy? Why?”

“So we may return your key to you while we continue our investigation.”

She didn’t like the notion of the constable having a key, but she supposed she could have the locks changed when the matter was settled. “Very well. Now, we really must go.”

“Thank you. I trust we will see you at the inquest tomorrow,” Mr. Idleman said, executing another bow. “I will return your key to you at that time.”

“Inquest?” Cynthia’s eyes sparkled. “Where will it be held?”

Olivia grabbed Cynthia’s elbow and forcibly turned her toward the front door. “It will be terribly boring, I’m sure. In fact, I may send a written statement instead and have one of my brothers obtain the key.” She nodded at the men and threw open the door.

Protesting and trying to return inside to watch the jurymen perform their gruesome task of inspecting the deceased woman and her environs, Cynthia managed to escape from Olivia’s grasp.

Following them closely, Lord Milbourn blocked her path. “Enough for one day,” he commented as he set his hat on his head and studied the passersby.

The pale gray February light was rapidly fading, although there seemed to be an endless stream of pedestrians despite the dreary close of the day. The air felt noticeably cooler with a crisp edge and a bite like a tart apple, although the freshness was dulled by the smoke of innumerable fires.

They had only walked three blocks when Miss Denholm halted. “Well then, I’m off,” she announced.

Olivia traded glances with Lord Milbourn. He said, “We shall escort you, Miss Denholm.”

“Nonsense. I walked to Lady Olivia’s house alone. I can certainly walk the last four blocks without your assistance.” She snorted and strode around the corner before they could stop her.

Lord Milbourn watched her go, then looked down at Olivia and shrugged. “An interesting young lady.”

“I felt sure you would find her so.” Olivia gave his arm a gentle tug as she took a step to proceed forward.

The ghost of a chuckle whispered past her cheek.

“She does show a great deal of enthusiasm for fencing. Very impressive,
mi niña bonita
,” Lord Milbourn replied in a bland voice. “Energetic.”

A tiredness seeped through her, dragging at her limbs and encasing her feet in lead. After two slow steps, she felt obliged to protest once more, “I am not a child. I wish you would remember that. And the way you seem to forget how to speak English when it suits you is exceedingly annoying.”