by M. C. Beaton
Part V
Sweet Masquerade
For my friend,
Jenny Soo,
with love.
Chapter 1
The writing desk was placed in one of the bays of the library windows. Seated at the desk was Augustus, tenth earl of Berham.
Usually the window commanded a fine view of rolling parkland falling away to the dark line of the woods in the distance, but on this day it was raining. It seemed to have been raining for weeks, months, years: steady, drenching, depressing rain forming small lakes in the lawns, dampness in the great mansion of Berham Court, and discontent in the soul.
The earl carefully sanded a letter, folded it, dropped a blob of scarlet sealing wax on the fold, and stamped it with the heavy, crested ring he wore on the middle finger of his right hand.
Then he settled himself back in his chair and moodily watched the raindrops running down the window panes.
He was bored. As usual.
Boredom seemed to have been with him so long that he had trained himself to become accustomed to it, as his late father had become accustomed to painful rheumatism, and his late mother to awful and perpetual toothache.
He recognized the familiar, lethargic state for what it was and tried to think himself out of it by reminding himself of the many things in his life which should have made him a grateful and contented man.
He was thirty-two years of age and in perfect health. He was accounted very handsome, but he cynically put down all female adoration as worship of his great fortune and rank. He owned the splendid edifice of Berham Court, a hunting box in Leicester, and a small draughty castle in Scotland. He had a townhouse in London which he visited to “do” the Season and, incidentally, disappoint the matchmaking heart of every hopeful mother in town.
Apart from the cares of his estates, he was tolerably free from responsibility. Or had been. For the earl was awaiting the arrival of his ward, Mr. Frederick Armstrong.
It had come as rather a shock to him when he had been informed that the late Colonel Armstrong, whom he remembered vaguely as a fiery and choleric eccentric, had willed his grandson to him, appointing the earl as guardian.
In vain had the earl’s men of business searched for other relatives who might take the brat. The colonel had alienated them all so long ago that they wished to have nothing to do with his grandchild.
Frederick was reported to be eighteen years of age, a deuced difficult age to do anything with. He was too old to be packed off to school, and there seemed to be no evidence of any scholarly ability to suggest that he could be sent off conveniently to Oxford University without a great deal of cramming first.
The best thing, thought the earl, was to see the boy, and if Master Frederick proved to be healthy and sound in wind and limb, to buy him a set of colors and join him to a cavalry regiment.
His guardianship was to last until the boy reached twenty-one, when Frederick would inherit his grandfather’s fortune.
Apart from his yearly visits to London, the earl was something of a recluse. In the country, he rarely entertained. The management of his estates and farms took up all his time. There were many female relatives who had tried from time to time to suggest that he needed the soft touch of a lady about the place, but he had parried their offers successfully, saying he was quite happy as he was.
And that, he realized with surprise, had been the case until a few months ago. He had not always been quite so bored. But once the harvest had been taken in and the countryside had settled down to its long winter’s sleep, there had seemed little to absorb his mind or his interest.
His well-trained servants came and went like ghosts, anticipating his every need.
He watched the raindrops pattering against the glass, meeting and joining to form rivulets. The fire crackled behind him on the hearth, and the clocks ticked away the tedium of the hours.
He had sent his carriage to bring Master Frederick home. Home? Well, he supposed Berham Court would be the lad’s home until he decided what to do with him.
The blurred windowpanes threw back his reflection, a ghostly earl with thick black hair growing to a widow’s peak on his forehead above a harsh and handsome face with a high-bridged nose and firm mouth. His eyes were coal black, the type of eyes which so rarely mirror the owner’s feelings, Mediterranean eyes, a heritage of his Italian grandmother.
All at once he heard the faint rumbling of carriage wheels and the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves drawing nearer. Master Frederick was coming home.
There was a scuffle from the hall as the butler summoned the footmen to be ready to carry out the new inhabitant’s bags.
The earl stayed seated, watching the rain and turning a quill pen in his strong fingers.
The carriage stopped outside, and the earl suddenly felt his boredom lift. It might not be so bad after all having a young man to teach and guide.
The double doors to the library were thrown open.
The butler, Hickey, announced, “Master Frederick Armstrong.”
The earl got to his feet and turned around.
For a long moment Frederick Armstrong and the earl surveyed each other in silence, each fighting down feelings of disappointment.
The earl saw a small, slim boy in a dun brown coat, old-fashioned knee breeches, and buckled shoes. His hair was carroty red, and his eyes were very clear and very blue, with thick, curling lashes. But his face was pretty and girlish, and his small figure was so slight that it looked as if a puff of wind would blow it away.
Freddie Armstrong saw facing him a very tall and imposing man with broad shoulders, slim hips, and long, powerful legs. His black hair, growing to a point, combined with his coal-black eyes and handsome harsh face to give him a satanic appearance. The earl of Berham was not at all the kindly old gentleman Freddie had fondly pictured.
“You are not old,” he blurted out, staring at the sculptured whiteness of the earl’s cravat and wondering how such a miracle had been achieved.
“Did you expect me to be old?”
“I was led to believe that the Earl of Berham was… was… quite old,” Freddie answered falteringly.
“I think that when your grandfather made his will, he was thinking of my father,” said the earl gently. “They were great friends once upon a time.”
“But I was left in the care of the tenth earl,” said Freddie hopefully, as if already looking for a way out of the arrangement.
“I am the tenth earl. The ninth was my father. Come and sit by the fire and warm yourself. You have had a long and fatiguing journey.”
Freddie punctiliously waited until the earl was seated on one side of the fireplace before cautiously seating himself on the other.
“Oh, the journey was not at all fatiguing, my lord,” he said, his husky voice light and attractive.
“I had never been away from Hartley Manor—my home, you know—before. Grandpapa would not let me go beyond the boundaries of the estates. We never really saw anyone at all, either, and it was monstrous exciting to see all the towns and villages and people.…” Freddie’s voice trailed away before the cold harshness of the earl’s face. Impossible to know what the man was thinking, but Freddie felt as if he had been guilty of betraying ungentlemanly enthusiasm.
“In that case,” said the earl, studying the boy thoughtfully, “we will discuss your future. Have you any ambitions to follow a military career?”
“No!” squeaked Freddie. Then, lowering his voice, he repeated, “No.”
“In that case, what had you planned to do with your life?”
Freddie lowered his eyelashes. “I had not planned anything,” he said in a low voice.
“Very well,” said the earl. “I think we should begin by building you up a bit. You are very small and puny for your age. You are…”
“Eighteen, an it please your lordship.”
“Young, but that is all to the good. Your clothes are quite disgraceful. Are they all like that?”
Freddie nodded
dumbly.
“I do not plan to go to town until the Season begins,” said the earl, “but our local tailor can at least produce better than those shapeless garments you have on your back.”
“If it please your lordship,” ventured Freddie timidly, “I would like to keep my own clothes for… for the present. I have not yet got over the shock of Grandpapa’s death, and he chose these clothes for me, and…”
“Oh, very well,” said the earl testily. “I do not entertain much while I am in the country, but if we go to town, then you must dress as befits your station as my ward. If you are not fatigued, perhaps you would care to ride out with me this afternoon.”
“I would like that very much,” said Freddie. “I am not at all tired.”
“Good. There is a prizefight in the neighborhood, and I promised to attend. Good heavens, lad! You look quite dismayed.”
“Perhaps I am more fatigued than I thought,” said Freddie, lowering those irritatingly girlish eyelashes.
“Well, I think you should make a push to come with me. Have you ever attended a prizefight?”
“No,” said Freddie thankfully.
“Then you may count it as an addition to your education. Excuse me one moment. I have some things to attend to.”
The earl rang the bell and ordered wine and biscuits to be brought. He stood up, and Freddie promptly jumped to his feet.
“You may stay here by the fire and have some refreshment until I return,” said the earl. His black eyes raked over Freddie’s slim figure, and he muttered something under his breath as he quit the room.
The butler entered, bearing a silver salver containing a decanter of wine and a plate of biscuits. He placed the repast on an occasional table, carried the table over to the fire, and set it at Freddie’s elbow. A huge footman in green and silver livery came in with a basket of logs and piled several on the fire, and then both men bowed to Freddie and left him to his meditations.
Freddie sat and bit his thumb and looked nervously about the room. Ranks upon ranks of calf-bound books rose from floor to ceiling. Had the earl read them all? Probably, thought Freddie dismally. An apple wood fire crackled on the hearth under the marble fireplace, which depicted two Greek figures writhing in frozen ecstasy. Above the mantel, a grim-faced lady in the panniered dress of the last century stared down at the boy in haughty surprise.
There was a gilt French clock on the mantel, a grandfather clock in one corner, and various other clocks about the room, whispering and ticking, almost as if they were busily gossiping to each other and discussing this shabby interloper.
An oriental rug covered the center of the floor. In the middle of the room stood a console table, its marble top supported by a huge eagle of gilded pine, its spread wings appearing to hold up the top.
Freddie thought uneasily about the prizefight to come. Perhaps it would not be so bad. There would be people, lots and lots of people, and Freddie craved human company. All his life had been spent in the empty, dusty rooms of his home, Hartley Manor, with only his grandfather’s harsh voice and eccentricities to supply any life to his lonely existence.
Perhaps a prizefight would not be so bad after all.
“Yesterday,” says the Protestant Mercury for January 12, 1681, “a match of boxing was performed before his Grace the duke of Albemarle between the duke’s footman and a butcher. The latter won the prize, as he hath done many before, being accounted, though but a little man, the best at that exercise in England.”
And since that first record of a public boxing match in England, the sport had grown in popularity. Now, during this first decade of the nineteenth century, it had become more a religion than a sport, with worshipers of the art of pugilism traveling many miles to see their favorites.
And so, from a noble patron looking on at two men engaged in punching each other’s heads, it had grown to a science and an art.
Boxing was so popular that it became the fashion for a man of position to keep his own prizefighter, the duke of Hamilton and Lord Barrymore being two well-known patrons who enjoyed that luxury. The members of London society turned to taking lessons in the art themselves.
The chief of fashionable instructors was John “Gentleman” Jackson, at his famous rooms at 13 Bond Street, London. Everyone grew enthusiastic about Jackson, his manly beauty, his generosity, the astonishing fashion of his clients, “to attempt a list of which,” said one newspaper, “would be to copy one-third of the peerage.” Even the poet Lord Byron capered around on his lame foot and fondly believed he had the makings of a pugilist in him.
The prizefight to which Master Armstrong was taken, sitting up beside the earl in his sporting curricle, was held in a field outside the small country town of Berham.
The extreme fashion and popularity of the sport had drawn many Pinks of the Ton and Corinthians to the ringside. The ring was in fact formed more by the circle of carriages surrounding it than by the ropes held by posts.
The rain had slackened to a fine drizzle, and the grass around the ring was already churned up into a brown sea of mud by the hundreds of carriage wheels.
Freddie huddled miserably in a drab benjamin, water dripping from his beaver hat onto his lap, and surveyed the scene.
There were, naturally, no women present. Most of the carriage audience were extraordinarily finely dressed considering the weather, and Freddie felt he was bringing shame to his guardian by being so shabbily clad.
The two contestants looked remarkably alike. Cully, the favorite, was small and stocky, with a massive chest and huge round head. Grigson, his opponent, was similarly built but was distinguished from Cully by his being completely bald.
The atmosphere was carefree and easy, and Freddie felt himself relax. There surely would not be much bloodshed and violence at such a friendly gathering.
The fight began. Utter silence fell upon the spectators as the combatants sparred for about a minute. Cully then put two most dexterous hits through his opponent’s guard, in the mouth and on the throat at the same moment. Grigson fell like a log, covered with blood. Freddie studied his toecaps with great interest.
“What happened?” screamed a man behind Freddie.
“Cully hit him a blow on the victualing box,” answered a swarthy man in the next carriage to the earl.
In round three, Grigson successfully planted a hit in Cully’s breast and rallied, but Cully had the advantage of putting in most blows, although Grigson threw him. Grigson’s head had begun to swell, and he bled freely. Odds two to one on Cully.
At the end of round six, Grigson put a tremendous blow on the side of Cully’s head, and both fell out of the ring.
The earl glanced sideways at Freddie. The boy’s face looked rather white, and his lips were moving as if in prayer.
By round seventeen it seemed to the stunned and bewildered Freddie as if he were attending a circus in ancient Rome rather than a fight in a field in nineteenth-century England. Grigson had twice turned his back on his opponent and made towards the ropes, but Cully followed him, changed his front, fibbed him, and kept him from falling until he had hit him into an almost senseless state.
By round twenty-seven Freddie was as white as paper. Grigson was brought down by a heavy blow under the ear, and then the twenty-eighth round decided the contest, Grigson being much too exhausted to be brought to the mark in time. The battle had lasted an hour and a quarter.
A mass of blood, Grigson lay on the churned grass, with the gentle rain mixing with his blood and running in little streams across his prone body.
With a choking, muffled sound, Freddie slowly keeled over and hit the mud under the carriage in a dead faint.
“What ails the lad?” cried several voices.
“Travel fatigue,” said his lordship tersely as he swung himself down and gathered Freddie’s inert body in his arms. “I should have made the boy rest.”
He loosened Freddie’s limp apology for a cravat and then doubled him over so that his head was between his knees. Freddie co
ughed and choked and was violently ill.
He blushed miserably and scrubbed at his mouth with his handkerchief.
“I think the physician, Mr. Campbell, had better give you an examination,” said the earl. “Are you well enough to climb up?”
“Yes, please, sir,” whispered Freddie. “I am very well now, thank you. And, please, my lord, I do not need the services of a physician.”
“Your fainting spell shows weakness,” commented the earl harshly as he picked up the reins. “You are still very much a child. I trust it was not the sight of blood which made you dizzy.”
“No,” lied Freddie, thinking that he would never forget the sight of that poor man covered in his own blood, lying in the rain. “Will he live?” he added.
“Grigson? Oh, yes.” The earl condescended to unbend a little as he expertly drove through the press of carriages towards the road.
“I confess I do not find prizefights very amusing. Particularly the type of one we have just seen. Look! The sun at last.”
A pale washed-out disc was floating high above hazy veils of ragged cloud. Somehow it made the February day seem bleaker than before. Water dripped steadily from the bare branches of the trees beside the road, and there was mud everywhere.
A muddy goose flew out from under their wheels, its wings outspread. A muddy peasant touched his forelock and gave a toothless grin, and a muddy sheepdog plodded slowly homeward along the muddy ditch.
Freddie shivered, feeling ill and lost in an alien world.
When they reached home, he was conducted upstairs by a stout housekeeper rustling with black bombazine.
He was led along corridors and left in his bedroom to put himself to bed. “My lord’s instructions.”
The room was dominated by a four-poster bed with blue and white hangings. The walls rioted with hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, a whole oriental forest of birds and leaves and branches. In the bay of the window stood two Chinese Chippendale chairs and a Chinese lacquered writing desk.
A small dressing room led off the bedroom in which Freddie found his shabby clothes looking lost and forlorn in an enormous mahogany wardrobe. There was a toilet table with two brass-bound cans of hot water, fluffy towels, and two cakes of Joppa soap.
