Best simply to wait and see, however much that might exhaust her patience while she watched them refuse to admit what was before their very eyes—that theirs would be a marriage made in heaven!
Chapter Eleven
‘Whoever is after you, it’s not Sam Mitchell,’ Jess told Ben later that week. ‘He’s neither the money nor the determination to plot to murder you. He’s either sitting at home drinking, or sitting in the nearest dirty tavern drinking—take your pick. From a man who was once something of a thruster, he’s turned into a maudlin sot. The way he’s going on, he and his family will shortly be reduced to lodging in the nearest workhouse—he’s heavily in debt with no way of honouring any of it.’
Ben groaned. ‘Never say so, and his poor wife is Susanna’s mother and the two girls are her half-sisters. If I know her, she’ll find some way of squandering her little fortune on them.’
Jess forbore to say that only someone as rich as Ben would describe Susanna’s fortune as little—instead he waited for the instructions which he knew from of old would shortly be forthcoming.
‘I want an assistant to Dawes, the Clerk of Works down at the docks,’ Ben said at last after staring glumly into space for some time. ‘The man I’ve got there at the moment isn’t up to snuff. Mitchell was a clever fellow—if dishonest. There’s not much he could get up to with Dawes’s eagle eye on him, and he’d earn just enough to keep his family in reasonable comfort. Send Tozzy to the inn he’s frequenting, get to know him, and then offer him the post—telling him it’s a chance to earn an honest living. Susanna Beverly was right, I’ve made his name mud—so, if I’m to stop her from trying to rescue him, it is I who must give him something to enable him to haul himself out of the mire.
‘Tell Tozzy to warn him that if he gets up to his old tricks he’ll soon be rotting in Newgate Prison. My mercy for him only extends so far.’
‘Will he consent to work for you?’ asked Jess, a trifle artlessly.
‘Now, Jess, you know better than that. No one knows that Marsden and Sons is part of my empire. And Tozzy’s not to tell him who owns Marsden’s, of course. Just that Marsden’s wants a competent man, and he was that—once.’
Jess gone, Ben stared at the opposite wall dispiritedly as he contemplated what his affection for the clever little hussy he had fallen in love with had let him in for. No less than rescuing the rogue who had swindled her in order to prevent her from being so unhappy at her mother and sisters’ fate that—in a ridiculous act of charity—she would throw away the inheritance he had rescued for her.
And if Mitchell was sensible enough to accept this lifeline, neither he nor Susanna was to be told that it was Ben Wolfe who had thrown it to him—although, knowing her, it was quite possible that she would twig what he had been up to!
He smiled. It would add spice to his life, watching and waiting to discover whether she would. He might even have a little bet with himself about how long it would take her.
In the meantime, he would take himself to Louis Fronsac’s fencing salon where Jack Devereux had promised to give him a lesson with the rapier and where he might learn whether there was any current gossip which might give him some clue as to the identity of his enemy.
Fronsac’s was busy when he reached it. Jack was already dressed in formal clothing for fencing: black silk knee-breeches and a white silk shirt. Before his accession to the Earldom, he had been one of the salon’s instructors and still kept his talent honed by practising there whenever he was in town.
Ben had been first rate when using both a sabre and a foil as well as a pistol when he had been in India. He was, though, astonished at Jack’s expertise, which was beyond anything which he had ever previously encountered in an amateur.
He told Jack so.
Jack laughed wryly. ‘I had to earn my living teaching others after I left the Army, and I soon discovered that fencing is an art as well as a science. Most people’s problem is that they see fencing purely as a science. What they don’t understand is that you are facing a man whose character, physique and personality must be taken into account when you fight him, as well as his skill. That is where the art of it comes in.’
So saying, he disengaged before starting the bout again—and promptly slid through Ben’s guard for the fifth time. This time Ben stepped back, raised his foil in a gesture of submission and remarked thoughtfully, ‘You are telling me that I am going at you like a bull at a gate, no subtlety, just using my strength.’
‘Exactly, and most of the time you will succeed by doing that, but not when you meet a master,’ was Jack’s reply. ‘However, because you can say that, there is hope for you. You have a chance to improve. For the moment, though, take a rest,’ and he gestured at a row of benches on the side wall.
Blowing hard, his own shirt clinging to his back, Ben sat down, lifting the protective mask from his face, causing a young sprig who had just entered to exclaim, ‘Good God, is there nowhere safe these days? Nowhere one can be certain of not meeting the riff-raff!’
It was George Darlington who had arrived while Ben and Jack were fencing and had not recognised Ben until he had unmasked.
Ben sighed. Jack said quietly, ‘Ignore the young fool. He’s a spoilt boy, the unpleasant sprig of an unpleasant sire.’
He had not needed Jack to advise him but, knowing that Jack was a hot-tempered man who did not suffer fools gladly, he also knew that he must have good reason to suggest that he did not rise to young Darlington’s bait.
Young Darlington, however, had no mind to let the matter rest. Secure in his rank and surrounded by a group of his friends, he was foolish enough to forget the lesson Ben had taught him at the Leominsters’ ball and continued to insult him.
‘I had thought,’ he said, ‘Mr What-ever-your-name-is, that the attack on you the other evening would have convinced you that you are not wanted in London. One supposes that you find it impossible to take a hint—else you would not attend a place where gentlemen congregate.’
On hearing these words, Jack Devereux gave a low moan. Small chance now that Ben Wolfe would restrain himself after being offered such an insult.
He wronged Ben, though. Suppressing his very real desire to seize young Darlington by the throat and throttle the life out of him, Ben merely looked coolly around while saying politely, ‘Are you referring to me? Or is some other unfortunate the victim of your bile?’
Several of George’s companions tittered at this. George himself flushed scarlet, and answered in a high voice, ‘You know perfectly well that my remarks were addressed to you. Who else in this room is so patently not a gentleman? Who else uses his hands to hump loads in the port of London?’
‘Why, no one,’ riposted Ben. ‘Looking around me, I can’t see anyone other than myself, or Devereux perhaps, who is in sufficiently good condition to do any such thing. Lifting a lady’s fan—or her skirts—looks beyond most of you.’
Jack Devereux did not help matters by laughing loudly at this sally, and saying, ‘Oh, come, Darlington. Give over, do. Neither Wolfe nor I intend to be provoked into folly by your lack of manners. Go and insult someone who punches your own weight—I commend you to the dwarf at Greenwich Fair.’
‘My quarrel is not with you, Devereux,’ said George, a trifle fearfully, for everyone in the room knew that Jack was a master of weaponry and was not to be trifled with by anyone. ‘My quarrel is with him—and his presence here.’
‘And with Louis Fronsac who runs this salon,’ said a new voice, that of Fronsac himself, who, attracted by the noise, had left the private room where he had been instructing a personage so grand that he never used the public rooms. ‘It is I who determines who practises here, not some young gentleman with his mother’s milk still on his lips. If you have a quarrel with Mr Wolfe, then pursue it somewhere else.’
Furious, George said unwisely, ‘I would have thought that since we pay you highly we have a right to say with whom we might mix.’
‘Then you thought wrongly. Indeed, since you
are here and have chosen to pick a quarrel with Mr Wolfe and Lord Devereux, then you must settle your difference with one of them in a practice bout with the foils, or suffer banishment from my salon in future. The choice is yours.’
George looked wildly around him. His supporters remained silent. Louis Fronsac was held in high esteem, not only by the Grand Personage who stood in the doorway of the private room, but by most of society. He had hoped to bait Ben, secure in the knowledge that if Ben challenged him he could always refuse to fight someone so patently not a gentleman. Louis Fronsac had taken that choice away from him.
Louis stared at George, raising high-arched brows. He was a handsome man in early middle age who had been an émigré from France during the late Revolution there: a member of a noble family who had chosen—like many—not to return to his native land.
‘You have not answered me, Monseigneur. Either agree to a practice bout—or leave. Have no fear, you will only be fighting with buttoned foils. Whether Mr Wolfe or m’lord will insist on meeting you at dawn tomorrow for a more serious bout is their choice to make once they leave my rooms.’
Neither Ben nor Jack spoke while Louis was laying down the law. There was no need. He was doing their work for them. Desperate, and aware that he was about to be humiliated, George ground out, ‘I’ll fight him,’ pointing at Ben.
Louis Fronsac smiled thinly. ‘Not like that,’ he told him. ‘What Mr Wolfe is, is neither here nor there. You pretend to be a nobleman—and a gentleman. That being so, challenge him in proper form or forfeit those titles yourself.’
‘Bravo,’ said the Grand Personage from the doorway, leaving George no choice but to do as he was bid.
He bowed, lifted a tormented face and said through gritted teeth, ‘I would be honoured, Mr Wolfe, if you would agree to a practice bout with the foils.’ He added conciliatingly, ‘M. le Marquis de Fronsac, to give him his proper title, will agree to adjudicate between us, I am sure.’
Ben, his face a polite mask, bowed back. ‘It will be a great pleasure, m’lord, to oblige you. A very great pleasure.’
Jack Devereux choked back a laugh at this two-edged reply. Ben might not be his equal with the foils, but he was more than a match for anyone he had ever tutored at Fronsac’s: the Grand Personage included.
‘Very well,’ said Louis. ‘I will give you ten minutes to prepare yourself whilst I clear the room and ask his Royal Highness to be good enough to allow me to conclude his lesson later—or resume it at another time. You will excuse me while I consult him.’
His Royal Highness, it appeared, was more than happy to abandon his lesson in order to watch a practice bout which promised more fun than most. A chair was fetched for him by one of the courtiers who had been attending him in the private room, and was placed in a most favourable position.
‘Haven’t enjoyed myself so much at Fronsac’s for years, what!’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘Nor since I was last on a man-of-war.’
‘You must understand,’ Jack whispered to Ben while they waited, ‘that HRH’s presence made it impossible for the young idiot to back down. The Duke of Clarence suffers neither fools nor cowards gladly.’
Ben nodded a trifle glumly. This piece of flummery—for such he thought it—was not of his making, nor to his liking. ‘You can say that,’ he whispered back, ‘since no one is asking you to make a raree show of yourself.’
‘Oh, come,’ riposted Jack briskly, ‘the only person in this room who answers to that description is young Darlington. All you need to do is make sure that he learns his lesson: not to taunt those who are in a position to make him pay for his folly. It’s a great pity this bout is only a practice one. A bit of bloodletting would do him no harm at all.’
Ben privately agreed with him, but said no more, simply moved into the middle of the room to wait for his enemy—wishing that it was the father, not the son, he was about to face. Jess Fitzroy’s enquiries were making it more and more likely that Babbacombe was behind the attack on him.
Fronsac was pitiless. He made young George go through all the lengthy formalities required of one who was fighting another gentleman and George could do nothing about it. At this late stage, to withdraw under any pretext would place his own reputation for courage and fair play at risk. After all, most would ask where was the harm in a bloodless bout.
‘Three hits or three disarmings and the bout is over,’ declared Fronsac, immediately before the antagonists assumed the en garde position, both stripped to their shirts and breeches. Ben was fighting barefoot and George was wearing light shoes. The spectators lined the walls, standing: None could be seated now that the Duke was—unless he gave the word, and he was not doing that.
The contrast between the two men could not have been greater. On the face of it George, tall and slim, ought to have the advantage over Ben who was also tall but built like a bruiser—their skills being equal, that was.
The younger and less experienced men were betting on George. Most of them knew that Ben had served in the ranks and would therefore, in their opinion, be less skilled with a small sword, always considered to be a gentleman’s weapon. Older heads were betting differently. Some of them had been watching Ben and Jack Devereux fence and had noted that Jack’s superiority was not all that great.
Clarence did not bet at all, but kept up a loud running commentary on the bout which began slowly, both participants being wary of the other.
Ben was keenly aware that he was the outsider here—even though it was plain that George was not greatly liked. He soon knew that George was in no way his equal and that he could therefore do one of two things. He could either restrain himself and fight a tame draw, or he could throw tact and caution to the winds and teach George a shameful and humiliating lesson.
He had just decided on the former—which would save everyone’s face—when, in a lull in the bout with the pair of them warily circling around one another, he heard a voice behind him drawl, ‘The big fellow’s all wind and importance, ain’t he? No finesse there—ought to be in his proper place, the prize ring, not pretending to equal his betters. Glad my tin is on Darlington.’
Red rage roared through him: the rage which he had known from childhood but which he usually kept under strict control as a wise man would keep a fierce dog on a leash. Occasionally, though, the rage, like that of the dog’s, would be so strong that it would snap the leash and run riot.
The world around him disappeared. All that was left in it was George opposite to him and the fierce desire to show those who secretly mocked him that he was not to be trifled with, for, although the rage was red, inside it he was icy calm.
In a moment he was through George’s weak guard like a knife slicing through butter to catch George’s foil near the hilt with his own. Then, he fiercely twisted his wrist with such force that George’s foil was first thrown into the air before falling to the floor.
Both men stepped back, consternation written on George’s face and cold savage glee on Ben’s as they unmasked.
Clarence clapped his hands together, his florid face on fire. ‘Bravo, Wolfe, never seen that better done.’
Ben inclined his head in acknowledgement. Louis Fronsac stepped forward and said, ‘First point to Mr Wolfe. Pick up your foil, m’lord, and the bout may start again.’
Again they circled around one another while Ben debated what to do next. He made up his mind quickly, presented his whole left side, apparently unguarded, to George and as George gleefully went in for the touch, he side-stepped, and on the turn wrapped George square on the breast.
‘A hit,’ someone shouted, as Louis Fronsac separated them again.
‘You tricked me,’ muttered George through his teeth before they resumed their masks.
‘So I did,’ rasped Ben. ‘I’ll show you another ploy in a minute, if you’ll only be patient.’
The room had fallen silent. The duel was turning into a massacre, as Ben disarmed George again, and for good measure rapped him on the breast having done so. The rage had beg
un to diminish and for a few moments he allowed George a respite, dancing around him, apparently offering him the chance of a hit, almost inviting him to try one.
George, though, was beginning to learn his lesson. He would not be caught again by such an obvious trick, but alas, the third hit which finished the bout was accomplished by a reverse thrust on high which came as such a surprise that George lost his balance and sprawled on the ground so that all Ben had to do was to stand over him and touch his breast lightly again.
The voice which had mocked Ben now mocked George. ‘The young cub should be grateful he didn’t provoke Wolfe into a real duel,’ it said. ‘He would have been dog’s food by now.’
His rage’s appetite satisfied, Ben found his triumph to be an empty one—a common aftertaste, for he disliked not being in total command of himself. He swung round on the mocker and said through his teeth, ‘Since you are such an authority, sir, would you care to engage me, and make a better fist of it than Darlington?’
He did not wait for an answer, but swung away, intent on changing into his street clothes and leaving, but he was stopped by the Duke who had risen from his chair, exclaiming peremptorily, ‘Come here, Wolfe, I wish to speak to you.’
Ben did as he was bid, bowing as he approached Royalty. The Duke said genially, ‘They tell me that you were a soldier in the army in India—and in the ranks at that. You are a gentleman—why in the ranks?’
‘I had no money, Your Highness, and no real home. To enlist as a private soldier gave me both. I feel—and felt—no shame at earning my living in the only way I could.’
He was aware that he sounded defiant and wondered for a moment whether he had been wise.
The Duke suddenly gave a great bellow of laughter. ‘You are an honest man, Wolfe, and have given me an honest answer. You have also provided me with amusement in the way in which you disciplined Babbacombe’s young puppy. My gratitude is such that should you need a favour, you may call on Clarence to provide you with one. What do you say to that, hey?’
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