Chapter Twelve #2
“To whom? The brand new Metropolitan Police? They couldn’t catch a thief if he stopped and bowed to them. Get writing, Matron. My arm grows tired. I might accidentally fire this thing.”
Gabe leaned against the doorframe, affecting nonchalance.
“You’re madder still if you think anyone will accept you as Barkham.
The Dowager Duchess won’t have it, of that you can be certain.
All of Harry’s friends will turn their back.
As for the House of Lords—they know your reputation. You’ll be laughed out of your seat.”
“If you haven’t been laughed out yet, don’t see as how I will be. Are you done with that letter yet, woman? My patience is growing thin. I might fire anyway just for the pleasure of—”
Louisa saw the feral glint in his eye and did the only thing she could think of. She threw the inkwell straight at his face.
The gun fired, the blast deafening in the small space.
Louisa flinched and ducked despite herself.
With a snarl, Fenton wiped ink out of his eyes with one hand.
With the other, he threw the spent pistol at Gabe, whom he’d missed entirely, the shot embedding in the lintel above and to the right of the doorframe.
Gabe knocked the pistol aside and lunged.
Fenton lunged also. But instead of leaping toward Gabe, he grabbed one of the sabers from the wall, then bolted out of the room.
Louisa screamed. She couldn’t be certain, ever after, exactly what she screamed.
An alert to the residents that a man bent on murder was loose in their halls; a shriek of fury at the audacity of his attack; a warning to Gabe to have a care.
He snatched the second saber from its bracket, then plunged through the outer door in Fenton’s pursuit.
Louisa jumped up from her chair and followed.
It was not her habit to wear tightly laced stays, not when she was active and moving throughout the day, and her gown hadn’t the tight waist of current fashion, since Louisa appreciated the act of breathing.
Still, it wasn’t easy to run in petticoats, and she fell behind as the men pounded through the halls.
Outside of one of the classrooms, where the girls were sitting in quiet rows at their lessons, Fenton turned to take a swing at his pursuer.
Gabe leapt aside, avoiding the blow easily, then landed a punch to Fenton’s jaw.
His cousin reeled and staggered. As if he knew he didn’t stand a chance, Fenton whirled and ran again.
Gabe, bellowing, followed, and Louisa, shrieking, ran after.
In the dining hall, Fenton whirled and raised his sword.
Gabe met him, and Louisa learned then that the Duke of Barkham was more than a brawler.
He was an accomplished swordsman as well.
Every blow from Fenton, Gabe parried. Every lunge forward, Gabe sidestepped and answered, putting Fenton on the defensive.
Louisa shoved a hand against her mouth to keep from screaming.
As the men fought, a blur of movement, she saw the signs of strain on Gabe’s face.
His ribs couldn’t withstand this exertion; the man was already wounded.
He was taller than his cousin, stronger and more skilled, but he was severely handicapped.
Fenton must know that, and know he only needed to make one well-placed, lethal cut.
Those swords hadn’t been sharpened in years; Louisa had never touched them, only kept them hanging in her chambers as a prize and a warning to step rightly. But the point of the blade could all too easily be embedded in vulnerable flesh.
A girl came from the kitchen carrying a tray, saw the combatants, screamed, and dropped the tray.
Pewter bounced and porcelain shattered, exploding in a halo of shards and powdered white dust. The pounding of feet and cries of alarm heralded the approach of more girls and sisters, more who could be hurt by the melee.
“Back!” Louisa cried. “Stay back! For God’s sake, somebody call the watch!”
Fenton whirled and ran again, plunging through the crowd of girls, who shrieked and parted before him like a wave pulling back from the shore. Gabe bellowed and charged after him, holding a hand to his side where Fenton had grazed him. Louisa choked down her fear and followed.
Fenton ran through one of the doors to the enclosed garden.
It would have been a comic scene, under any other circumstances.
He pushed Sister Agatha into the raspberry canes.
She yelped, her shears flying into the air.
Sister Nan wheeled to avoid the charging man and radishes flew from her basket, pebbling the path.
Among the asparagus bed, young heads in caps and bonnets popped up in a row, the girls’ faces transformed into shock and alarm as they watched two strange men with swords race through the garden as if they were in an army charge, with Matron flying behind them, her skirts fanned out like a flag.
Fenton threw himself into the conservatory where, just days earlier, Gabe had watched Louisa promenade and curtsy with her older girls.
What a bizarre activity that seemed now.
What use the finer points of addressing nobility when a woman could find herself on the run for her life from an enraged aristocrat, wielding a sword and his privilege like a battering ram?
Gabe, light on his feet despite his wounds, leapt into the room, and for the first time, Louisa saw real swordplay. These were practiced swordsmen in action, but with deadly intent. She pressed both fists to her mouth so she wouldn’t make a sound and distract Gabe as he battled for his life.
Fenton gave him no quarter, lunging, thrusting, lunging again.
The lighter man’s form was precise, his movements trained, but aggression made his technique heavy, and fear made him wild.
The stomp of their feet and the clang of the clashing metal echoed in the broad space.
Girls rushed to the windows, watching, calling out.
“Is that ‘is Grace?”
“Matron’s beau?”
“Oh, ‘oo’s that meaning to kill’im, then?” came the cries.
Louisa could not move to chase them away. She kept her eyes on Gabe as if her will alone could protect him, as if her urging could give him strength.
He was magnificent. He too was practiced at this, his form tight, his movements efficient.
It was as if he anticipated Fenton’s every move and was there to meet it.
Time and again, just when she thought the point of Fenton’s saber would sink into his side, Gabe met the thrust with his own sword, or simply melted away. He was disciplined fury, lethal grace.
But he was only a man, an injured man. And he was weakening.
“Surrender, and I’ll let you live,” he called to Fenton.
“You won’t walk out of here, street rat,” Fenton snarled. “I’m done with you, once and for all.”
But as Gabe lunged, Fenton turned and ran, dashing from the conservatory into another garden, and through that into the chapel.
The grand Gothic chapel stood open during free periods to invite prayer and contemplation, and Louisa was excessively fond of the place.
It had inspired a similar construction at the Foundling Hospital, some four miles away, with its oval interior, lofty ceiling, and balcony lining the upper story of the room.
There was no room for swordplay in here, with the pews and benches, and she could not imagine what Fenton was about.
It seemed Fenton didn’t know, either. He dashed up the stairs to the upper balcony as if he meant to hide there, yet his taunts gave him away to his pursuer.
“You’ll never make a respectable Barkham, Gabriel!
Don’t you know what they call you? The batman’s bastard.
The blacksmith’s fancy boy. Your mother did something to persuade the House of Lords to vouch for you.
Probably sold her favors to every judge on the King’s Bench.
But it’ll never make you worthy, d’you hear? It will never make you one of us!”
“I wouldn’t be like you if you paid me, Fenton,” Gabe snarled, mounting the steps after his quarry.
“Sniveling, spineless coward who hires thugs to do his dirty work. Don’t think I haven’t heard about your exploits.
The debts you’ve amassed at the gaming tables.
The bills you owe at every shop in Bond Street.
The women who have vowed never to be soiled by your touch again. ”
“Gabe,” Louisa called up to him, “do be careful. Also—your language.” For the girls were pressing through the door, each one wanting to be part of the action, not a one willing to submit to the frantic orders of the Sisters to turn away and occupy themselves elsewhere.
As for Louisa, she wasn’t leaving Gabe’s side.
“As if the women you’ve tupped have it any better!” Fenton threw back. He made his way to the front of the balcony, where the pipes of the organ soared to the carved plaster ceiling. Gabe was closing the distance, clambering over the benches Fenton kicked over.
“You’ve cut such a swath through London, you’ll have caught the pox well before now,” Fenton mocked. “Won’t have to wait long for the dukedom to come to me then, will I? Just until your nose rots and falls off your arrogant, insulting face.”
“Gabe,” Louisa called, “he’s behind one of the columns near the organ pipes. On your left.”
With a snarl Fenton leapt forward, balancing on one of the benches near the balcony, barring Gabe’s way.
“And as for your latest,” Fenton said. With his free hand he gestured toward the wooden floor where Louisa stood, hands clasped over her heart, which she was sure would not beat again until this was ended.
“What a prize she is, eh? Dowdy matron of a charity for bawling brats. A score of years too old for you, and likely dried up to boot. You’ll never get an heir off her, so why bother?
You’ll only shackle yourself to a French whore likely to murder you in your sleep. Just like she did her last husband.”