As a gambler's daughter, Frances was resigned to spending her life masquerading as a boy, learning how to shoot a pistol and fight with a sword. Constantly moving from town to town, it was far safer than being a girl. But when her father dies sudd...
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She bowed in the Italian style and introduced herself, "Peter Francis, Maestro." The eyes lit up. "You speak Italian? Have you learned your sword play there as well?"
Rather reluctantly, Frances nodded. "I had a few lessons with Maestro Ricardo." Surely it would do no harm to mention this? It was the truth after all and one of the first lessons for an adventurer was to stick to the truth as often as possible!
"Ah ..." Mancini looked at her with interest. "Perhaps when I have finished the lesson with Lord Carleton, you would care to...?" He broke off as Frances shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Maestro," she said, flushing a little. "I'm afraid I cannot afford lessons at the moment."
Mancini looked a bit taken aback then said enthusiastically, "No matter. This time there is no charge because I would like to see something of how the great Ricardo teaches". Frances bowed to inevitability and accepted the offer, inwardly fuming at her own recklessness which had led her to accompany Carleton in the first place.
Carleton regarded her quizzically, "You have hidden depths, Francis."
"So do you, 'my Lord'", she retorted.
"Come, come," urged Mancini, "Let's start, my Lord".
Carleton took off his coat and selected a buttoned foil. "En garde". The two men went quickly through a series of warm up movements before they began fencing in earnest, Mancini occasionally commenting on his noble pupil's performance. "Higher there, my Lord ... well done ... no! wait til I am fully extended before you try that one ..."
Frances watched interestedly, her gaze moving from one man to the other. Mancini was obviously the professional. He moved with practised precision, his wrists as flexible as India rubber and his speed sometimes almost faster than the eye could see. Carleton on the other hand was a good amateur, who was strong in defence and quick in attack. He gave a good account of himself and twice got a blow through Mancini's guard.
Frances began to prepare herself for her own bout to come, taking deep measured breaths and flexing her knees and wrists. She watched closely as Mancini demonstrated his "kiss of death" to Carleton. It involved an orchestrated clash of blades at a certain angle and then a carry on thrust to the throat. It reminded strongly of a manoeuvre Ricardo had taught her, although she thought hers might be trifle neater.
All too soon the men were saluting each other and Carleton was moving to one side, wiping the sweat off his brow. "Your turn, Francis."
Outwardly calm, she moved forward to select a blade, forcing herself to think solely of the techniques she would use and to think of nothing else beyond the next ten minutes. They were more evenly matched for height and weight and their eyes met across the blades raised in salute. Mancini went through a similar set of preparatory exercises as he had with Carleton and Frances followed his lead carefully, conserving her strength.
"Right, let's see what you can show me," invited the Italian, breaking off momentarily. Frances nodded and let him take the lead again, content to defend herself and bide her time. After a few minutes she detected a slight restlessness in her opponent and a moment later she recognised the opening move of his "kiss of death". She met him blow for blow, then, as he made the final thrust, she twisted her own blade up in a curious motion that sent Mancini's sword flashing up past her shoulder, and landed the button of her own foil at the base of his throat.
"Magnifico!" breathed the astounded teacher. "How did ...? No keep on ... later." The bout continued but the Italian was now on his guard. Frances had used most of her strength and concentration on achieving her initial success and struggled to hold her own. Mancini soon had his blade against her heart and she surrendered breathless but smiling.
"I must crave your pardon, Maestro, and stop there." He looked rather incredulous and she trotted out the explanation she had used in the past. "As you can see, I have some skills but alas not the strength to follow them up. I had the wasting sickness when I was a lad and my limbs have never gained full strength."
"What a shame, young sir!" he exclaimed in dismay. "With more practice, you might have become a master - Ricardo taught you that trick?" Frances nodded. Mancini continued to shake his head regretfully.
"Perhaps you'd have a turn with me sometime, Francis?" enquired Carleton from the wall where he had been watching curiously.
"If you like... but I'd be no match for you, my Lord, your arm is too strong," she replied casually.
"I must say you're cool enough about it," he commented, his expression unreadable.
"I have no choice sir! However it doesn't affect my shooting. I'll wager I could meet you equally enough with pistols!" Thinking he was taunting her, Frances answered rather hotly.
"Steady on, young Francis, I meant no offense," Carleton laughed. "Though it would give me great pleasure to engage in a friendly shooting match with you - I have already had some evidence of your skill with firearms remember?"
Frances looked searchingly at him but could see no trace of mockery. "I'm sorry, my Lord," she apologised gruffly. She turned to Mancini. "I must thank you very much for your time maestro and bid you good day. I have an appointment in an hour and must get home to change now," she spoke in Italian. He returned her bow and shook Carleton's hand. "Next week as usual?" he queried and the other man nodded.
Once outside, Frances turned to Carleton. "I must be away, my Lord. Thank you for bringing me this morning, I have not fenced for some time and it was good to feel a sword in my hand again."
"I enjoyed watching you," he confessed. "You have a brilliant style for one so young."
"I had the best teacher in Maestro Ricardo," excused Frances, "and I started early. One does in Italy."
They walked in silence for a few yards, then Carleton spoke. "Would you care to meet me in Manton's Gallery for some shooting one day? We could have a wager as you suggested, a small wager, perhaps, between friends?"
Frances flushed, "I did not mean that."
"What, backing down?"
She glanced up and saw he was teasing. "I would not wish to rob you, my Lord," she answered demurely.
Carleton laughed, "Friday then? Are you free?"
Frances considered. That would be the day after Lady Dalrymple's masked ball. She nodded. "I shall see you there at ... what time?"
"Two?" She agreed and they parted company. Of course she couldn't meet him Frances told herself, but it had been easier to agree. Certainly he would be offended when she failed to keep their appointment but at least that would make him unlikely to seek out her company again. Perhaps by Friday she would already be under Lady Murray's protection. The thought was not as cheering as she had expected.
She turned her mind to the masked ball. If she went, would she go as male or female? She'd be more likely to learn about Lady Murray as a woman of course ... and it would be more fun ... It was all nonsense, wishful thinking, naturally she'd spend the night quietly in her room as usual.
Carleton strolled back to his own house, his thoughts also turning to the Dalrymple's masked ball. Perhaps Rosamond would be there. At twenty nine, Carleton was still unattached, without even the mistress that most men of his class had on the side. He had found no-one yet that he wished to marry and was too reserved, fastidious even, to seek out a casual relationship which was distinguished, as he saw it, by lust on one side and avarice on the other. As far as the succession went, he had a cousin with a healthy young family, who could easily take over if he failed to provide an heir. Not that he had given up just yet! He still hoped to find someone who would share his interests as well as his bed, perhaps Rosamond was the one.
