A Porcelain Viscountess by Hazel Linwood

Chapter 14

Francis heard the scream. It tore through his anger and his focus on returning to the carriage. He whipped round, taking hold of Lady Ridlington’s arm and pulling her back. Whatever had made her scream had frightened her.

“What is it?” he asked, still with his hand on her arm.

“Look out!” she cried, pointing behind him.

He heard the woosh of someone trying to strike through the air. Reminded of the days in Montmartre where thieves had tried to take his wallet. He struck up with his arm as he spun round.

He managed to block the blow that was coming his way. With his forearm against the forearm of their attacker, the knife hovered in the air, glinting in the lamplights from nearby.

Francis acted quickly. He reached for the knife as he kicked out, colliding with the man’s shins and knocked him away. He took the knife cleanly into his grasp, before the man approached again.

This time, the man walked toward Lady Ridlington, instead of Francis, clearly judging her as the easy target. Francis stepped in front of her, pushing Lady Ridlington further back. She clung onto the back of his jacket, her head peering round his arm as the attacker moved forward.

“Stay back,” Francis warned the man, adjusting the knife in his grasp, but the attacker didn’t seem to notice the words. His eyes slipped to Lady Ridlington, then his face altered into one of surprise.

Oh no…he can see she is not a boy.

With the knife safely in his left hand, Francis lashed out with his right, punching the attacker clean in the nose and breaking it. The man fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, clinging to his nose and wailing in the air.

As the adrenaline of the fight settled, Francis became more aware of his surroundings. There were other people in the street looking their way, intrigued by the fight, their outlines only just visible in the long shadows of the growing night. Lady Ridlington was two steps behind him, breathing heavily, evidently with fear. The man on the ground continued to wail about his nose as he attempted to get back to his knees.

“What were you after?” Francis asked, pocketing the knife to ensure it could not be used again. “Money?”

The man nodded.

“We should call a constable,” a voice went up in the street. “You there, boy, fetch a constable!” A gentleman ordered a young lad.

“A constable?” Lady Ridlington’s high pitched voice terrified Francis. If a constable got involved in this matter, then her disguise could be blown, and the Viscount could find her.

“No!” Francis said the word surprisingly loudly, turning his head round to the gentleman who had called for the constable and was quickly approaching. “No constable will be necessary. Thank you for the kindness, but the matter is resolved.” He kicked out at the thief’s arm who fell back on the floor, holding his bloodied hands up in surrender. He clearly had no intention of getting up again.

“I must insist, besides, my footman has already gone to fetch the constable,” the gentleman said as he reached their sides.

Hearing this, Francis whipped round and grabbed Lady Ridlington’s hat, pulling it further down over her face to ensure she could not be seen.

“Are you all right?” the gentleman addressed Francis.

“I am fine, thank you for the concern, but the constable is really not necessary.”

I have to get Lady Ridlington out of here. As soon as possible!

“He will be on his way already, I do not doubt it,” the gentleman said, gesturing down to the thief with a cane. “Good reason for it. Someone likes him deserves to be locked up.”

“Any other time I would agree with you, but if you would forgive me, today I have somewhere else to be.” Francis took hold of Lady Ridlington’s arm and ran down the street with her, pulling her after him.

“Wait! You there? Why are you running?” the gentleman called after him, but Francis had no intention of answering him or going back. He merely focused on the path up ahead and the carriage at the end of it that was waiting for them.

Lady Ridlington was struggling to keep up, so much so that Francis switched his hold from her arm to her hand, pulling her forward with their hands clasped together.

He just had to get her out of there, now.

Once he reached the coach, he shouted for the coach driver to be ready to go, hardly caring anymore if he saw Lady Ridlington dressed as a boy or not. They had to get out of there before a constable arrived, that was the only thing that mattered now.

“James! We’re leaving, now.”

“Yes, Your Grace, all set.”

With his hand still in Lady Ridlington’s, Francis pulled her into the carriage and closed the door heavily, just before the coach set off. One glance through the window showed that quite a crowd had gathered around the would-be thief, with the gentleman still standing by, clearly waiting for that constable to arrive.

“A constable?” Lady Ridlington’s voice made Francis snap his gaze away from the window and turn back toward her. She was sitting on the edge of the bench beside him, her eyes wide and breathing heavily having run so fast. “What if –”

“No one saw you,” Francis said with feeling. “You need not worry about that.” Yet he was not convinced by his own words. For one horrid minute in the fight with the thief, he had been certain that the thief had seen Lady Ridlington was no boy.

What does it matter though if a thief saw her?

“Do you think you were recognized?” Lady Ridlington asked.

“No,” he said, feeling confident. “I did not recognize that gentleman. It has been a while since I was so regular at events in the ton, and I didn’t see anyone else in the street I knew either.”

“Then…no constable will come and visit you?”

“Let’s hope not,” he said tightly. If a constable did come to visit him at home, he would just have to ensure that Lady Ridlington was still well hidden in the house.

“You stopped him.”

“What?” Francis said, his gaze settling on her face. She pushed the hat up a little with her free hand, revealing her complexion had turned a little pale. He lost himself thinking of those beautiful features that were still contorted in fear. It was not the way they belonged. Lady Ridlington should have been enjoying life to the full, not scared of the law coming and knocking on her door.

“You stopped him so easily. You knew what to do, how to stop him before he…before he could hurt you,” she said, her words holding a kind of marveling tone in them.

“I wasn’t going to give him a chance to hurt either you or I with that knife,” he said with animation, shaking his head. When the thief had moved toward Lady Ridlington, Francis had been surprised by the sheer jolt of fear in his stomach.

I can never let any harm come to her.

She held his gaze for a minute, just as he realized that their hands were still entwined. It was an intense moment, with their eyes on one another and that tight grasp between them.

What am I doing!? The thought tore through the intensity of the moment. All want to keep her close vanished when he thought of the scandal that could ensue if he got his emotions tangled up with Lady Ridlington.

He snatched his hand away and turned, breaking the connection between them. The two of them descended into silence, the only sounds being that of the heavy breathing from running.

“Are you all right?” he asked after a minute of quiet, still worried for her safety after the fight.

“I am fine. I am absolutely fine,” she said with a small laugh. The sound startled him. “I have had an idea.”

“What is that?”

“Teach me.”

“Teach you what?” he asked.

“Teach me how to fight like that.” Her words made him look back to her.

“Are you sure you want that?” he asked.

“I have never been so certain of anything,” she said. The strong way in which she had spoken, and her spine had straightened made her look like a grand regal lady, despite the boy’s clothes and cap she wore. Francis thought she belonged at that moment at the front of a ballroom, commanding attention of everyone around, not stuck in a carriage with him in hiding. He admired her, more than he could say.

“Very well. Training starts tomorrow,” he said, watching as she smiled.

* * *

“Ah! It’s no use,” Phoebe cried as she dropped the sword another time. Hayward went to pick up the weapon as she turned away, placing her hands on her hips and sighing at the lack of progress she was making.

That day, Hayward had started on her lessons, deciding it was best to progress a little more with fencing first, before he intended to teach her some hand-to-hand combat skills.

“I can’t get used to the force of it,” Phoebe said, bending back her right hand and cracking the bones there. “Ow.”

“It is simply that your wrist is not yet strong enough to bear the weight of the swords clattering,” Hayward said as he followed her across the room, proffering the sword toward her to take it again. “Trust me, you will grow stronger in time.”

“Trust you?” she said. “You are the reason my dress got torn the last time we did this.”

“Me?” he said in mock offence. “You ripped it with your own sword.”

“Clearly it was down to my instructor’s lack of teaching skills,” she said, smirking despite the mask covering her face. She watched as Hayward tipped his head back, with the helmet still on his head and laughed heartily.

“Yes, I suppose I had that coming,” he said as he controlled his mirth. “Now, try again, and don’t drop your wrist so much.”

“Very well.”

“Ready?”

She paused and settled herself, lifting the sword a little as she adopted the wide stance Hayward had taught her. He took the same stance opposite her.

“I’m ready,” she said softly.

“Go,” he instructed, leaping forward again. They had now increased the speed of their practice parrying, so that though they were going through the same maneuvers, yet they were a lot faster, up to speed. Phoebe frequently struggled with trying to maintain her hold on the sword with Hayward’s foil against her own.

She managed to take the first few stances he had taught her with ease, and then push his sword off hers with a rallying lunge.

“Ha! There we go. You did it. And you didn’t drop the sword this time,” he said, gesturing to her with his weapon.

“I guess it does get easier,” she said, though she still flexed her wrist at the soreness that lingered there. “How does this help me to win a fight though? It is just the same routine each time.”

“I am getting you used to the movements for now,” Hayward said as he began to walk around her. “What comes next is thinking of what to do to block someone’s attack.”

“How do you mean?”

“For example. If I did this…” he paused with his words as he lunged toward her, stopping with the sword inches from her padded chest. “What would you do?”

“I would do this,” she did the blocking movement he had taught her.

“Excellent. See? You’re then no longer doing a routine that I have taught you but thinking of the blocking positions to stop someone’s advance.” He walked round her another time. She followed him with her eyes, feeling how close he came these days at will, with barely any hesitation. “What if I did this?”

He did a lunge she hadn’t seen before, attacking from a new position entirely. She jumped away and performed another of the blocking maneuvers he had taught her. It worked perfectly, swiping his sword away.

“You’re learning fast,” he said with a smile. “Shall we take a break?” he asked, lowering the mask from his head. He wandered over to the side of the room where some water had been left for them and he took a few sips. Phoebe followed him with her eyes, watching him for a while as she stood still and fiddled with the foil.

Practicing sword skills with him was having an effect on her she had not expected, one that made her watch every movement he made with care, admiring each move and the athleticism behind it. Feeling her cheeks blush, she turned away and practiced a few lunges, relieved the helmet she had left over her face hid her blush completely.

“Come on, it’s time you took a break, or you’ll exhaust yourself.” His voice sounded a little nearer than she had expected. She turned round, startled to find he was right behind her. As she stumbled back, she brought up the sword, he dodged the blow, but only just, before a ripping sound tore through the air.

He burst out laughing in response, just as Phoebe settled her gaze on what it was that she had done. She had managed to cut through some of the padding on his arm, leaving a little of the forearm exposed.

“Please say I didn’t hurt you?”

“You didn’t hurt me,” he said, controlling his laughter. “Though I rather think you did that on purpose.”

“Would I do such a thing?” she asked innocently.

“Hmm, I am not sure,” he said with a smirk. “You have paid me back for not stopping you from ripping your own clothes now, haven’t you?” he said as he passed her a glass of water to drink.

“I thought you said these swords were blunted.”

“They are, but they are still blades,” he said. “Catch them at the wrong angle and they can cut. As you can so clearly see.” He gestured down to the new opening in the shirt beneath the padding. “You trying to get me out of my shirt, my Lady?”

“Your Grace!” she snapped the words at the flirtation, watching as he laughed even more. “That is hardly proper.”

“Perhaps not, but your reaction was certainly amusing,” he said, still being mischievous.

“You should be careful, I have a weapon in my hands remember,” she teased him, holding up the sword between the two of them.

“Consider me warned,” he said, backing off away from her. “Now, to serious matters for a minute.”

“Serious matters? I don’t remember agreeing to that,” Phoebe said as she moved to the side of the room and placed her foil back in the rack, before lifting her glass of water to her lips to quench her thirst.

“You want to suspend reality for a little longer?”

“Yes please,” she pleaded, watching as he smiled again and poured himself another glass of water from a jug that had been provided. “I like ignoring reality for a while.” She had to admit it was nice to forget the real world when she was here alone with Hayward.

Here with him, she didn’t have to think of the husband that was searching for her, neither did she have to think of Mr Preston who was sending his first letters to the Viscount today to request the separation. She rather feared how Graham would react when he read the letter. He’ll probably throw something. Perhaps one of my mother’s old vases and smash it to smithereens.

“One you have your separation –” Hayward began, but Phoebe cut him off.

“If I have my separation.”

“Let’s take a glass half full attitude,” he said, gesturing down to his glass of water. “Once you have your separation, what will you do?”

Phoebe paused and looked away from Hayward, around the room, thinking on his words.

“I could do anything I wanted I suppose,” she said quietly, thinking of all the options that were laid out before her.

“Anything. What would you do first?”

“I…” she paused as an image popped into her head. It was of Louisa spinning round in the garden with her arms out wide, talking of freedom. “I want to take Louisa far away from here, to start life anew.”

“What?” Hayward looked full of surprise. “Why?”

Phoebe crossed the room slowly toward him and placed her empty glass back down on the table as she stood beside him.

“I am not the only one who has suffered at a cruel man’s hands,” she whispered the words, watching as Hayward’s lips parted in surprise. “I was able to help her once to get away from a man that haunted her, and I cannot bear the idea of it happening to her again. I want to take her away, to a life that need not have any fear in it.”

“That I was not expecting you to say,” Hayward said and turned a little, so that he was perching on the edge of the table beside them. With them closer to head height, Phoebe could look up and see he was staring at her intently. “You are about to be free of a man who has hurt you, and your first thought is for another. That has to be…one of the most selfless things I have ever heard.”

He was staring at her with an expression she could not understand.

“That is a rather intent stare, Your Grace,” she said softly.

“I am finding it harder and harder these days not to keep staring at you,” he whispered.

The meaning hit home, yet Phoebe didn’t step away from Hayward. She stayed exactly where she was, aware of his words and the way he was looking at her.

He is looking at me with longing.

“Your Grace, Your Grace!” a voice called at the side of the room. Phoebe stepped away and turned, putting distance between her and Hayward as Mrs Goodman appeared in the doorway, flustered with a hand on her chest.

“What is it?” Hayward asked.

“It is the Marquess of Dodge again. He says it is urgent.”