The Dancing Master Page 10

  Joe gestured with an emphatic hand. “Go on. Show us more of that fancy steppin’.”

  “Thank you, no. I’ve had all the exercise I need for today.”

  “We wasn’t askin’, Valcourt,” Felton said. “We was tellin’. Dance.”

  “I have no interest in performing for you,” Alec said. “But if you’d like to learn, I’d be happy to teach you.”

  Joe shook his head. “Won’t catch us caperin’ about like that.”

  “Well”—Felton drew himself up—“if you won’t give us a dancing exhibition, we shall be obliged to give you a wrasslin’ demonstration instead.”

  Felton looked at Joe. “Cornish or Devon wrasslin’, do you think?”

  “Perhaps a bit of both.”

  Felton grinned at his brother. “And people call you slow. Excellent notion.”

  Alec tensed, wishing he’d kept his sword nearer at hand. Not that he would in good conscience strike unarmed men, but the threat of it might dissuade the pair. Before he could move, however, Felton sprung. He grasped him around the torso, and with a whirl and a thrust, Alec felt his feet fly from the ground and the world tilt. Then he banged onto the stone path flat on his back in a bone-jarring thud, the air whooshing from his lungs and stars tingling before his eyes.

  “He’s down, Felton,” Joe exclaimed. “That’s a back scored for you!”

  “Your first lesson in Cornish wrasslin’.” Felton’s face twisted into a predatory smile. “How’d ya like it?” He jerked a thumb toward his beefy younger brother. “Joe here’s the welter champ.” He smirked. “No one can get ’im off the ground.”

  Alec struggled to draw breath. Before he could answer or react, Felton swung back his leg and delivered a vicious kick to his shin. Pain surged, and Alec cried out, blinded in shock.

  “And that’s Devon wrasslin’,” Felton added. “Be glad I don’t have my baked boots on. Didn’t know I’d find an opponent today.” Felton swung back his leg once more.

  Unarmed maybe, but that foot was a deadly weapon if ever Alec had felt one. “Baked” or not.

  Alec rolled away, desperate to avoid another blow. Reaching the bench, he stretched out his hand for his sword.

  Anticipating his aim, Joe lunged for it and snatched it from his reach. In a flash, the brute broke the sword over his knee as though it were a dried twig.

  “No!” Alec yelled. Sickening regret and fear filled him. These men were not only strong—they were without conscience.

  As if to prove the point, Felton delivered another kick as Alec lay stretched across the ground, punishing his side with cruel impact. Alec felt as though his ribs had caved in, and he couldn’t breathe. God help me. . . .

  “My turn,” Joe said, tossing aside the broken sword.

  Unable to move, Alec tensed for another blow.

  Crack. A gunshot exploded.

  “Dash it!” Joe yelled.

  “What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Felton shouted at someone.

  Alec opened his eyes and tried to turn his head. He twisted onto his back, the pain in his side excruciating, and saw the churchyard, gate, wall . . . And over the wall, a man astride a horse, double-barrel flintlock pointed in their direction, still smoking.

  “Leave him be,” the man ordered. “That was a warning shot. Next time I shan’t shoot above your heads.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Felton snarled. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  Joe supplied, “He’s Beaworthy’s champion wrassler, he is.”

  “A champion wrestler who kicks an opponent when he’s down? Who kicks above the waist? Your sponsors would likely take back your gold-laced hat if they learned of it. Not to mention your title.”

  “They would not.” Felton scowled, eyes flashing. But there was a thread of doubt in his voice.

  “I’ll give you thirty seconds to leave here unharmed.”

  Neither Wilcox moved. The man cocked the gun’s second barrel and sighted on Felton’s chest.

  “Let’s go,” Joe said, grabbing his brother’s arm. “We’ll get him later.”

  Felton stood there, glaring at the man, likely weighing his chances against an armed man on horseback. One second. Two. Three.

  “Come on,” Joe hissed.

  Finally Felton turned and followed his brother across the churchyard and out the rear door, sending one last scorching look over his shoulder.

  When they had gone, Alec tried to sit up, grasping his throbbing ribs in a futile effort to stem the pain. The man dismounted, tied a rein to the gate post, and strode toward him, his gaze shifting to the rear door and scanning the wall as he approached.

  Satisfied they were alone, he lowered himself to his haunches and looked from Alec’s clenched hand to his perspiring face. “Are you all right?”

  “Been better. But I’ll live. Thanks to you.”

  “There’s blood seeping through your trousers there. Can you stand? Or shall I fetch the surgeon here?”

  “I think I can stand.”

  The man laid aside his gun and offered his hand. Alec took it, and the man pulled him to his feet. Alec’s head swam. His side screamed and his leg felt as though it might buckle. He hoped he wouldn’t thank his rescuer by being sick all over his boots.

  “Steady,” the man said, holding Alec’s arm. “That lot threaten you before?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Thank God you came along when you did.”

  “Thank God, indeed.”

  Alec winced. “Do you always carry a gun?”

  “No. I’ve been out hunting. No luck, though. And here I’d thought I’d brought the old thing along for nothing.”

  Alec blinked away the pain to focus on the man’s face. “I’ve not seen you before, I don’t think. Do you live nearby?”

  The man hesitated. “I’m . . . ah, visiting.”

  He was tall with longish brown hair and dark eyes. His skin was tan from days in the sun, or perhaps Spanish or Italian blood. His accent was also difficult to place. Northern, perhaps, or Scottish. His coat was well made and well cared for, yet clearly old.

  “I hate to leave you alone,” he said. “But I think I ought to ride for the surgeon.”

  “Valcourt?” a voice called. “What’s happened?”

  Alec looked over the church wall once again, relieved to see familiar, friendly faces. Walter and James Allen on horseback.

  “We heard a gunshot,” Walter said. “Are you all right?”

  The two men looked suspiciously at the man holding Alec’s arm.

  Alec quickly explained, “This man came to my rescue. I had an . . . unfortunate wrestling lesson from the Wilcox brothers.”

  Both men tensed and looked about them, surveying the churchyard.

  “They’re gone,” Alec said. “For now.”

  Walter handed his brother his reins and quickly dismounted. As he hurried into the churchyard, his anxious gaze swept Alec’s disheveled form. “Devil take it. You’re bleeding.”

  Alec winced. “The leg is nothing to my ribs, I’m afraid.”

  “Broken?”

  “I don’t think so. Dashed painful, though. I’m afraid our fencing lesson will have to wait.”

  His rescuer spoke up. “I was just about to ride for the surgeon, if you two will stay with him.”

  “I don’t think I need a surgeon, thank you,” Alec said. “I may, however, need a little help getting home.”

  “Too far in your state,” James said, dismounting and tying both horses to the gate. “We’ll take you to Medlands. Father will know if the surgeon is needed or not.”

  Walter turned to the stranger and said kindly, “You are welcome to come with us, sir, if you like. We can offer you a good meal and the hearty thanks of our family as reward if nothing else.”

  The man hesitated, considering.

  James looked at Alec. “But perhaps you would rather go to Buckleigh Manor. It is a bit closer.”

  Beside him, the stranger stiffened and released Alec’s arm. “I�
��ll be on my way if I’m no longer needed. You two can help him from here, I trust?”

  “Yes, of course,” Walter said, taking his place beside Alec.

  The man retrieved his gun, untied his horse, and mounted.

  The brothers stood on either side of Alec and insisted he wrap an arm around each of their shoulders. With Walter being markedly taller, this made for an awkward and painful half walk, half carry out of the churchyard. Realizing this, Walter held Alec’s arm from underneath to even the way.

  “Who was that man?” James asked, turning his head to watch him ride away.

  “I don’t know. Don’t you?”

  Both brothers shook their heads.

  Alec frowned. “Dash it. I forgot my sword. Wilcox broke it, but I shouldn’t like to lose it just the same. Or leave it lying about for some lads to find and hurt themselves with.”

  Walter jogged back into the yard and retrieved the two pieces. “Tough luck, that,” he said. “Perhaps the blacksmith can repair it.”

  “Perhaps,” James said. “But for now, let’s worry about repairing our friend here. We’ll return for the horses later. Unless . . . Shall we boost you up on one of them?”

  “Please no,” Alec rushed to say. “At the moment, I can bear the walk far better than a fall from a horse.”

  In the Medlands drawing room, Sir Herbert and Lady Allen examined Alec’s injuries with concern and attention. Patience had excused herself, in consideration of modesty. Lady Allen wished to send for the surgeon, but Sir Herbert assured them nothing was broken and wrapped Alec’s shin and ribs himself. Evidently Herbert Allen had gallantly served the wounded, especially a certain nobleman, in a previous war, hence earning his knighthood.

  Sir Herbert did insist, however, in sending for the constable. An hour later, George Lamont arrived begrudgingly and listened without apparent concern to Alec’s report. His response was far from satisfactory.

  “Boys will be boys, sir, as you know. No doubt meant to wrassle ’im in good sport and things got out of hand, that’s all.”

  “Good sport? This young man was on the ground bleeding and might well have been seriously injured had a passerby not interfered.”

  “Who was it, by the way?” the constable asked Alec.

  “I did not get his name.”

  “Too bad. Not many are brave enough, or foolish enough, to interfere with our wrasslin’ champions.” Mr. Lamont chuckled.

  Sir Herbert frowned. “This was no wrestling bout, Lamont. No fair fight. And I would hope you or I or any man of honor would have stepped in to help, regardless of risk to his own person.”

  “Lofty words, sir. Lofty words.” The constable rocked on his heels and fiddled with the hat in his hands. “Well, I will talk to the boys. Make sure they’re more careful in future. No doubt they don’t realize their own strength.” He bowed and replaced his hat. “Gentlemen. M’lady.”

  After the constable departed, Sir Herbert insisted Alec rest awhile longer. Then the family made preparations to deliver Alec home in their best sprung-and-padded carriage. Lady Allen offered to send word to Lady Amelia, explaining what had happened and letting her know Alec would be in no fit condition to perform his duties the next day.

  “I am certain I shall be well enough by tomorrow,” Alec said. “But thank you for the offer.” Alec was not certain he would be sufficiently recovered. Far from it. But he was loath to display weakness before either Lady Amelia or her daughter.

  Later, in his uncle’s sitting room, Alec had to endure the sputtering protestations of an unhappy host.

  “You must have done something to provoke them,” Cornelius Ramsay insisted, his tone nearly accusatory.

  Alec did not mention the Wilcox brothers had come upon him dancing. He had little interest in adding fuel to his uncle’s fiery arguments against the activity, and no desire to hear his uncle say, “I told you so.”

  Nearly worse was the smothering concern of his mother and sister. All kindly meant, Alec knew, but he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to be left alone to figuratively lick his wounds.

  Remember to take the best dancing master . . . more to teach you to sit, stand, and walk gracefully, than to dance finely. The Graces, the Graces; remember the Graces!

  —Philip Dormer Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterfield

  Chapter 8

  The next day, despite his mother’s protests, Alec forced himself to get up and dress for work. She insisted on redressing his leg wound to assure herself no infection had begun to set in. She grimaced at the purple bruise and nasty gash but was pleased it had stopped bleeding. His uncle tightened the bandage around his ribs, and helped him on with his coat, clearly approving of his stoic determination to attend to his duties despite discomfort.

  Aching from his injuries, his walk to Buckleigh Manor seemed twice as long as usual. Each step, each breath hurt.

  As he passed the old Buckleigh church on the way to the manor, he glanced through its gate—the scene of his painful humiliation. The churchyard appeared empty. Yet he heard something. . . .

  Movement from above caught his eye, and he looked up. His stomach clenched. There atop the church tower, twice the height of the church itself, stood a figure. A woman, in billowing skirts and bonnet, balanced on the parapet, arms outstretched, stepping gingerly toward the corner pinnacle.

  Julia Midwinter.

  “Stop! Be careful!” he yelled instinctively.

  High above him she gasped and lurched, arms windmilling wildly to regain her balance.

  “Thunder and turf,” Alec grumbled under his breath. What was the fool woman doing?

  Above him, Miss Midwinter overcompensated and with a little cry fell backward toward the tower roof.

  Ignoring the pain lancing his side, Alec bolted up the path, through the arched doorway, and into the dim Norman church. Grabbing a pew back, he sharply rounded the corner, and pushed through the creaking door into the tower. He ascended the steep, narrow stairs as quickly as his injured leg would allow, calling upward, “Miss Midwinter! Stay there, I’m coming!”

  One flight, then another, past draping cobwebs and dust-shrouded bells. The last flight was more ladder than stairs, steeply pitched rungs leading through an opening in the roof. He climbed, his ribs protesting and leg throbbing with every step.

  He pushed his head through the open hatch, feeling like a mole emerging from its den. He looked about him, fearing to find her injured. Instead, he found the roof empty. She had already climbed back onto the parapet.

  Alec was reminded of a high-wire walker he had once seen in Astley’s Amphitheatre. Poised and graceful, Miss Midwinter walked to the corner pinnacle and then pivoted in the opposite direction with barely a wobble. Heaven help him, he would love to see the woman dance.

  “Miss Midwinter,” Alec said, forcing his voice into moderation, not wishing to startle her again. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Like you are trying to break your neck. Or give me an apoplexy.”

  “I did not know anyone was watching. I should be vexed at you for startling me. I thought you were staying home today.”

  “Oh?” Alec sat on the edge of the hatch and swung his legs up. How had the young woman managed it in long skirts? He rose gingerly to his feet, the pain in his leg and side returning in full force now that the panic had passed.

  “Lady Allen sent over a note. Told us you’d been injured and not to expect you. Which reminds me . . . Mother asked me to inform Barlow that you’d been trounced, but I quite forgot.”

  “I am perfectly well,” he said through gritted teeth, hoping she had not heard his involuntary groan, nor noticed the sweat trickling down his hairline.

  She smirked. “So I see.”

  He crossed the roof to where she stood atop the parapet wall, four feet or so above him. He stretched up his hand to her. “Please come down.”

  She placed her hand in his. “You needn’t worry. I often come up here.” She hopp
ed down as nimbly as a cat.

  For a moment, she kept hold of his hand, studying his face. Then she released him, and turned to look out over the lichen-spotted ledge.

  “This moldering church has been my playground since I was a girl,” she said. “Especially since it was all but abandoned in favor of St. Michael’s.”

  Alec stood beside her. He looked out past the churchyard, over the meadows and trees to the rolling hills beyond.

  “I like it up here,” Julia said wistfully. “I can see for miles . . . and imagine I’m far away.”

  Watching her pensive profile, he asked quietly, “And why would you want to do that?”

  She slanted him a look but made no reply.

  He said, “I did not realize life in Buckleigh Manor was such a hardship.”

  “No, you would not.” Pain flashed across her eyes, and she looked away. “When I was younger, I would sometimes stand here and shout at the top of my voice. If the wind was in the right direction, no one heard me. Though once five estate workers came running, sure I was being torn limb from limb by wolves.”

  She chuckled at this, but he did not think it amusing.

  “What did you have to shout about?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes this feeling of—” she circled a hand near her abdomen as she searched for the word—“restlessness . . . vexation . . . grows and churns until I feel I will explode if I don’t do something.” She glanced at him defensively, as though daring him to scoff. “Do you never get frustrated? Never need to vent your anger?”

  “I do, actually. And I understand you, to some extent. But I don’t shout or jump about rooftops scaring people half to death.”

  Her mouth quirked. “What do you do?”

  He looked at her, then away.

  “Tell me,” she insisted.

  “You’ll laugh.”

  “Is it worse than shouting or jumping about rooftops?”

  “It all depends on your perspective, I suppose.” He inhaled. “Sometimes I fence. And sometimes I . . . dance.”

  She turned fully toward him, her fair brows rising nearly to her hairline. “You dance alone?”