The Dancing Master Read online

  —Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy, Pride and Prejudice

  Chapter 23

  The night before the grand opening, Alec slept fitfully, dreaming all sorts of tedious, disconcerting dreams: He came prepared with dances for eight couples, but only two showed. He tried to play the fiddle while he taught, but the fiddle had only one string. Mrs. Tickle’s cake with its purplish icing was tiny, and the resulting slices were embarrassingly minuscule. He could not remember a single step. . . .

  It was a relief to awaken and realize he had merely been dreaming. I am prepared, he told himself. Even if he made a few mistakes, the day could not be half as bad as the dreams.

  He washed and dressed with care in his dark blue coat, light breeches, and patterned waistcoat. He carefully tied his cravat in an elegant mail-coach knot and then pulled on his highly polished shoes.

  He picked up his grandfather’s walking stick, used to mark the tempo for the last three decades, and once again today. He kissed his mother’s cheek, asked his sister to arrive by ten, waved off breakfast, and shook his uncle’s hand.

  “My boy, I know how hard you’ve worked,” Cornelius Ramsay began. “And I wish you every success, I really do. Remember that if nobody comes, it is more Beaworthy’s fault than your own. Old ways die hard.”

  Alec reminded himself his uncle meant well and warmly thanked him.

  Alec left the house, strolled into the village, and crossed the High Street with a decided spring in his step. Today was the day. The Valcourt Dancing and Fencing Academy, defunct in London, was about to be reborn in Beaworthy.

  He could do this.

  When he looked ahead and saw the cluster of people standing outside the academy door, his heart gave a little leap. A crowd, at this hour? Had they misread the notice, or were they so eager?

  He quickened his step. But as he neared, doubts flashed like fireworks over London’s St. James’s Park. All men? And unlikely suspects for dance lessons. Mr. Jones; Mr. Gilbert, the tailor; Mr. Vanstone; Mr. Lug, the lamplighter; Joe Wilcox; and Uncle Ramsay’s younger clerk . . .

  Why had the word suspects come to him? The men’s expressions were a mixture of headshaking grimace and knowing smirk. These were not prospective pupils. What were they looking at?

  Mr. Jones saw him hurrying up the street, and nodded in his direction, drawing everyone’s attention to his approach.

  The other men stepped back to allow him to pass.

  “Sorry, Valcourt,” Jones muttered. “Afraid something like this would happen.”

  Something like what? Alec’s stomach clenched. His heart followed suit.

  Then he saw.

  The academy door had been kicked in. Several panes of window glass smashed. Draperies slashed. Glass lay like hail on the newly refinished floor, now scuffed and soiled. The mirror—the big, beautiful, expensive mirror—had been cracked. Dirt, muddy water, and torn plants were strewn over the room like a flower shop after a storm. Or a graveyard.

  Disbelief, anger, and grief shuddered through him in waves. He felt as if someone had died—or something. His dream. Gone. And the last of his savings with it.

  Even the cake Mrs. Tickle donated had been taken—leaving behind only a telltale smudge of puce-colored icing.

  Who had done it? Why?

  Mr. Jones stepped inside, crunching over broken glass. “Warned ya folks don’t take kindly to dancing round here.”

  “Which folks? Who did this?”

  The man avoided his gaze.

  Alec pushed. “You didn’t see anyone? Hear anything?”

  Mr. Jones shook his head, yet a wary gleam in his eye told Alec the innkeeper may have seen someone, or at least had his suspicions, but wasn’t about to say so and risk a similar visit to his own establishment.

  That afternoon, Julia stepped gingerly over the broken glass, stunned by the cruel vandalism. Alec Valcourt and John Desmond stood in the corner, discussing what to do first—board up the broken windows, or sweep up the glass before someone got hurt.

  Julia shook her head, sickened. “If my mother did this, I shall never forgive her.”

  Alec looked up from the debris to frown at her. “Do you really think a lady like her would stoop so low?”

  His look, his words chastised her. Yet she stubbornly lifted her chin. “I don’t say she did it herself. But it would be the work of a moment to send someone. Or simply to hint to a tenant or a servant that something like this should be done—to send a message.”

  Mr. Desmond shook his head. “I would never believe it of her.”

  “Then who?” Julia challenged.

  “Unfortunately,” Alec replied, “I can think of two possibilities.”

  He squatted to his haunches and picked up a jagged chunk of clay brick, which had apparently been thrown through the window.

  “China clay,” he observed and tossed it aside.

  Julia stared. “You think the Wilcox brothers did this?”

  “Probably, though I can’t prove it.”

  Mr. Desmond, she vaguely noticed, disappeared into the back room, likely to give them a moment alone.

  Alec rose and laid a reassuring hand on hers. “Don’t fret, Julia. My uncle—others—warned me something like this might happen.”

  “But . . . all your work. Your grand opening . . .” Her words trailed bleakly away.

  He sighed. “I know. And I am deeply disappointed, of course. But at least no one was hurt, and eventually, perhaps, I might try again.”

  He did not sound very confident. Why should he be, if he assumed the vandals would simply strike again?

  “What has the constable said?” she asked.

  “Mr. Lamont is sorry, but there is nothing he can do.”

  I’ll kill them, Julia thought. Well, not actually kill them, though she would give the Wilcox brothers a setdown they would never forget.

  Alec must have seen the look in her eye, for he slowly shook his head. “Julia . . . don’t. Don’t confront them. And certainly not alone. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way. It’s not worth it.”

  “Yes, it i—”

  “No,” he said fervently, pressing her shoulders with both hands. “You—your safety and well-being—are far more important to me than any dancing academy.”

  Alec’s words, his touch, warmed Julia deeply.

  Soon after, Julia returned to Buckleigh Manor, planning to change into clothes more suited for clean-up work, and to request Barlow’s help in putting Mr. Valcourt’s academy back in order. But first she was determined to confront her mother.

  Julia found her in the library as usual, writing letters. She looked up at her approach and set her quill back into its holder.

  Watching the woman’s face carefully, Julia said, “Tell me you had nothing to do with what happened at Mr. Valcourt’s academy.”

  Her mother looked at her blankly. “What happened?”

  Her reaction, her question, seemed genuine enough.

  “Someone broke in, smashed windows, broke the mirror, chairs . . .”

  “Did they indeed . . . ?” Her lower lip protruded.

  As though she were impressed? Heaven help me, Julia thought, struggling to control her temper and her tongue.

  “You don’t look very sorry to hear it,” Julia said. “Or surprised.”

  “I am not surprised.”

  Julia gaped. “Why? Because you—”

  “Because I expected something like this might happen,” she interrupted. “It is one of the reasons I didn’t want you there.”

  Julia said, “I know you think you have cause to despise Mr. Valcourt as well as Mr. Desmond, who owns the property, but—”

  “True.”

  “What?”

  Her mother held up her hand. “Julia, I had nothing to do with any vandalism in the High Street. How could you even think such a thing? Do you know me so little?”

  Julia hadn’t really believed it, yet she was relieved to hear it from her own lips.

  “I certainly don’t approv
e of Mr. Valcourt’s profession,” she added. “But I approve far less of destruction of personal property.”

  “But you are glad it happened, are you not? I suppose you see it as a sort of poetic justice—fate righting wrongs. Or God’s judgment on dancing masters everywhere.”

  “I won’t lie and say the thought didn’t briefly cross my mind, but no, I don’t think God had anything to do with this. I doubt He assigns vandals the lofty roles of fate or justice.”

  After dinner that evening, the maid helped Julia change into more appropriate attire: a day dress, apron, and gardening gloves. Julia found Barlow and asked him to join her, but his face sagged in regret.

  “I am sorry for Mr. Valcourt, of course. But my loyalties lie with her ladyship.”

  For once Julia was not able to persuade the man to do what she wanted.

  As twilight fell, she slipped from the house alone and walked into the village, planning to join the clean-up work in progress there.

  Julia had meant to heed Mr. Valcourt’s warning and stay away from the Wilcox brothers. But when she saw Felton Wilcox, lounging against a column of the deserted market hall, her anger boiled, and she could not let the injustice stand unchallenged.

  She stalked over to him. “You did it, didn’t you.”

  A self-satisfied grin was his only reply.

  She longed to slap the grin from his face but resisted. “Why? What has Mr. Valcourt ever done to you?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t like outsiders comin’ in here, thinkin’ they’re better than us and changin’ things.”

  She shook her head. “But to jeopardize a man’s livelihood? I would have thought you’d have some respect for that, if for nothing else.”

  Felton’s eyes flashed a warning, but Julia plowed ahead.

  “Some champion you are. This is low—even for you.”

  He grabbed her chin. Hard. “Watch it, miss. For I can do far worse . . . to him and to you if you push me. Don’t think I won’t.”

  Fear shot through Julia. She should have listened to Alec. She forced herself to meet the man’s searing glare.

  From the shadowy recesses of the market stalls, his brother, Joe, lurched forward.

  “Felton? What are you doing?” he asked, his voice quiet but strained. “That is Miss Midwinter. From the great house. I don’t think we ought to, uh, bother her.”

  Felton frowned. “Then she shouldn’ta struck me with that whip of hers. Or stuck her nose where it don’t belong.”

  “Let her go,” someone called.

  Alec’s voice. Relief swept over her.

  Felton turned his head, but kept his stinging grip on her chin. “Well, well. If it ain’t the pretty caper merchant. Has the mincing dance-man come to save the fair lady?”

  She glanced over and saw the fire in Alec’s eyes, heard the steel in his voice when he said, “Unhand her. Now.”

  Oh Alec, Julia thought, be careful. She feared he would end as damaged as his academy, and that she could not bear.

  “Or what?” Felton scoffed. “Will you dance me to death? Give me a good waltzing? Egad, I’m shaking in my boots.”

  Alec began stripping off his coat. “That’s not what I had in mind, no.”

  Joe Wilcox stepped to his brother’s side, adopting a ready stance—knees bent.

  Alec snorted. “Two against one, is it? Very well.”

  Ben Thorne crossed the High Street. “Alec? Is, um, everything all right?” Ben looked over and saw her in Felton’s grip. His face went rigid. “What are you doing, Felton? Let her go!”

  “You’re just in time, Ben,” Alec said. “Set this aside for me, will you?” He tossed the young man his coat, and pushed back his sleeves, exposing muscled forearms.

  With a nervous swallow, Mr. Thorne laid the coat over a nearby stall.

  Joe Wilcox gestured in Ben’s direction. “That’s yer idea of evening the numbers? Pummelin’ that pole bean won’t be any fun. Them ranters has to turn the other cheek and can’t hit back.”

  “But I can,” Walter Allen said, stepping in front of Ben.

  Thank you, God, Julia thought. How fortunate that these loyal friends were on hand—no doubt helping Alec restore his academy. Walter, tall and brawny, gave the two Wilcoxes pause. The Allens were a leading family, well known and well connected for all their secluded ways. Julia guessed Felton Wilcox wouldn’t want his “secret” crime becoming widely known.

  Felton formed an unconvincing smile. “Mr. Allen, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wilcox. Walter Allen of Medlands. And when you bother my friends here, you bother me.”

  “And me,” Mr. Desmond said, stepping onto the adjacent green and into the fray.

  Joe Wilcox scowled and stepped forward menacingly. “Well, if it ain’t the coward who pulled a gun on us. Where’s your gun now?”

  In a low voice, Desmond replied, “I won’t be needing it.” He glanced meaningfully down at his sheathed sword, eyes glinting.

  “Good to see you, Desmond,” Alec called over to him, not removing his gaze from the Wilcox brothers.

  “Desmond? John Desmond?” Felton said, looking disconcerted now.

  “From the forge?” Joe asked. “Isn’t he the fellow what killed Graham Buckleigh years ago?”

  “The same,” Desmond acknowledged.

  “I heard you were back,” Felton said. “But I didn’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.” Desmond then nodded toward Julia. “Mr. Valcourt asked you to release Miss Midwinter. Now, are you going to comply, or shall I find some way to encourage you?” He lifted his hand nearer the sword hilt. The scabbard glinted in the light of a nearby streetlamp.

  Felton roughly released Julia’s chin, thrusting her from him. “With pleasure. The jade’s a nuisance, as everyone knows.”

  Desmond’s jaw clenched. Mr. Valcourt, she noticed, fisted his hands.

  Felton lifted his palms. “I don’t wish to fight, not with Mr. Allen here. Out of respect for his . . . lovely sister.”

  Julia gasped. If he dared come anywhere near her sweet friend!

  Walter narrowed his eyes and took a step forward.

  Alec said to Felton, “Perhaps your little brother might chat with my friends here, and leave you and me to settle matters between us on our own?”

  Joe shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Alec grasped Desmond’s sword and lunged forward, but Desmond gripped his arm.

  “Don’t,” he hissed. “Take it from me—it’s not worth it.”

  Without removing his focus from Felton, Mr. Valcourt said in a low, terse voice, “Ben, escort Miss Midwinter home safely, please.”

  Ben looked about to object but, seeing Alec’s rigid jaw, apparently thought the better of doing so. He walked forward, gently but firmly took Julia’s arm, and led her away.

  Alec waited until Ben and Julia were a safe distance away. Around him, the men stood—tense—looking from one to the other, awaiting Alec’s cue, or to see who would make the first move. Alec was torn, longing to strike back even as his conscience told him Desmond was right.

  Suddenly Mrs. Tickle came marching across the street. “What is the meaning of this? What are you boys doing?”

  Everyone froze. Apparently even the Wilcox brothers were hesitant to fight in front of a woman—or at least, this particular woman.

  As Mrs. Tickle neared, her gaze snagged on Joe’s arm. “Joe Wilcox!” she scolded. “Is that puce icing on your sleeve?”

  Joe’s mouth fell open. He lifted his wrist and blinked at the stain there. “I . . . don’t think so. . . .”

  “Well, I do. That’s the icing from the cake I made for Mr. Valcourt. I was trying for a nice lavender color, but it went off to a brownish-purple. Very unusual, Joe. Very telling.”

  “I . . . don’t know what you mean.”

  “It means you took my cake. And likely helped your brother here vandalize Mr. Valcourt’s academy. What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “It wasn�
��t my i—”

  “Shut up, Joe,” Felton snapped. “Don’t let ’er fluster you.”

  “I’ll do more than fluster you,” she said. “I’ll refuse to serve you in my bakery.”

  Joe blanched. “But, Mrs. Tickle . . . you wouldn’t. I’m yer best customer, you always said.”

  “Not after this.”

  Nearby, the door to the public house opened. The constable, Mr. Lamont, strode reluctantly across the cobbles toward them. “What’s going on here?”

  Felton gestured toward Alec. “This man pulled a sword on us for no reason. I could take the lot of ’em, of course. But now you’re here, I won’t have to.”

  “Mr. Lamont, you are just in time.” Mrs. Tickle propped a pudgy fist on her hip. “Felton and Joe here have some explaining to do. Joe has icing on his sleeve from the cake stolen from Mr. Valcourt’s. It doesn’t take a genius to put one and one together and figure out these two were behind the vandalism last night.”

  The constable rocked back on his heels. “Is that so?”

  Felton shrugged, unconcerned. “Can’t prove it. Besides, why are you harassing us?” He nodded toward the others. “Valcourt’s threatening us with a weapon. And John Desmond’s a killer. You ought to be arresting them and leave us champions in peace.”

  Lamont jerked a thumb toward the public house. “From where I was sitting, it almost looked like you were threatening Miss Midwinter, of all people.”

  If he saw that, why on earth did he not come out sooner? Alec wondered.

  Lamont added, “Or were my eyes playing tricks on me?”

  “That’s right.” Felton nodded. “You were seein’ things, George.”

  Joe began to sweat. “I told Felton not to bother her. She—”

  “Hush, Joe,” his brother interrupted. “Ol’ George here is just flexin’ his flabby muscles. He won’t forget who we are.”

  “No, I won’t forget,” the constable said. “In fact, I shall be keeping my eye on you from now on. Off with you now—unless you’d like to go and see the magistrate directly?”

  Joe tugged his brother’s arm. “Come on, Felton,” he pleaded. “Let’s go.”

  Felton hesitated, then shrugged off his brother’s hand. “Fine. We were about to leave anyway.” He pinned Alec with a malevolent glare. “But this ain’t over, Valcourt. You mark my word.”