Giselle Marks

Attaque – Chapter One

London October 1812

Dusk came early to the misty back streets of London town.  The tall ebony-haired gentleman in his dark blue greatcoat strode on despite the inclement weather, deep in thought.  A casual observer might at first have suspected from his sun-darkened countenance that he was a foreigner to the Sceptred Isle, a casual conclusion that missed important clues to his identity.  That this gentleman had returned to Albion’s shores only a few months previously would have been a far more accurate surmise.  If our imaginary observer looked very closely at the walker, a very slight limp became apparent and the gentlemen was speeding his pace as if aware that he was tardy for an important engagement. 

 

Closer inspection would have provided a classical profile and a distracted expression deepening into a scowl.  His clothes were an immaculate fit and obviously very expensively cut, yet the gentleman’s bearing intimated that he was more used to wearing uniform.  Edward Charrington, the seventh Earl of Chalcombe, until recently Major Charrington of the 3^rd Dragoon Guards was missing his uniform and also missing the Cavalry sabre that was accustomed to hang at his side.  Already he felt a distancing from his comrades and wished he was returning with them to drive the French invaders from Spain.  The starkly cut clothing he wore was plain even by Scott’s standards with only three shoulder capes, but the athletic structure of the man beneath the superfine cloth stated clearly that this was not one of the town’s idle elite.

 

The light foil he wore was also an anachronism for few non-military gentlemen carried them these days in town for everyday wear, even though fencing remained a requirement that every gentleman must boast a degree of competency in.

 

Charrington had crossed the River Thames with three friends, all officers from his former regiment who were in London briefly on furlough before returning to the war in Portugal.  They’d attended a mill that had been much advertised in a village outside of town.  The mill had turned out to be a disappointing mismatch.  The Champion had floored the much lighter Challenger repeatedly before the match ground to an early finish.  Charrington had travelled in his friend’s carriage, its shabby appearance being thought more suited to the muddy roads than his own bang-up new carriage complete with his coat of arms.  Anonymity had been considered a greater advantage than comfort.  He’d accepted a lift back as far as a rowdy hostelry in the area of Black Friars where his former comrades had settled in to make a night of it.  He had however promised to escort his Mother to look in at the Duchess of Gloucester’s Ball that evening and so had reluctantly refused to join them in their revels.

 

Deciding not to call a hackney he had elected to walk briskly back to his town house in Grosvenor Square and exercise his healing leg, believing he’d still be in plenty of time to change for dinner and the Ball.  Feeling awkward out of uniform, he resented the circumstances which forced him to stay behind in England when his brother officers returned to the war against the Corsican Monster and his Generals.  His elder Brother George’s death six months ago from a seizure, followed by being wounded himself in the battle of Salamanca.  The tiny fragment of cannon ball that had torn the muscles of his thigh, together with the pleading letters from his distraught Mother had made selling out a foregone conclusion.  Although the wound was healing well, he limped more as he tired, especially in this damp wintry weather.  It was already quite dark and he was beginning to regret not choosing to travel in a hackney cab instead of walking the three miles home.

 

Unexpectedly inheriting the title at the age of thirty, his family pleaded that he haste to select a wife and set up his nursery.  Arriving back in time to catch the end of the season he had been introduced to almost all the unmarried debutantes of any rank and not a few eligible young ladies who had been out some years.  His Mother and Sister had made sure that every pretty girl of good breeding had been forced upon his attention. 

 

As he walked along, he considered each of the possible candidates and tried to imagine himself bound to them in marriage.  A few had attracted his initial interest with a fine figure or a beautiful face only to quickly bore him with their insipid conversation or irritate by their die-away airs.  Most had not even impressed themselves upon his consciousness, except as yet another vapid young woman with little thought and less conversation.  His mother’s current favourite Miss Laura Beaumont, had marigold hair and a very pretty smile that unfortunately never reached her cornflower blue eyes.  He doubted he could marry her even to please his Mother. Surely somewhere there would be a girl he could find interesting enough to share his life with.  Even a marriage of convenience needed some liking, some attraction.  Well his Mother would have to be disappointed for he would certainly not be making an offer for Lady Laura Beaumont.

 

The streets were quiet, sound seemed to be muffled by the thickening mist and those denizens he had espied lurked in the shadows.  He had that prickly feeling that came before a battle and he uneasily unbuttoned his greatcoat to give easier access to his sword.  He turned from one narrow lane into another that looked much the same with dank grey brick buildings hemming him in on either side, an ideal place for an ambush he thought, before reminding himself that he was now a civilian living in the civilised city of London. 

Yet no sooner had he dismissed his morbid thoughts than he was confronted by a huge silhouette.  The creature coming towards him was at least his height and of considerable greater girth.  A dirty grizzled face beneath a grimy old-fashioned tricorne hat glared in his direction, his beefy hands clutching a very large cudgel.  Tricorne had the cocky arrogance of a man who had fought often before and was not used to losing.  His stance as he came on indicated no intention of letting Charrington pass.

 

Edward stepped to his right to move around the obstruction, discreetly loosening his sword as he moved.  Almost immediately another man loomed from the shadows on his right side blocking his egress.  His foil swished from his scabbard to meet the new threat, for this man held an ancient cutlass.  It looked like it hadn’t been sharpened for a long time but Edward didn’t doubt that it could still cause a nasty wound or kill.  Bringing the foil up he slashed towards Cutlass’s right hand, hoping to disarm him, but the blackguard was faster than he had expected, whisking his arm out of reach and stepping back to make another attack.  Tricorne then brought his cudgel down towards Edward’s head but he swerved to avoid the blow receiving only a nasty crack to his shoulder.  Charrington had every confidence in defending himself against his two assailants but then Tricorne cried out something, a name perhaps and Edward became aware a third footpad had crept up behind him.  He cried out in surprise and pain as he went down, a vicious blow from a cosh had crashed down upon his skull from behind.

 

Edward dazedly watched the men close upon him, but could do nothing; he dropped his foil as he slumped to the filthy street.  Then in a detached way he ascertained that he was no longer alone with his attackers, he tried to call out for help but no sound came.  Belatedly his assailants also noticed the intrusion of two passers-by, turning from his prone form to assess the new challenge.  Coming towards them were a most ill-assorted couple.  A tall slight girl with the face of a Botticelli Angel, wearing a dark redingote and a most unflattering bonnet and a short rotund man with one of the ugliest faces Edward had ever seen bearing a heavy walking stick.  Edwards’s brief hope disappeared as he surmised that they would be little assistance against three armed men.

 

The couple continued forward, seemingly unmoved by the apparent nature of the crime taking place.  They would clearly pass by ignoring the fracas and pretend that they had seen nothing.  The Footpads obviously concluded that these two were no threat to their enterprise and turned back to Edward as the couple prepared to pass the group.  “Finish him” muttered Tricorne hat to Cutlass, who pulled back the weapon to slice open Edward’s throat.

 

The girl seemed to stumble as she glided pass the group, bending down and coming up with the foil in her hand, the business end flicked towards Cutlass with such speed and style that Edward thought he must be dreaming.  Cutlass made a late attempt to parry the thrust, but he was gasping and spurting blood over Edward as the foil found its mark neatly within Cutlass’s chest.

Meanwhile the ugly little man had engaged with Tricorne hat and was comprehensively and viciously belabouring him with his stick.  That stunned individual was getting the worst of the battle and receiving a cruel drubbing.  The lady spun gracefully and raised the foil to attack the third assailant whom Edward could now see for the first time.  He was a spindly man with a wispy ginger beard and a face that resembled a mangy weasel.  He was dirtily costumed as some kind of sailor. 

 

The cosh had been a belaying pin and very effective it had been.  Edward’s confused thoughts agreed.  The Weasel backed as the girl brought the sword forward, attempting to batter down the blade.  One smooth step forward and the lady lunged and the foil twisted.  Weasel cried out in pain.  Weasel was holding his wrist, trying to stem the blood pouring from a slash that must have cut deep across tendons and arteries.  The belaying pin fell to the ground and Weasel’s eyes briefly registered both pain and disbelief.  The point of the foil moved towards Weasel’s eyes and waited for a brief second.  Weasel gulped and ran into the night.  Tricorne’s bravado deserted him and he too backed away and fled into the shadows.

 

Cutlass was going nowhere; his eyes stared towards the darkening sky with no life illuminating them.  His body crumpled in a bloody heap motionless in the dirt of the gutter.

 

“Vite! Henri,” cried the angel in dark serge, “Help me up with this gentleman, they may return with friends.”

 

Edward found himself hauled to his feet, but could not stand unaided.  The couple draped his arms over their shoulders and frogmarched him down the lane in the direction he had been travelling.  Edward was irrelevantly aware of Henri smelling strongly of garlic, sweat and spices and the angel of sweet roses in bloom.  His feet refused to obey him and help them in their rescue and his head felt like it was going to fall off at any minute.  He felt sick and giddy and his thoughts floated as if far away from his body as he was dragged onwards until they reached a busier thoroughfare and better lit street.

 

The lady attempted to question him as to who he was and where he was bound, but his tongue either would not or could not utter more than a quiet groan in reply.  The angel then asked Henri to hold him up whilst she went through his pockets.  A quick examination proved that the footpads had failed to make away with his purse or watch and his card case soon elucidated the required information of his name and town address.

 

In an unusually short time Henri had managed to hail a cab and between the two of them to bundle him in.  The lady gave his direction of Grosvenor Square with assured but slightly accented English.  The stuffy cab seemed to swallow him as he drifted painfully in and out of consciousness.  Then he was being shaken awake as they reached their destination.  Henri got down and loudly knocked up the house, demanding assistance with their wounded master.  Jenkins, the family butler for decades himself summoned two strong footmen to carry Edward bodily into the house.  From whence he found himself deposited upon a settee in the yellow drawing room at the directions of the beauty still bearing his bloody foil.