Date: Thu, 01 Jan 2009 10:33:44 +0900
From: "graemefj@iinet.net.au" <graemefj@iinet.net.au>
Subject: The King's Beast 3

This work is a product of the author's imagination. Places, events and
people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to
real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you
like it!

If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then
email me at: Caleb<graemefj@iinet.net.au>


THE KING'S BEAST
by Caleb

Chapter 3

"MR. FLEET, KEEP THAT SWORD POINT UP!"

Very red in the face from exertion and sweating profusely, Jem gritted his
teeth and did as commanded.  Sir Charles continued in a voice reminiscent
of a drill sergeant.

"Now!  To the rhythm... " and he began a steady beat on the worn wooden
floor with the heavy staff he carried.

"Advance and parry to prime ... advance and parry seconde ... advance and
parry tierce.. Keep that sword point up ... advance and parry quarte
... advance and parry sixte... weight evenly over both feet ... advance
... advance."

	Following the chanted instructions, Jem moved slowly down the long
practice room, parrying on each advance and returning his sword to the
correct angle until he forgot and was reprimanded.  Down the room to the
beat of the staff, and then retiring backwards up the room to the same
beat.  He was the only one on the practice floor, but was watched by Sir
Charles in the role of sword instructor, the Marquess and a third man
called Jessup who seemed to be waiting to be Jem's dueling partner, if ever
he got to crossing swords with anyone.  All four of them were dressed in
padded fencing vests, but Jem was the only one doing any work.  The others
were lounging about watching him critically.

As Jem moved up and down the room, he was beginning to get annoyed and at
one point, he stopped and called out to the Marquess, "My lord ..."

	"KEEP THAT SWORD POINT UP!"

Jem glared at Sir Charles but raised the point of the sword.

	"My lord, I'm beginning to feel like a perfect fool."

"Not so, Mr. Fleet," snapped back the Marquess, "an imperfect one at best."

	The man Jessup smirked at this quip, but Jem did not think it in
the least amusing, so he gave a snort of disgust and concentrated on moving
up and down the room.

	At long last Sir Charles called a halt.  Jem stopped almost
exhausted, until Sir Charles went to him to demonstrate a finer point in
the steps he had been taking.



	The Marquess sidled over to Jessup.

"What do you think?" he asked the man as they gazed at Jem and Sir Charles.
He spoke quietly, almost furtively.

Jessup didn't look at him but continued looking at Jem.

	"Too cocky by half, my lord." He answered.

 "I agree," the Marquess said.

Jessup, still looking at Jem, said analytically, "Needs the shit scared out
of him."

They both contemplated Jem.  The Marquess nodded slowly and turned to
Jessup and said, "Do it."

	Jessup turned to the weapons rack and selected a lethal looking
sword, which he swished around in the air, testing its weight and handling.
He picked up a leather and metal face mask – only one – and advanced
to the floor standing a distance from Jem, but facing him.

	The Marquess took Sir Charles aside, and murmured to him.  Sir
Charles nodded and moved back to his original position at the side.

	"Now, Mr. Fleet," he said, "Mr. Jessup shall take up his position
as your adversary.  He shall attack you with single cuts to the different
areas of your body, which you shall parry.  After each cut, he shall
withdraw, then attack again with the next cut, which you shall again parry.
You shall not riposte.  If he advances on you, you shall retire, but still
parry any cut he may make – and so on.  If he retires, you shall advance
on him, to keep the optimum distance from him.  Is that clear?"

	Jem said nothing but watched Jessup opposite him who was staring at
him like a predator.

"IS THAT CLEAR, MR. FLEET?"

	Jem, irritated, snapped back, "Yes, Sir Charles.  It is clear."

Jessup regarded Jem unflinchingly and suddenly tossed him the face mask.
The action took Jem by surprise and he almost dropped the mask.  He lifted
it to don it, but noticed his opponent.

"Do you not wear a mask also, Mr. Jessup?"

	The man gave a lop-sided smirk that twisted the sabre scar on his
cheek. He slowly shook his head.  Jem shrugged and donned the mask.

	Sir Charles called out, "Mr. Jessup.  You will begin with a cut to
prime.  Then a cut to seconde, then a cut to tierce and so on.  Once the
sequence is completed, you will continue but with cuts to various points at
random.  Mr. Fleet, you will parry as described before.  Are you ready,
gentlemen?"

	Both Jem and Jessup replied together, "Ready!"

"Very well, gentlemen," Sir Charles said in a more moderate tone, "To the
rhythm, please.  En garde."

	They took up their positions, sword points crossed.

"Commence." And he began to beat out the rhythm.



Jessup began clinically to cut at Jem.  Each attack, Jem parried and
awaited the next.  Jessup continued in an unhurried way, calmly cutting at
Jem but never taking his eyes off Jem's face.

Sir Charles, beating the rhythm called out admonitions to Jem: "Straight
arm, Mr. Fleet." – "Sword vertical, Mr. Fleet."

Both the rhythm and the criticisms were unrelenting, until at last he
cried, "Disengage, gentlemen."



"Now, gentlemen," Sir Charles continued, scarce giving Jem time to catch
breath, "to a faster beat. En garde."

	Again their swords crossed, and he began to beat a faster rhythm.

He called out, "Commence!" and this time Jessup began immediately, and it
seemed to a surprised Jem, with much more savagery. Gazing into Jessup's
pale eyes, he began sweating as he parried each cut.

Slowly Jem realized that Jessup was indeed trying to hurt him.  He grimly
parried each blow knowing he could not keep this up indefinitely.  He dared
not break off lest he be seriously wounded.

Jessup delivered a massively savage downward cut to the head, which Jem
parried in the prescribed manner, with his sword held horizontally over his
head.  Jessup did not withdraw this time, but stepped up to Jem until his
face was only inches from the mask Jem wore.  Jem's arm began to shake as
he held the parry.

	"I know you, Molly-boy," Jessup whispered, venom dripping from
every word.  "You think you can simper and smirk and wiggle your pretty
arse and get everything you want from my lord. Well, think again."

	He bore down on Jem's parry, forcing him down on one knee.  Jem
felt a cold knot of terror.

Why wasn't the Marquess intervening?

As though he read his mind, Jessup hissed, "No one's coming to help you
now.  You're on your own.  I'll mark your pretty skin so you won't forget."

	Something inside Jem snapped.  A violent surge of cold fury flooded
his body.  With a gargantuan effort he stood up and thrust the man from
him, so that Jessup stumbled back.  He immediately recovered and crouched
down into an attack position.

	"DISENGAGE!!" came the furious call from Sir Charles.



Jessup stood up immediately and saluted Jem with his sword then turned away
and calmly walked towards the sword rack by the Marquess.  Jem ripped off
the mask and threw it to the floor glaring at the Marquess, white with
anger.

	The Marquess said lazily, "Something bothering you, Mr. Fleet?"

Jem stared at the man, and in a flash of insight, he knew any complaint he
might make would be looked on as unmanly weakness.  He stood panting and
took refuge in a surly, "No, my lord."

	The Marquess said bracingly, "Good.  Pick up your mask and return
the mask and sword to the rack over there.  Clean yourself up and get
dressed.  We still have much to do this morning."

	Jem sulkily picked up the mask and as he walked away, the Marquess
said, "You would do well to remember this, Mr. Fleet: In a sword fight, the
man who loses his temper, loses his life."



The Marquess said quietly to Jessup, "Well?"

	"Where did you find him, my lord?" Jessup asked unemotionally.

The Marquess gave a lop-sided smile, "In the gutter."

	Jessup nodded. He added after a moment, "You mean to set him on the
Frenchy?"  This was more a statement than a question.

	"Yes."

Jessup said laconically. "Dangerous.  A pretty morsel like him would tempt
the Archangel Gabriel himself.  He'll need more than fancy sword work."

	The Marquess looked at him closely.  "I agree.  Can you teach him?"

Jessup was still wiping down his sword.  "Oh, I can teach him.  He'll need
all the help he can get to escape that one.  Still..."

	"Yes?"

"He has bottom, my lord.  That is worth more than anything I can teach
him."

	The Marquess slowly smiled in quiet triumph.  "I knew it," he said.
"We will give him everything we can.  There is not much time so you will
have to teach him as quickly as you are able."  He added, half to himself,
" He must survive.  I will not let him be destroyed by this.  I will not."

	For the first time Jessup looked at him.

"Have a care, my lord," he said quietly, "A man could ... lose himself."

	The Marquess looked at him and turned pale as the import of
Jessup's words struck home.

	He whispered, "You forget yourself!" with all the ruthlessness,
outrage and fury of the King's Beast.





"If you have something to say, say it."  The Marquess said conversationally
to the silent young man who walked down Bond Street beside him.

"He could have hurt me," Jem said at length.  He had recovered his
equanimity but Jessup's action still rankled. "The man is vicious."

	"Indeed he is," the Marquess agreed affably, "but you were in no
danger, and you held him off remarkably competently, considering how little
training in handling a sword you have had.  So, all's well ..."

	Jem stopped in the street and gaped at his companion, at a loss for
words.

 "Is that all you have to say?"  he exclaimed at length.  "All's well!  I
could have been seriously hurt."

"Ah, but you weren't," the Marquess countered with maddening calm.

Jem swelled with anger but the Marquess forestalled his reply.

	"I will not brangle with you in the street, Mr. Fleet.  But know
this: you shall meet Jessup again and again and you shall learn what he has
to teach you.  You shall do this because I say so, and I say it because you
need to know how to defend yourself."

	They resumed walking.  After a moment or two, Jem said, "Sir
Charles is very particular, even though I know he does not like me."

	The Marquess flicked a glance at him.  "Is that what you want?  To
be liked?"

Jem was a little confounded.  "Yes.  No.  I don't know.  All I'm saying is
I would have thought Sir Charles would have preferred to be elsewhere.  He
did nothing but criticise me.  For all his loud-voiced instructions, I
would hazard he has never handled a sword in his life."

	The Marquess gave a quiet chuckle.  "Do not underestimate Sir
Charles.  He is ... very accomplished with the blade."

	That really surprised Jem.  "Never say so," he exclaimed.

The Marquess nodded.  "Indeed he is.  Just pray you will never have to face
him.  Even Jessup would think twice before challenging him.  Ah... here we
are."

	He raised his cane and indicated a discreet establishment.  It
seemed very popular.  There was a carriage at the kerb outside with a tiger
holding the horses by their bits, and Jem noticed, as they drew closer, a
lean beautifully dressed man leave the shop and move to the waiting
carriage. He watched as a footman sprang down to open the carriage door and
unfold the steps. Suddenly the Marquess beside him stopped dead and Jem
felt, rather than saw, him stiffen.

The well-dressed man, about to ascend into the carriage, noticed the
Marquess at the same time.  His handsome aristocratic face broke into a
charming smile and he doffed his high-crowned hat, and executed a very
extravagant bow to the Marquess.  When he straightened from the bow, his
smile became one of challenge, and his gaze flicked to Jem.  His eyes
widened slightly as he looked on Jem, and then, with a smart salute to the
Marquess with his cane to the brim of his hat, quickly entered the
carriage.

	Jem stole a look at his companion.  The Marquess was standing pale
and rigid as the carriage rumbled off.

	"Who was that, my lord?"  Jem asked cautiously

And why did he affect you so?



The Marquess stood seemingly distracted.  He glanced at Jem and smiled his
lop-sided smile.

	"That, Mr. Fleet, was Severin St. Cyr, Comte deMontfort.  It is
said he was once the Bishop of Arles until deposed by the Revolution.  He
is now the head of the French Government in exile, here in London.  He is a
man of impeccable breeding, an acknowledged arbiter of elegance, close
friend of the Prince of Wales and in his own way one of the leaders of
polite society – and, Mr. Fleet, as they say on the streets, he is your
mark."

	Jem stood stock-still and gaped at the Marquess, who smiled
sardonically at him and said in an amused tone, "Close your mouth,
Mr. Fleet."

	"Tell me you jest, my lord," Jem managed to say in a strangled
voice.

"No jest, Mr. Fleet.  That man is the one whom we suspect of plotting
against England."  He glanced around him.  "But we cannot discuss it in the
street.  Come.  We need to bespeak some clothes for you."

He indicated the tailor's emporium with his cane and Jem, somewhat shocked
by this revelation, moved dumbly into the establishment, closely followed
by the Marquess.

	The interior of the shop was elegant and well lit from a bow window
of bulls-eye glass.  Although there were many customers, there was an air
of discreet calm, with the customers in small groups earnestly poring over
fabric swatches or discussing their needs with the servers.  The entrance
of the Marquess created some little stir, and a serving gentleman hurried
forward and greeted him.

	"Good morning, my lord," the man said, bowing deeply. "I shall
inform Mr. Weston of your arrival."

	The Marquess nodded affably and the man hurried away.  Jem had time
to look around.  The interior of the shop was fitted out with highly
polished shelves that were crammed with bolts of material mostly in sober
colors, although some shelves held rich brocades.  There were scattered
around several chairs and occasional tables on which were strewn pattern
cards and fabric samples.

	They did not have to wait long.  The proprietor, Mr. Weston, came
in from the back room and greeted the Marquess with a nice blend of the
deference normally accorded to one of his exalted rank, and the familiarity
of an old and trusted retainer.

	"My lord," he said, bowing to the Marquess, "this is so unexpected.
We did not presume to see you so early in the year."

	The Marquess said cordially, "How do, Weston? It is somewhat of an
emergency, I fear."

	Mr. Weston raised his eyebrows, "Indeed, my lord?"

The Marquess indicated Jem.  "My colleague, Mr. Fleet," and Mr. Weston
bowed to Jem, "has had the misfortune to lose all his clothes. His cases,
it seems," and this was said with a charming smile, "have formed a mind of
their own and have taken off for places unknown."

	Mr. Weston permitted himself a discreet smile at this witticism,
and commented, "A sign of the time, I fear, my lord."

	"He will require, I think, two morning coats, two day coats and two
coats for evening wear.  He will need the nether garments and several
waistcoats too.  Am I asking the impossible, Weston?"

	Jem realized that when the Marquess put his mind to it, he could
charm the birds off the trees.  Where now was the King's Beast?
Mr. Weston, foremost tailor in London and intimate of the high, was not
immune to his charm.

	"I can safely say, my lord, that nothing is impossible in this
establishment.  Your order will be given first priority."

	The Marquess bowed in thanks and Jem reflected that, although the
Hollowness of Worldly Rank might be decried in many quarters, it was damned
convenient at times like this.

	Mr. Weston bustled about, taking up a small note pad, and carefully
opening a small box and extracting a long tape with inch markings on it.

	"What's this, Weston?" The Marquess was keenly interested.  "This
is new."

"Indeed it is, my lord," said the tailor with a touch of smugness, "it is
called a measuring tape.  I predict within five years it will be
universally used.  So much easier than snipping strips of parchment.  One
merely encircles the body and notes down the measurement.  Now, if
Mr. Fleet will be so good as to remove his coat ... Ah, your coat I
believe, my lord."

	The Marquess laughed, "I thought you would recognize it.  Mr. Fleet
had to have clothes so I dressed him from my own wardrobe."

	The tailor nodded and said, "'Tis, alas, a little old-fashioned
now, my lord.  However, we can do much better for Mr. Fleet."  He started
briskly to pass the measure over Jem who stood to accommodate him.  He
jotted down the measurements on the pad as he proceeded.

	"You have a good figure, Mr. Fleet," the tailor commented. "Are you
a sportsman?"

	Jem looked at the Marquess and answered, "I do a lot of running,
Mr. Weston, and some tumbling."

	Up went the mobile eyebrows of the Marquess and his lips twitched
at the double meaning.  Jem smiled outrageously at the Marquess.

The tailor was unaware of the shared joke between the two.  He continued
serenely, "I thought so, Mr. Fleet.  `Twill be a pleasure to dress you."

	In spite of himself, Jem was flattered.  "Thank you, Mr. Weston,"
he murmured.  The tailor efficiently completed his measuring and snapped
the little book shut and helped Jem into his coat.  As Jem shrugged into
the coat, the Marquess said, "A word with you, Weston ... " And he drew the
man aside and spoke to him in a low voice that Jem could not hear.

	He realized that the Marquess was arranging that the cost of these
bespoke garments should be charged to himself which made Jem a little self
conscious so he busied himself by picking up a pattern card of rich
brocades and idly trying to choose a fabric.

	He heard the tailor say, "Very good, my lord," and turned to see
the man approach him with a bolt of fabric.

	"May I suggest, Mr. Fleet, this tweed for one of your morning
coats?"

Jem gazed at the material.  He knew nothing about the fine points of
sartorial etiquette so he said, "It is a beautiful fabric, Mr. Weston, but
I frankly own I have no knowledge of such things.  I would rather leave it
in your hands, as you are the undoubted expert here."

	The tailor beamed and bowed to Jem.  "If you are happy with this
arrangement, Mr. Fleet, then the only thing that remains is to make an
appointment for a fitting of your first two coats.  I thought perhaps we
could make first an outfit for morning wear and an outfit for evening
wear."

	Jem nodded, a little overwhelmed by it all.

"Good," said the man.  "Let us say this day next week? At the same time? We
shall have the outfits ready for fitting."

	Jem was impressed.  "That is very quick, Mr. Weston."

The tailor bowed and said, "A gentleman must have clothes, Mr. Fleet."  And
he moved away, bowing to the Marquess as he did so.

	Jem murmured to the Marquess, "He bows all the time.  He must get
giddy."  He didn't know whether to laugh or to be impressed.

The Marquess said, "You really should choose the fabric yourself for the
next order.  Have a look around to see if something catches your eye."

	Jem glanced at him doubtfully but did as he was requested.  He knew
before he started that there would be too much choice, and until this
moment, he had never been interested enough in what he wore to be able to
make an informed decision.  Nevertheless, he wandered through the shop,
inspecting the fabric on display.  The Marquess also was making his own
independent examination, no doubt with an eye to future orders for his own
wardrobe.

	Jem picked up a length of beautiful brocade – obviously suitable
for a waistcoat – and moved to stand in front of a large looking glass
that was fixed to one of the walls.  He held it across his chest, marveling
how well it suited him, and decided there and then that he would astound
the Marquess in this clap of thunder.  He bit his lip - shocked at this
sudden thought.  Here he was, planning to impress the Marquess with his new
clothes.  When had the Marquess become the center of his universe?  While
he gazed into the glass, another customer - a young man - appeared beside
him and nodded approval at his choice.

	Jem blushed slightly and turned to him and said candidly, "'Tis a
beautiful piece of cloth, is it not, sir?"

	The young man's dark eyes sparkled and he answered, "Indeed it is,
monsieur, and it becomes you admirably."

	Jem smiled at the accent.  "You are French, sir?"

The young man's expression darkened dramatically.  "No longer, monsieur.
We have been betrayed by that viper Barbé-Marbois and have been sold off
like shop-soiled garbage.  We are now... " and his tone became very bitter
" ... American."

	Jem hadn't the faintest idea what the young man was talking about,
so he returned to the brocade.

	"Do you think I should get this made up as a waistcoat?" He asked
as he held it against his chest.

	"Mais oui, mon ami. For evening, I think.  Only a man with your
hair could wear those colors."  The young man moved to a shelf where bolts
of superfine cloth were displayed.  "If I may suggest," he said, "an
evening coat of this – a perfect match, I think.  C'est magnifique."

	Jem fingered the cloth and immediately fell in love with it.  It
was an unusual deep russet color and matched the brocade nicely.  He
grinned in excitement.  Taking both bolts of fabric with him, he called the
Marquess.

"My lord," he said, "I have made a choice."  The Marquess raised his
eyebrows as he examined the cloth and slowly nodded his approval.

"Very good, Mr. Fleet," he said approvingly, "and not in the common style.
It seems you may be setting the fashion this season."

	Jem flushed at the compliment and said, "It was not solely my
choice, my lord."  He indicated the young man who was hanging back a
little, but who came forward as Jem drew attention to him.

	"My lord," said Jem, "Allow me to make known to you ... " and he
stopped as he realized he did not know the young man's name.

	With grace and much charm, the young man filled the breach.

"Duvall – Armand Duvall, milord.  It is indeed an honor to meet you,
Lord Chesham."  He bowed deeply and gracefully.

	Jem was surprised.  "Oh. You know him."

M. Duvall smiled winningly.  "A man would be a fool indeed who did not know
the Marquess of Chesham."

The Marquess bowed to the young man and said conversationally, "Vous etes
Français?"

	Again the dark scowl descended on the mobile face.  "I am from
Louisiana, milord."

The Marquess nodded knowingly.  He smiled and said, "You do not approve of
the Purchase?"

"We were given no choice, sir.  We awoke one morning to find our birthright
had been sold away.  Our fortunes are now linked with America."

The Marquess said sympathetically, "Politics, M. Duvall, politics.
Bonaparte needed the money and President Jefferson drove a very, very canny
bargain"

M. Duvall gave a very Gallic shrug.  "I was sent to London last year by my
father for ..." and he grinned "... polishing.  It should have been Paris,
of course, but ..."

The Marquess smiled.  "Quite."  He looked at Jem who was fascinated by this
conversation though he understood little of the meaning behind it.

"Come, Mr. Fleet.  Let us take your fabric to the tailor to be made up and
then we must be on our way."  He bowed slightly to the young American.
"Your servant, Duvall."

Jem, balancing the bolts of cloth with difficulty, held out his hand to the
young man.  "How do you do?  I'm Jem Fleet."

The young man smiled, shook his hand and bowed.  "Your servant, Mr. Fleet.
We shall meet again, I think."

"I'm sure we shall, M. Duvall."



Jem handed the cloth to a serving man with instructions to give it to
Mr. Weston, and he and the Marquess quit the shop.

	"That French man, Duvall, seemed very pleasant," said Jem chattily,
as they walked on down Bond Street.  "Are there many Americans in London,
think you?"

	The Marquess smiled sardonically.  "Not too many, I should imagine
– the political situation being what it is."

	Jem said shyly, "I don't know much about politics I must confess.
I've never heard of the place where M. Duvall comes from – Louisi
... Louis..."

	"Louisiana," supplied the Marquess.  "It used to be a French
province on the American continent but was recently sold off to America.
That's what he was talking about."

	Jem nodded and said "Ah.  Still, it seems a bit strange, we see one
French man leave the tailor and meet another inside."

	The Marquess stopped walking and gave Jem a piercing look.  "It had
not occurred to me.  I wonder." He shrugged.  "It could be just
coincidence."

	Jem grinned slightly and gave him a knowing look.  "But you don't
think so," he stated.

	The Marquess cocked an eyebrow.  "There you go – reading my mind
again."

	"We think alike, my lord.  That has become obvious."

The Marquess held his look for a moment.  "Yes. Indeed we do," he murmured.



They arrived back at Chesham House early in the afternoon.  Jem carried
many parcels that were immediately taken from him by a footman who was
instructed by Mitton to take them to Jem's room.  Jem and the Marquess had
visited a mercer's emporium where they had bought many items of linen and
small clothes; on to the boot maker where he was fortunate to find boots
and shoes that fitted him and then to the hatter's where, at the insistence
of the Marquess, they purchased two hats and several pairs of gloves.  Jem
could not conceive that he would ever need all these items, but the
Marquess seemed to think that they had bought but the mere minimum required
for his introduction into the fashionable world.

	They found the domed vestibule of the house crammed with many
traveling cases, bandboxes, hat boxes and studded trunks.

"Good God!" exclaimed the Marquess. "What is this?"

His butler hurried across the room to him and said, "The Marchioness, your
mother, arrived but a few minutes ago, my lord.  She is in the drawing room
with Lady Honoria and Miss Henrietta."

	The Marquess turned to Jem and said, "We had best pay our devoirs.
Come."

But Jem hung back and turned to the stairs and began to ascend.

	The Marquess, puzzled, said, "Where are you going? Jem!"

Jem stopped on the stairs, and turned to his companion suddenly realizing
that the Marquess had used his given name for the first time.  He slowly
smiled a very sunny smile.

	"I cannot meet your mother reeking of sweat and the street as I do.
I must clean myself up.  I shall be as quick as I can."

	"Nonsense," the Marquess said gruffly, "she will not mind.  You
look perfectly presentable to me."

	Jem cast him a saucy look and leant over the balustrade and called
to Mitton, "Mitton.  Could you please send Loring up to me."

The butler said, "Of course, Mr. Fleet." And he disappeared to fetch the
valet.

The Marquess began to get impatient.  "This is ridiculous. Come as you are.
Now."

Jem grinned at him.  "When I am ready " and added with mischievous
archness, "... Button." And he darted up the stairs leaving the Marquess
for once at a loss for words.

	Running down the long gallery to his bedchamber, Jem began
stripping off his coat.  He almost bumped into the footman who had
delivered the parcels to his room.  The man bowed and stood aside as Jem
hurried past into the chamber of the Marquess and then into his little
room.

He removed his neck wrap and shirt and sat on the bed to begin the
straining job of removing his boots – boots that belonged to the
Marquess.  He intended to wear his new clothes – underclothes, shirt and
boots.

While he was struggling with the boots, Loring appeared through the
dressing room of the Marquess.

Jem breathed a sigh of relief.  "That was very quick, Loring.  Here.  Help
me with these boots."

As Loring yanked off the boots, he said, "Her Ladyship is just arrived,
Mr. Fleet."

"I know. I know.  The Marquess wanted me to meet her straight away, but I
couldn't – not dirty and sweating.  I've been learning how to use a
sword this morning."

The valet looked at him, obviously impressed.

"They say his Lordship is deadly with a blade." He dropped his voice
dramatically. "He has dueled many times."

	Jem laughed. "Well, perhaps I may challenge him. "  He then added
as a grim afterthought, "It might come to that."

Loring stood up having successfully separated foot from boot.  Jem started
ruthlessly to strip off his clothes.  Loring poured some water from a
beautiful ewer into a large silver basin that stood on a small table under
the window.  With Jem standing naked, he deftly sponged his body and then
flung a large towel about him.  Loring quickly started unwrapping the brown
paper parcels that contained the new purchases.  He handed the items to Jem
as he came across them – drawers, stockings, and shirt.  Jem hastily
donned these and then climbed into the borrowed breeches and waistcoat, and
shrugged into the coat he had worn previously.  He sat down while Loring
eased his feet into the new boots.

	"'Tis a pity," said Jem, "they are not as polished as those of the
Marquess.  But they fit beautifully."

	Loring smiled and said, "Mr. Hooker has a secret recipe for the
boot polish that he uses on those boots.  I'll see if he will share it with
me."

Jem smiled.  "I have heard that those recipes are jealously guarded."

Loring sighed, "You are probably right, Mr. Fleet, but I'll see what I can
do."



Loring had finished tying Jem's neck cloth and was brushing his hair (a
brush in each hand which forcibly reminded Jem of his old duties of
grooming horses) when they heard Mitton cough discreetly at the door to the
dressing room of the Marquess.

	"Excuse me, Mr. Fleet," said the butler, "but his lordship has
requested your attendance in the drawing room."

"Thank you, Mitton," Jem said.  He stepped back and Loring gave him a final
brush down with a clothes brush and nodded.  With much more confidence, Jem
made his way out of the bed chambers and walked quickly along the long
gallery to the stairs.  He paused at the top of the stairs, suddenly
feeling very nervous and he looked down.  He saw that the Marquess was
pacing about at the bottom of the stairs with an air of impatience.  Just
as he was about to descend, he heard a beautifully modulated woman's voice
float up to him, saying, "Is he coming, Nathaniel?"  He saw an elegant
woman join the Marquess at the bottom of the stairs and his courage failed
him.  The Marquess looked up, saw him and moved forward, holding out one
hand in encouragement.  There was a smile on his face that held nothing but
approval and, it seemed to Jem, pride.

Jem hesitatingly smiled back and began his descent.  He looked from the
Marquess to his mother.



Lady Chesham was indeed beautiful.  Although on the shady side of fifty,
her face was well shaped and unlined.  She was dressed in a caped traveling
coat of green lustrous twilled silk that fitted her youthful figure to
perfection.  Anyone with even a passing acquaintance with the latest
fashion would recognize it as having come from a modiste of the first
stare, but Jem, in his ignorance saw only a beautiful elegant woman who was
gazing at him with smiling friendliness.

Jem looked back at the Marquess who was looking at him with a smile on his
lips and shining green eyes.  Jem felt himself blushing slightly at the way
the Marquess was looking at him.

Lady Chesham turned to her son, and was about to speak, when she too was
arrested by the look on his face.  But the Marquess had eyes only for Jem.
He continued to hold out his hand until Jem had reached the bottom of the
stairs, and then, and only then, did he drop his hand and he turned to the
Marchioness and said, "Mamma.  Please allow me to make known to you my new
protégé Mr. Jem Fleet."

With an effort, the Marchioness dragged her eyes from her son's face and
smiled and nodded to Jem who had sunk into a very deep courtly bow.

"How do you do, Mr. Fleet?" she said with a friendly engaging smile.  "I
have heard much of you from my granddaughter even in the short time I have
been in this house."

"How do you do, ma'am?" answered Jem.  "I hope what you heard was
flattering to me."

She gave a light laugh.  "Every syllable, Mr. Fleet, and I see that, for
once, Henrietta did not exaggerate."  She linked her arm through Jem's.  "I
think, Mr. Fleet, you and I are going to become the best of friends.  I
insist you join us for tea while I tell you of my tiresome journey from
Bath." And with the Marquess bringing up the rear, she led Jem into the
drawing room.