(OOC: Tamsin last posted in #8 Sutherland Cross, in Chamberlain.)

Tamsin stood in front of her mirror in her stays and petticoats, critically examining her figure. Until recently, she had been happy any time she did this, because she had been satisfied that her body was precisely what it needed to be for the rather demanding tasks she required it to perform as Garreth Lloyd, magician. But now, she was not certain that it was exactly what could be considered appealing to men. Her waist was not sharply cut in from the constant use of a corset, and her body was highly muscled. They weren’t overlarge, just very clearly defined, and that was not fashionable. She sighed before she decided that there was no use moping over what was, since she couldn’t change it in the next two hours before Sir Vandenberg arrived. She’d just have to wear something that would cover it. She chose her best blue afternoon dress, and went down to see what Gwyneth thought.

Her sister, upon being asked, commented, “No good, you wore that last time. You’ll look like a dowd with one dress.”
Tamsin realised she was right. “You’re right. It’s awful, I don’t want him to think that. I had better go find something else.”
She came back in a grey evening gown. Gwyneth immediately said, “I don’t think all those little lace bows are very becoming. They make it look like rats have chewed on the skirt.”
Tamsin fingered the offending lace bows that rippled down the skirt in waves. “I shouldn’t want him to think I was a poor housemistress and had rats here.”
She went back up to change and came back in a brown afternoon dress. “What about this one?”
“It makes you look like a mule. I’ve said that before, you know. But I think it’s a good one to pick.”

Tamsin went through four more outfits, each of which was rejected by her sister for one reason or another (the current one was a beige afternoon gown that Gwyneth said made her look fat), before she finally decided that Gwyneth was probably just as much at a loss to find something suitable as she was. They were both women; how was either of them to know what a man would like to see a woman wear to a fencing club? Even her experience as Garreth Lloyd brought absolutely no relevant information to bear on the question. Fortunately, however, there was a person in the house to whom she could turn, a person who was not only male but also paid a great deal of attention to fashion, and thus would be a veritable well of information on the subject. For the first time in her life, Tamsin thanked the Lord for Cecil, and then went to find him, wearing the fattening beige afternoon gown. Gwyneth wandered after her.

When she found him, she got to the point straight away. “Cousin, do you think this dress makes me look fat?”
Cecil, who was always delighted to give his opinion on fashion, whether or not it was wanted, put away a book he was looking at the pictures in and scrutinised her. “You know, my dear, I think it looks rather well. It flatters your bosom and thins your hips. I shouldn’t say you were fat. Why do you ask?”
Tamsin, not entirely sure that she wanted her cousin noticing her bosom, nevertheless could not afford to pass up a male viewpoint, not when she wanted to look good for Sir Vandenberg. “I am going to a fencing club, and I must not embarrass my acquaintance.”
Cecil immediately leaped up. “Oh, my dear cousin! You cannot wear this sort of dress to a fencing club!”
Tamsin frowned, insecure. “No?”
“No, of course not! Why, this is an afternoon dress; your acquaintance will certainly be most embarrassed! No, no, it will not do at all.”
“Oh. What should I wear?”
“I should think that you would want to wear something a little more…” Cecil made a motion in the air that described what he thought; judging by the path his hands traced, what he meant was a dress that made her look several sizes larger in the bust. “I have seen you wear a delightful striped dress, maroon and gold. I think that might do very well, but I would have to see it again.”
This resulted in Tamsin going up to change yet again, and coming back down in the specified dress. It turned out not to be quite what Cecil thought. “No, no, it’s too stifling! My dear, you are going to a fencing club; it will already be warm there. You must of course wear something that gives you room to breathe. This high neck will be the death of you! Let me think… ah yes! You have a pink dress, with the neck around here.” Cecil drew a line on his own chest to demonstrate. “I think that one might be better.”
So Tamsin left and came back in the pink dress. It was a dress of the sort suitable to wear in the afternoon or evening, with a square neck cut just on the border between low and middling height. Cecil at once clapped his hands and proclaimed that it was perfect.
Tamsin looked at it doubtfully, picking at a frill on the skirt. “I don’t know…”
Gwyneth piped up from the corner where she had been silently watching the proceedings ever since she had wandered after Tamsin earlier. “Isn’t it a bit…”
“…pink?” Tamsin finished the sentence, voicing her own doubt as well. “I’m not sure Sir Vandenberg is the sort of man who likes pink.”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” cried Cecil. “Every man loves pink on a woman! You shall be the focus of every eye at this club.”
“But I don’t want every eye on me,” protested Tamsin. “I just don’t want to embarrass my acquaintance.”
Tamsin was provided an excuse to ignore the knowing look that Gwyneth sent her when Cecil exclaimed, “Well, this will fit the bill! Any man embarrassed to be seen with you in this ravishing gown is no man at all! Your acquaintance is this Sir Vandenberg?”
“But I’ll be cold,” Tamsin argued, ignoring Cecil’s question about Sir Vandenberg. “The sleeves are only silk gauze, and it’s still spring.”
“You can wear a shawl,” pointed out Gwyneth.
Cecil immediately dismissed the notion. “A shawl would ruin the lines of the dress! She cannot wear one. Tamsin, my dear, you must simply acknowledge the great truth of fashion. You must be willing to suffer for your beauty.”

Tamsin fell quiet, trusting Cecil’s fashion judgement over her own, but still slightly worried about the very pink nature of the dress. Was Sir Vandenberg really going to like it? It was so… pink. And it had those two frilly things down the side, and maybe he would think the neckline was too modern, and of course the silk gauze sleeves were going to be cold, not to mention that the outline of her arms could be seen through them… she knew she had muscles that most women didn’t, due to the demands of her second life. What if Sir Vandenberg thought it was ugly? Maybe he wouldn’t notice, since the sleeves were only translucent, and didn’t reveal the shape of them clearly. Her worries turned over and over in her head until Cecil, supremely unaware that she still harboured any doubts as to his decision, said, “Well, my dear, now you only have to pick your hat and gloves, and you’ll be all set.”

So Tamsin went to choose those as well, and was sent back three times for the hat and eight for the gloves, until Cecil was satisfied with her appearance. She had ended up with a pink hat, of course; fortunately Gwyneth had been so opposed to the one with two dead birds and a fistful of fruit on it that Cecil had produced for her from his luggage—and why he would have a lady’s hat in the first place was beyond her—that she had not been obliged to wear it. She was wearing a much more demure pillbox-type hat that flattered her three-times redone hair, and for gloves she had soft, thin ones that were, not unexpectedly, pink. The shoes that she ought to wear were also decided, and they, too, were pink, although only the bows on the top; the leather itself was white.

Having thus allowed Cecil to exert his influence on her choice of garments, Tamsin sat down at her vanity to apply her make-up. She put on an enormous amount of powder, eye-paint, and lip-rouge. Then she decided that it was too much, and took it all off. He’d seen her at the ball… maybe that amount of make-up would be the right amount. She made her face into an exact duplicate of what it had been at the ball. Seeing the finish product, however, convinced her that the style was only suitable for a formal evening, such as the ball had been. She took it all off, too. Well, then, he’d not seemed to hate what she wore the last time she’d seen him… but that hadn’t been all that much, only a little bit of lip-rouge and some powder. She bit her lip in indecision, dithering, but finally went with that style.

Then she went downstairs to wait for Sir Vandenberg to arrive, nervously perching on the edge of a chair in the drawing-room. Cecil told her she was absolutely ravishing, and Gwyneth thought but did not say that she was rather a little bit pink and frilly, instead remarking that Sir Vandenberg wasn’t due yet for a half hour. Tamsin just smiled and said that she was not going to risk being late, and then settled in to wait.

Wallace was in his office, which wasn’t anything exceptional at all. He spent most of his time in the office, even at home. Sometimes he thought that he could just demolish the entire house and leave standing only the office, just to save space. Of course, he only thought that was he was put out with his job, which wasn’t often. So, he was inside the sanctuary devoted to justice and her lady, the book-lined walls confined him like every other day. Nothing strange about that. What was strange however, was that Wallace wasn’t seated behind his desk. Neither was he standing before one of the bookcases or a window, but he passed there. The judge was pacing through the room, crossing it in a continuation of movement that didn’t change in direction or rhythm. It wasn’t a voluntary action and that too was surprising. Vandenberg was a man who was usually in tight control of his body and face, but now his physical form was overflowing with stress and his crisp steps were a certain sign of that.

The judge was dressed all in black, as was his right as a fencing master. His black padded pants and shirt weren’t new and quite battered, but they had both been treated and cleaned as diligently as possible, almost spotless. His boots were polished and he could see himself reflected in the black gloss of the tips and that disturbed him all the more. Every time he moved his foot, Wallace saw his face reflected and distorted by the curving surface. It made him very uncertain of himself to see his face broadened or pinched in every step he set and he tried to take his eyes off the floor, but it wouldn’t work. He found himself staring with a frown at the spotless boots he wore. He paused, trying to stay immobile on pure force of will, mind over matter. But in this case, the matter was so much stronger and with a sigh of pure defeat, Wallace continued pacing, his fingers once more dipping into his pocket to draw forth the pocket-watch he had clicked open a hundred times already. The hands had not moved more than forty-two seconds since the last time he checked. This would take a long time. Why was he so bloody nervous? This wasn’t the first time he went to the club and not the first time someone else went along. Why all the excitement then? He turned at the end of his tour and started again. It didn’t have anything to do with the people who were at the club, they were gentlemen, or made a show of being and he knew most of them rather well. Why was he so nervous then? He didn’t mind winning or losing so that couldn’t be it. Could it be Tamsin…Miss Pritchard? No that was ridiculous, she wasn’t so dangerous or threatening in any way, why would he be nervous about her? He reached the end of his line of pacing again. It must just be something in the air. Yeah, that must be it…It certainly was comforting to know that it was just something of the human nature…

Tobias silently mounted the stairs a few minutes later, making no sound as he walked over the landing towards the door of the office and softly opening it. His master was too preoccupied by the thoughts inside his head to spot the slightly opened door. The driver smiled, the judge was a wise and fair man when it came to the feelings of others, but the feelings of his own he could not fathom. It was something typical for him. So self-effacing that he forgot to look in the mirror, the driver shared the entire staff’s satisfaction that it seemed that for once, Wallace was diverting some of his feelings towards another woman than that marble statue of an ideal. They all loved Wallace’s will to do the right thing, but they thought he’d be much better with a wife and a few children. Tobias pulled back his head and rapped the door twice smartly. Vandenberg turned his head towards the door, his frown very clear, but it was the frown he usually had when worrying very much.

”Your carriage is prepared, milord…”

The judge turned to see his driver standing there in the door opening and though his face was the usual calm cast, he could swear to see the lights of mirth dance in his eyes. It was something that had had him wondering too. Why had his servants been looking at him with openly amused grins for the last few days now? He couldn’t remember anything he had said that could’ve been the reason for such amusement. His behaviour had been the same as always too, aside from his slightly worried manner, so why were they grinning this way?

”Ah, yes, we’ll be leaving then?”

The driver silently nodded and Wallace walked briskly towards the corner, where his heavy bag filled with arms and armour of the sport stood. The judge swung it over his shoulder and marched towards the door his servant held open, walking all the way to the carriage and putting it in the trunk at the back. He then stepped into the carriage and waited with some sense of patience until Tobias had opened the doors leading out to the streets and had ascended to the bench. Wallace could clearly feel the snap of the reins and the canter of the pair of horses drawing them. The creaking of wheels soothed his anxiety for a while, lost in the endless rattle of the moving carriage time passed faster. But soon enough, it slowed to a stop. He didn’t know the house, but the address he did recognize. This was the house where Miss Pritchard lived. He sighed, took a deep breath and put on his black coat and top hat, took his cane in his hand and decidedly marched down the alley leading towards the door. He paused for a moment, took a deep breath and knocked twice, then stood waiting with a semblance of calm…

Gwyneth was becoming increasingly worried at the absolute idiot that Tamsin was making out of herself over Vandenberg. She had just teased her sister up until today, but things were getting a bit more serious when Tamsin was besotted enough to actually seek out Cecil and ask for his advice. That was taking things a little beyond the level of a silly fancy, and moving them up to the realm of seriously disturbing possibility. Tamsin never cared particularly what anyone thought of her clothing, at least not in any special way. She certainly never cared enough to ask their foppish cousin what he thought. Both of them had avoided Cecil as much as possible since he arrived; yet Tamsin’s concern over what Sir Wallace might think was important enough to cause her to overcome her dislike of Cecil and ask him for his opinion.

She glanced at Tamsin out of the corner of her eye. Her sister was fidgeting. Obviously fidgeting. Gwyneth diagnosed it as both nervousness and anticipation. Anticipation! Over some dull shaggy-eyebrowed shark-toothed man practically old enough to be her father! At least Tamsin was looking so ridiculous that Sir Wallace simply had to notice the age difference between them. Only a silly-headed little girl would wear such a confection. She looked like a walking parfait. Since Tamsin was in fact being quite silly-headed, it was very appropriate today. It was not by any fault of Gwyneth’s, so she felt no particular guilt over letting her sister go out dressed like that. She’d tried to tell Tamsin, but if Cecil’s advice was more valuable than hers today, so be it. That pink dress was positively absurd. It made her look like…very well, she actually looked quite lovely in it, but not at all like Tamsin usually did. What on earth had Tamsin ever bought the thing for, anyway?

Gwyneth maintained the hope that Sir Wallace was not as captivated by her sister as her sister was, completely unaccountably, captivated by him. The judge was by all accounts a solid, level-headed fellow, who rarely did anything rash or ill-advised. But then, many solid, level-headed fellows took it into their heads that a young wife was an excellent idea. The only reason they remained solid and level-headed up until that point in their lives was to establish themselves a good fortune and an assured future. Then they reverted back to perfect idiots, as bad as any men of a younger generation. A history of solid level-headed-ness was no guarantee of anything at all.

What if he had decided that it was time that his bachelor days were ended? Fortunately, she reflected, Tamsin was not of any special fortune, so that was not an attraction for Sir Wallace. Sheer physical attraction was unlikely for someone who had such a respectable past. And as far as mental compatibility went, Gwyneth assured herself that the two of them had absolutely nothing in common. Her sister was everything bright, intelligent, and energetic, whereas Sir Wallace was a plodding fellow who found his enjoyment in the law. No, Tamsin should be safe from Sir Wallace. She hoped. He did seem to be curiously willing to spend time in her sister’s company.

After she entertained that unhappy thought for a couple of minutes, she realised that it was necessary to begin taking some precautions, starting today. Fortunately Cecil was a caution all by himself. She didn’t have to make any special arrangements there. It was so convenient that he had decided to remain home today; she could think of no-one more likely to make a bad impression on Sir Wallace. The pink dress was another positive item; the younger and more flighty that Tamsin looked, the more that the difference between himself and Tamsin should be apparent to Sir Wallace. Now that she thought about it, Gwyneth was very glad that Tamsin had decided to listen to Cecil. God bless him, he would be useful in so many ways today.

But, of course…something else should be done to make certain that Sir Wallace was aware of what Gwyneth herself thought, namely, that any attachment was completely unsuitable. What could she do within the bounds of the reasonably polite and hospitable? She cast about for an idea, but drew a blank for a few minutes, until at last she thought of something that ought to serve in a most satisfactory fashion. She left the room for a couple of minutes – Tamsin hardly even noticed her absence, she was so busy watching the road out of the window – and then reappeared after having popped into the library down the hall.

Tamsin looked up at her briefly, and that was all the recognition that Gwyneth got before it was back to the window! She marched back to her seat with a determined air, and then settled in to read the book that she had brought with her in an attitude of perfect complacence and comfort. Time passed while Tamsin fidgeted away the seconds and Gwyneth read her book smoothly. Then a knock resounded throughout the house, followed by a second knock. Gwyneth heard Mr Somers going towards the door to admit him, and she resettled herself, flipping quickly through the book to the section which she wished, and then proceeded to read silently to herself in a very pointed and extremely absorbed fashion.

Tamsin was watching out the window with very nearly undivided attention. Gwyneth moved about the room a bit, and at one point left, but Tamsin did not take her gaze off the road. She was watching with desperate hope, now that it was drawing near to the appointed time, for Sir Wallace’s carriage. What if he didn’t come? What if he had some other thing that popped up? Or what if he just didn’t come, because he didn’t want her company, didn’t want her with him? Or if he forgot? So many things could make him not come… except there was his carriage now. She needn’t have worried. Tamsin tried hard to look unconcerned and like she was not waiting with bated breath, as she noticed Gwyneth watching her, but her ears strained for the sound of his knock, and when Mr Somers went to open the door she could not help but send an anticipating glance after him. A short while later, Mr Somers preceded Sir Wallace to the drawing-room, announcing, “Your visitor, Miss.”

Tamsin at once stood up; she would not be caught sitting by Sir Wallace. She linked her hands in front of her, attempting to look calm and composed, and she rather thought she pulled it off. She swallowed just slightly to bring moisture back to her mouth, and that was when Sir Wallace stepped into the room. Tamsin’s first thought was relief that he had actually come, that he was really here. Not that she wouldn’t have understood if he had been unable to come—she would have—it was just… so much better that he had been able. He was very handsome in his black clothing, Tamsin noted to herself, and just behind that observation was the realisation of what the black clothing meant: he was wearing somewhat worn padded clothes that added slightly to his bulk, a fencing outfit, and the fact that it was all black meant he was a fencing master. Tamsin had done enough fencing as Garreth Lloyd to know some of these things.

Excitement filled her. She was going to a fencing club with a maestro, which had so many unforeseen benefits; it would be much more exciting than going with someone who was not a fencing master. She tried to keep the glee out of her voice, but was rather less successful than she hoped, as she greeted him with, “Good evening, Sir Wallace.” She dipped a curtsey, and she was about to say more when disaster sailed cheerfully into the room from behind Sir Wallace; Cecil, dressed quite spiffily, especially in comparison to Sir Wallace’s rather worn garments, sauntered in, apparently surprised at having walked in on a guest. He very quickly recovered—too quickly, Tamsin thought suspiciously—and exclaimed, “Oh, I am so sorry to intrude!” Without any shred of the professed sorrow he then proceeded to brightly say, “Cousin, you must introduce me to your acquaintance!”

And of course with that, she really must, for it would be impolite not to. But why did Cecil have to be here now? He would almost certainly embarrass her, because Cecil was just that way. He always said the most foolish things. In fact, just yesterday, Mr and Mrs Mills had stopped by to visit, and Cecil, loquacious fop that he was, proceeded to bore them for hours on the subjects of fashion in London, horse racing, sporty carriages, and every other thing that was popular with those of a shallow, superficial character. Mr and Mrs Mills had very courteously put up with his prattle, but Tamsin and Gwyneth had seen the looks they had started giving him after two hours, and by the time four had passed she had doubted that they would ever be visited by the Mills again. Cecil, true to oblivious form, had said they were lovely people, and that he thought they had been quite impressed with him, and that he would go return the visit soon. He would be the death of their social life, Tamsin was sure.

But there was no help for it. Smiling not quite so happily as before, she introduced them in the proper way, according to status: Cecil to the judge, and then Sir Wallace to Cecil. Even if Sir Wallace had not been of higher station, though, she would have done it in that fashion anyway, because he was higher in her regard. “Sir Wallace, this is my cousin, Cecil Pritchard. Cousin, this is my”—but what to call him?! He was an acquaintance, really; she had met him three times, if you counted both times at the ball separately. But, that sounded like such an indifferent term, and she did not want Sir Wallace to think she was indifferent to him (because she wasn’t, she admitted to herself) and so she used a different descriptor in finishing the introduction.—“friend, Sir Wallace Vandenberg.” Any possible awkwardness that Tamsin might have felt from this introduction was quickly swallowed up by the much greater awkwardness that was Cecil.

He immediately extended his hand to shake Sir Wallace’s, and said, “Lovely to meet you, Sir Wallace! I only heard about you this very afternoon, when my dear cousin said that she was going to a fencing club. This must be your gear then, I suppose?” Cecil ran a disparaging eye over Sir Wallace’s outfit. “I never go fencing myself. I was quite shocked that Tamsin would associate with someone so… well, your appearance is rather disreputable and I was afraid that a great brute had been let in when I saw you, but now I find you are Sir Wallace Vandenberg, and so my mind is much at ease. It is merely because you are to go fencing that you are dressed this way. I am not from this area—I have been in London—so I have not met you before. What is it that you do? How did a chap like you meet my cousin?” There was an obvious insinuation in Cecil’s words, implying that Sir Wallace did not measure up to the standard of man Cecil considered worthy of his cousin, and Cecil gave him a challenging look.

Tamsin wanted to die.

It had taken Wallace all the force of will he could muster to just stand in front of the door waiting, resting seemingly calm and immobile, not pacing up and down the path just in front of the door. It was so seductive, the idea of walking some of that tension out of him, just stepping three paces up and three paces down the threshold, but he controlled himself. He wasn’t in control of the situation, but he would be in control of his body, he breathed deeply, in and out in a calm rhythm, trying to cool his raging heart. Why he was so tense, why his skin was cold and his heart hammering inside the confines of his chest, he didn’t know. It wasn’t important, he just had to control it, that was all that mattered. He curled and relaxed his fist and rolled the muscles of his shoulders beneath the fencing doublet, that for some reason seemed to fit too tightly, though Wallace knew it had been tailored and formed to fit like a second skin. It had always fit him well, he must be dreaming…

The door in front of him opened and he saw that the man was the same one that had escorted Tamsin to his home a week or more ago. He nodded calmly, or as calmly as he could when the servant held the door open to let him in and guided him towards the sitting room, running his hand through his hair once more quickly when the man’s back faced him. He was in control, he was calm, he would be what he seemed. Confidence. Ubi Concordia, ibi victoria. Where body and mind worked together, there would be victory. Wait, victory? What was he trying to win? Why was he asking himself these things anyway…

“Your visitor, Miss.”

Wallace looked up then, to see Miss Pritchard rise from her seat with a swift and graceful movement, her eyes sparkling with a smile that sent a momentary shiver down his back. Proverbial shiver of course, he smiled in answer to her beautiful smile. She was wearing a beautiful dress, with a square cut around the bust that pronounced her beautiful neck, reminding of the stately swan gliding across the lake, the neck raised high to look with graceful glare at the surroundings unfettered by human meddling. The dress itself was of the colour Japanese cherry blossom, blooming richly in the botanical gardens of London and he found that it made her look just as sweet. It made her look, happy and glad. He could probably go on for hours, describing every minute detail of what she wore, but he decided against it, as enjoyable as it would’ve been and suddenly, he found his nerves relaxing, yet tightening at the same time. As if in that paradox of both awe and relief mixed with a kind tension, he felt comfortable. She curtseyed gracefully, her voice beautiful as the orchestra of the Lindeman theatre, though twice as happy.

“Good evening, Sir Wallace.”

He bowed with a flourish, quite deeply with a smile on his face, but when he was down there he saw his black boots and trousers and a short voice of doubt reared its head momentarily. He was wearing full black! The most severe of all colours, that of death, of priests and executioners. The colour that stood for severity and unbending discipline and in a short flash, he felt her momentary antithesis. He was a man, older than her by quite some years, dressed in the darkest worn black. She was young, beautiful and gentle in that soft pink of hers, it made him feel like a weed in a flower garden, but he gritted his proverbial teeth. It was decorum, black was his rank in the art of fencing and he could wear nothing else. It would be alright, she’d understand that it was more of a sign than a conscious choice of his part.

”Milady…”

She was about to speak further when a man walked, no, barged into the room. He should’ve heard the footsteps behind him, but he was differently occupied at the time and noticed only when the young man, for he indeed seemed young, had passed halfway around him. The youngster, compared to Wallace at least, was dressed in a gaudy display that Wallace understood to be the latest fashion. He was a dandy from his hair to his shoes, dressed gaily in the full imitation of the latest style brought in from the mainland.

“Oh, I am so sorry to intrude! Cousin, you must introduce me to your acquaintance!”

Wallace was quite aware of the smile that waned on Tamsin’s face and he wondered if it was because he would meet this man, or the other way around. The second seemed much more logical than the first, but Wallace tried not to let it hit him and just kept his smile up as he listened to the introductions being passed between them.

“Lovely to meet you, Sir Wallace! I only heard about you this very afternoon, when my dear cousin said that she was going to a fencing club. This must be your gear then, I suppose?”

”The Honour’s all mine…”

He noticed that the man’s eyes ran across the attire he wore, the black pants, shoes and vest, all had seen many fights and had their scars and badges of honour. Lines where the many flicking points and blades of iron had struck, the wrinkles where they bended often and the smalls places where the leather had lost its glossy shine. Cecil’s gaze was deprecating, bordering disrespectful.

“I never go fencing myself. I was quite shocked that Tamsin would associate with someone so… well, your appearance is rather disreputable and I was afraid that a great brute had been let in when I saw you, but now I find you are Sir Wallace Vandenberg, and so my mind is much at ease. It is merely because you are to go fencing that you are dressed this way. I am not from this area—I have been in London—so I have not met you before. What is it that you do? How did a chap like you meet my cousin?”

There was a challenge in that look and for a moment Wallace wanted that he had brought his gloves, the black leather ones that went with the attire and slapped the young fop straight in that face of his. He was putting him in shame in front of…he was putting him to shame. His smile turned slightly colder, but he didn’t lose it. He was too much in control of his own expression for that and he didn’t care enough about this man’s opinion.

”It’s indeed clear that you are not a fencer, Mr. Pritchard.” There was a very fine edge to his voice, but it could be easily missed. His smile was still there. ”It took me 22 years to get this armour and you must admit, that is quite a time. I’m not too keen on putting up with a new one, especially since it takes quite a while for the kinks to set and fully form to the wearer.” It implied many things, it said that he was proud of his armour, no matter what the man might think and that he was worthy of the black. It showed that every scar on its surface was a scar received in mock battle. He continued. ”I leave fashion for the flighty, Mr. Pritchard and I prefer to invest in things I can build upon, but to answer your question, I met your cousin on the ball a while ago, it was a very pleasant night, though not quite so near the ending of it..”

He referred of course, to the murder of that man, the grisly sight of entrails and blood…

Gwyneth followed the words on the page with her eyes, but her ears were listening alertly for the step in the hall that would signal the arrival of their visitor. It would be so helpful if Cecil was already here; why was he taking so long to come down? The little dawdler. She glanced upwards covertly, but no Cecil appeared to greet her anticipatory look. Instead, Mr Somers came into the drawing-room and announced, “Your visitor, Miss.” Tamsin leapt to her feet just before Sir Wallace invaded the room. Gwyneth was out of his line of sight, so she remained seated for a half a beat more while Tamsin greeted him, and then she stood up to offer her own voice of hospitality. In the meantime, she cast a critical eye over him. Dressed all in black, he looked positively funereal. It fit with his goblin looks, but it could hardly be said to suit him.

She reconsidered her previous opinion. At one time, she had thought that he was not quite ugly; now, she was quite certain that he was ugly, old, dour, and everything that she had no desire to have in an acquaintance. His eyebrows looked more beetling than ever before, and he smiled at that exact, inopportune moment. Shark was not the word. What was…? Ah, crocodile…Sir Wallace was a crocodile. She entertained an amusing picture in her mind of the Nile reptile clad in the formal robes and periwig of a judge. It was replaced by Sir Wallace in the same costume; he looked like a villainous and slightly younger Father Christmas. She would have run screaming if she had seen him as a small child.

His eyes were fixed on Tamsin with a very curious focus, as if nothing else in the room existed. That had to be rectified, immediately. Their attention simply had to be gotten off one another. Heaven intervened to answer Gwyneth’s wish; it could have gone no better if she had planned it herself. Cecil came in. Gwyneth was never happier to see Cecil in her life before. His enthusiastic greeting towards Sir Wallace was just the ticket, as he stepped right between Tamsin and the judge and broke their eye contact. The pleasure in Tamsin’s face faded away noticeably, and Gwyneth felt a tinge of guilt that her sister was put out in such a fashion. But after all, it was not her fault; she had not told Cecil to come in nor was she encouraging him in the slightest. That it was coinciding so smoothly with her own wishes did not make the least bit of difference. She was not guilty in this at all.

Besides, Tamsin should not be placing so much importance on the opinion or favour of such a man as Sir Wallace. He was completely unsuitable for such a regard. A dusty, dry, and most importantly aged lover of the law. If only Lady Justice had been a real woman, surely Gwyneth would not have had to worry at all. Nor would Sir Wallace, for that matter, have needed any concerns about whether or not his association was fitting. It was said that Justice was blind, and consequently such a woman would have perfectly suited the judge.

Cecil babbled on in his characteristic fashion. “Lovely to meet you, Sir Wallace! I only heard about you this very afternoon, when my dear cousin said that she was going to a fencing club. This must be your gear then, I suppose?” Sir Wallace barely got a word in edgewise. “The honour’s all mine…” when Cecil was off again. “I never go fencing myself. I was quite shocked that Tamsin would associate with someone so… well, your appearance is rather disreputable and I was afraid that a great brute had been let in when I saw you, but now I find you are Sir Wallace Vandenberg, and so my mind is much at ease. It is merely because you are to go fencing that you are dressed this way. I am not from this area—I have been in London—so I have not met you before. What is it that you do? How did a chap like you meet my cousin?”

Sir Wallace looked decidedly miffed; the smile on his face turned to a fixed expression, but he maintained it. However, when he spoke, there was the faintest hint of an inner displeasure. “It’s indeed clear that you are not a fencer, Mr. Pritchard. It took me 22 years to get this armour and you must admit, that is quite a time. I’m not too keen on putting up with a new one, especially since it takes quite a while for the kinks to set and fully form to the wearer.” Gwyneth had an Idea. She had to hold off on her chance to act on it, however, as Sir Wallace continued. “I leave fashion for the flighty, Mr. Pritchard and I prefer to invest in things I can build upon, but to answer your question, I met your cousin on the ball a while ago, it was a very pleasant night, though not quite so near the ending of it..”

Now this reference, and the memory it brought up, was what really gave Gwyneth a slight pause. She was not quite certain that Sir Wallace deserved to be given both the hefty dose of Cecil that he was receiving as well as what Gwyneth planned to say. He had been very kind on that evening, and she felt a twinge of guilt somewhere in her exultation that he had given her the perfect opening to slide in the knife of a neatly-phrased comment. That was why Cecil had the first chance to reply. “Oh yes! I heard about that! A murder, wasn’t it? How perfectly awful! Well, I dare say he will be found sooner or later. Although, once he is found, I don’t know what on Earth anyone will have to talk about! Lindebo is so dreadfully dull! So excruciatingly boring!” He gave Sir Wallace a glance that hinted at a particular direction to that comment. “There is not even a racetrack. But enough of this unsettling murder business,” Cecil said, not looking very unsettled at all. “You are right! Twenty two years is really quite a time indeed, I must admit!”

This was her cue, and Gwyneth stepped forward, entering into the conversation at long last. “Indeed! I must as well. Why, it is longer than I have been alive! And just one year short of my sister’s age! You have a remarkable dedication, Sir Wallace.” She smiled brightly at him and said, with a sincere tone of welcome in her voice, “It is good to see you again!” There, that was not that bad. It simply pointed out the plain facts of the matter, and she had complimented him, too. That could hardly be considered either unfriendly or unpleasant. In fact, it could only be taken another way if Sir Wallace had any sort of aspirations in the romantic arena, and if he did, then he richly deserved it. He had no business getting such ideas about her sister. None whatsoever. He had no right to come out of nowhere and muck about in their lives. They were quite happy where they were, without The Honourable Mr Justice Sir Wallace Vandenberg the Plimpty-Blah of the Grand High Smangdamby Long Tailed whatever-it-might-be interfering.

But she was not going to leave it at that; that would be inhospitable. “How have you been?” she added cheerfully.

(OOC: I got the Wallace-parts from Bavo on MSN. :) )

“It’s indeed clear that you are not a fencer, Mr. Pritchard.”

Tamsin’s hyper-alert ears immediately picked up on the slight sharpening of Sir Wallace’s tone. He was offended! She scrambled to find something to say to make everything well again, but could think of nothing. She could not answer in the stead of Sir Wallace, because Cecil had asked the judge, not her, and it would be rude to interrupt now. And it might be taken the wrong way, like she was too uppity and wanted to speak for him. Plus it would seem like she was trying to hide her family, which was never a good thing. To be honest, though, she would much rather have hidden the part that Cecil belonged to, at least for the first part of her acquaintance with Sir Wallace. Maybe for a few months. Or forever. It wasn’t like Cecil was someone she actually liked very much…

But there was nothing to be said or done, and so Tamsin had to stand by, wincing internally as Sir Wallace smiled coldly and told Cecil, “It took me 22 years to get this armour and you must admit, that is quite a time. I’m not too keen on putting up with a new one, especially since it takes quite a while for the kinks to set and fully form to the wearer.” Tamsin took the opportunity of Sir Wallace’s attention being fixed on Cecil to glare daggers at her cousin, but, most unfortunately, Cecil’s attention was not on her either, and he missed the benefit of it. She looked over to where Gwyneth was standing for help, and found her sister looking very smooth-faced and composed. Immediately she knew something was wrong and would find no help there. Gwyneth was upset. She never had a serious face except when she was upset, not that other people would know that.

This new worry was completely wiped out by a different worry as Sir Wallace continued, “I leave fashion for the flighty, Mr. Pritchard and I prefer to invest in things I can build upon, but to answer your question, I met your cousin on the ball a while ago, it was a very pleasant night, though not quite so near the ending of it.” Tamsin panicked. Oh, my God! He leaves fashion for the flighty! Why did I ever wear pink!? Oh, I could not look flightier if I tried! I even got Cecil’s opinion! There can be no doubt that this is fashionable! Oh, my God! Oh my God! He hates it! I should have worn black! Or grey, or brown! The mule-dress, I should have worn that! Gwyneth was right! I will never make this mistake again. Maybe he hasn’t noticed… oh come on! I’m encased in pink! Of course he noticed!

These thoughts prevented her from saying anything at all, even when Cecil started to blab and display his astonishingly shallow character yet again. “Oh yes! I heard about that! A murder, wasn’t it? How perfectly awful! Well, I dare say he will be found sooner or later. Although, once he is found, I don’t know what on Earth anyone will have to talk about! Lindebo is so dreadfully dull! So excruciatingly boring!” Tamsin looked at Gwyneth again, desperately, pleading for help, and Gwyneth stepped forward finally, but not before Cecil prattled on. “There is not even a racetrack. But enough of this unsettling murder business. You are right! Twenty two years is really quite a time indeed, I must admit!”

Tamsin’s mouth opened and closed, a bit like a fish, in horror. Sir Wallace must be so offended. Cecil seemed to be going out of his way to slight the judge. Sir Wallace was going to come away from this evening with the certain opinion that she was a flighty woman and that her cousin was the most objectionable man alive. What a nightmare.

It only got worse when Gwyneth smiled and said, “Indeed! I must as well. Why, it is longer than I have been alive! And just one year short of my sister’s age! You have a remarkable dedication, Sir Wallace.” Clearly, Gwyneth had it in for Sir Wallace. Though she smiled in a perfectly friendly way, and seemed entirely sincere, and it might just be a compliment on his dedication, Tamsin knew better. Gwyneth was trying to send a message. Tamsin sent a return message with her eyes, careful to keep it hidden from Sir Wallace: I’ll get you for this.

Perhaps Gwyneth took heed of it, because she said, “It’s good to see you again! How have you been?”
“I’ve been well.” Sir Wallace’s noncommittal reply left Tamsin with the certainty that her suspicion was correct. He was offended, and well he might be, with Gwyneth and Cecil sniping at him.
She hastened to try and get them both out the door. She could try and make amends for this then. “I am glad to hear it. But we should not keep you here, if you are due for your practice; we should be going.”
She could not have stated it more clearly, she felt, but of course Cecil had to delay them. He exclaimed, “Oh, but you cannot go before we meet your chaperone!”

There was a resounding silence in the room. Tamsin, who had put a hand on Sir Wallace’s arm to try and get him to leave with her, now felt as if her palm were burning. Though it had been a perfectly indifferent touch, the sort that one friend might use with another, Cecil’s words instantly made it seem positively dissolute. She removed her hand from Sir Wallace’s arm at once. Sir Wallace looked at Cecil keenly and demanded, “I beg your pardon?”
Cecil’s face became concerned. “Your chaperone. Surely you did not intend to go by yourselves?” Seeing the obvious fact on Sir Wallace’s countenance, namely that he had intended to go with only Tamsin, Cecil turned his solicitous gaze to his cousin. “Tamsin?”
Tamsin was no more forthcoming than Sir Wallace had been, looking both pole-axed and horribly alarmed at the same time. Oh no. No. Cecil could not do this to her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!
He would. “But you absolutely cannot go alone! Not that I don’t trust you, Sir Wallace, but it is simply Not Done. People will talk about my cousin! You must think of her reputation!”
Tamsin, almost ready to cry with the disastrous way this encounter had gone from the first, said firmly, “I’m sure Sir Wallace is beyond suspicion in these matters. He is my friend.”
Though she did not actually add the word, the emphasis she gave to friend clearly implied an only following it. Cecil, of course, did not let it go with this. “I am sorry, my dear, it simply isn’t done. Imagine what people would say! Tamsin Pritchard, in the company of a man, alone! It would be dreadful. Your reputation would be ruined beyond repair!”

Tamsin tried to deter him again, using a different method than trying to persuade him of Sir Wallace’s honour, since he clearly wasn’t going to be convinced by that. “But you cannot come with me; you wouldn’t want to leave Gwyneth on her own here.”
Cecil cried, “Nonsense! She is perfectly content here, and she will have the servants for company.”
Tamsin looked to Gwyneth, again pleading with her eyes for Gwyneth’s help, but her sister only said brightly, “Why yes! I am fine with my book.”
Tamsin, now desperate, tried to change the subject from that of chaperones. It was not skilfully done, but her glib tongue was deserting her in this disaster. “What are you reading?”
And Gwyneth happily replied, “The Canterbury Tales! Chaucer is so amusing. His writings seem so fresh and relevant, even in this modern age! I am currently on the Merchant’s Tale. His portrait of January and May shows a keen insight into human nature.”

Tamsin glared at her sister, but she was even more angry with herself. Gwyneth had engineered it, but Tamsin had opened up the opportunity for that crack at Sir Wallace. She should have known better. Gwyneth was being a traitorous twat, and had already given it away to Tamsin with the earlier comment. She was alone in this. Or alone except for Sir Wallace, who was liable to really leave her alone any moment now. He could not be expected to take the insults and awkwardness that her family was handing out in fistfuls. Cecil spoke into the silence, “I shall be happy to serve as a chaperone. Anything for my cousin.”

Tamsin made no answer, just waiting for Sir Wallace to say that he had decided to go on his own, without her.

Wallace found that Cecil became more irritating by the minute, an exponential curve would’ve shown how much his despise had risen with the passage of time. The man was like an overdressed bigot, knowing not when to keep his mouth shut and for the first time in his life, Wallace was seriously thinking about using his power to punish someone. He wouldn’t do it of course, but idea of Cecil screaming beneath the whip was very strongly vested inside his mind. Then again, whipping had long since been discontinued, but still the idea was very interesting.

“Your chaperone. Surely you did not intend to go by yourselves?”

Now, given the question he had to admit that had been his intention, yes, not that it’d mean anything, they’d be surrounded by men of the highest order and that hardly meant that they would go by themselves would they? The judge had to admit he had not thought it trough completely, a grievous oversight from his part of the deal. He should’ve thought about this, because it seemed that the man had thought it was his paramount duty to take care of his cousin. Great, so much for having a relaxing evening at the club, but then again, it seemed that neither he nor miss Pritchard were looking forward to the idea of an evening of Cecil. Wallace sighed inwardly, he couldn’t get out of this now, he was like a bear in a steel trap, no way to get away without gnawing his leg off and he’d rather not do that…

“But you absolutely cannot go alone! Not that I don’t trust you, Sir Wallace, but it is simply Not Done. People will talk about my cousin! You must think of her reputation!”

For a spiteful moment Wallace thought about retorting that there was no way he could damage her reputation more than this gaudily dressed bigot could in a few moments, but he kept his tongue and to his own council. He’d survive this night with Cecil and he’d find a nicer escort next time. He was certain that someone wouldn’t mind coming along…anyone but Cecil. For a moment he thought about Miss Gwyneth, but he had the creeping suspicion she didn’t like him.

“I’m sure Sir Wallace is beyond suspicion in these matters. He is my friend.”

There was a kind of finality to that word of “Friend” and for some reason that hurt him…no, bothered him was a better word. Bothered him, he had no idea why that bothered him in any way. He was happy to be a friend, yes. Cecil however was probably one of those little mind overflowing with gossip, seeing things where they were not, putting his nose in people’s affairs where it didn’t belong. He’d burn that nose of his one of these days…Pretty badly Wallace hoped as a karma because of all the irritation he caused the judge right now.

“I am sorry, my dear, it simply isn’t done. Imagine what people would say! Tamsin Pritchard, in the company of a man, alone! It would be dreadful. Your reputation would be ruined beyond repair!”

For some reason, he found that thought very offensive. What did these shallow minds, or this shallow mind, think of him? That he was that kind of…man? No, not man, animal. Wallace didn’t like to be thought of like that and he liked being insinuated that he was, right in his face even less. He took the words however and would shove them down the man’s throat in the simplest of fashions. He’d just prove him wrong. There was no doubt in the judge’s mind of what the man was planning on…he didn’t look forward to it…
It seemed that Miss Tamsin didn’t like the idea either, trying in vain to find some support from her sister, but the younger woman clearly had no intention of helping. Wallace really got the suspicion that this girl didn’t like him one bit, even though he had not ever insulted or behaved in a wrong manner towards her. Sometimes however, people’s personalities simply didn’t mesh well. It might be just that, or something else. Wallace had no idea what it might have been and decided to push it far from his mind as Cecil once more took the liberty of declaring what he would do.

“I shall be happy to serve as a chaperone. Anything for my cousin.”

Wallace didn’t like that one bit and he hoped that the man might find that he would not be happily greeted as his cousins chaperone, but he had nothing to put in against the logic. Indeed, it might wreck her reputation if they were to go alone and forgetting about this fact himself had put him at the mercy of this demon in horribly dressed human form. It was his own fault, he had made his bed and would now have to lie in it. Tobias would have to offer him some more of that stiff drink he kept under his seat after this was over, since Wallace doubted any hangover could be worse than the one Cecil provided. Alcohol hurt your head, Cecil, he was probably worse. A lot worse, he killed the brain with his conversation and Wallace could feel his head start to give way to tears and suffering. He steeled himself though, he had made a promise and he wasn’t a man to go back on his given word. He bowed towards Cecil, a bit stiffly perhaps and replied calmly.

”As you wish, Mr. Pritchard.” He bowed once towards the still reading Gwyneth. ”With your leave, miss Pritchard.” He didn’t really wait for her permission to leave, but bowingly offered his arm to Tamsin, who seemed not too reluctant in taking it as they slowly and calmly headed for the door. Tobias still sat on the coach, waiting with that multi-layered expression that showed the world only servile sobriety, but carried other messages to those that knew him well and paid attention to him. The driver raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch as he saw Cecil follow them and Wallace moved his lips slightly in a move that showed both irritation and a slight attempt at cynical humour. The driver gave an almost imperceptible nod as he jumped off the bench and opened the door for them, Wallace helping Miss Pritchard into the carriage and following her, waiting for Cecil to sit down and the carriage to start…

(OOC: Long wait, but here you are!)

Sir Wallace did not take his leave without her. Instead he was calm, if quite formal, and said, “As you wish, Mr. Pritchard.” Tamsin could have hugged Sir Wallace with gleeful gratitude, but her expression did not change to express any such emotion as Sir Wallace bowed to Gwyneth and said, “With your leave, Miss Pritchard.”

He did not, however, actually wait for her leave, which was something that Tamsin didn’t blame him for. He offered his arm to her, and Tamsin took it with alacrity. They must leave at once; here she was outnumbered, whereas at Sir Wallace’s fencing club she would surely find only the most upstanding sort of fellow that would not think all these disconcerting things about her and Sir Wallace that Cecil and Gwyneth continually insinuated. Or at least if they did they would be courteous enough to keep it do themselves, instead of throwing off half-baked opinions formed on a few seconds’ observation. They would be considerate and considered men, Sir Wallace’s fencing mates. Men just like him, in other words. They wouldn’t go about jumping to conclusions as Tamsin’s own relations were.

As they got outside, Tamsin saw Sir Wallace’s coach-man lift his eyebrow slightly. Of course that would be because of Cecil’s presence; an unexpected additional guest to the fencing club might well do that. Unless, the horrible thought occurred to her, the coach-man was raising his eyebrow at her attire. What if Sir Wallace’s coachman also despised fashion? What if he, too, thought that it was for the flighty? Disastrous, disastrous situation! Now if either of them happened to mention it to the other in passing, he would concur, and thus reinforce their poor opinions of her. The best thing would be to stay completely out of the way at the club so as to prove that she was not a fashionable lady that required constant attention.

Tamsin kept her head tilted at a properly demure angle—and that was hard indeed at this moment, when she very much wanted to hold her head tall and defend her choice of dress with a raised eyebrow of her own—and slanted her eyes to glimpse Sir Wallace’s face. His lips moved slightly and Tamsin, adept at reading faces and moods, saw something that she did not want to see. He was irritated, but also wryly amused. That wasn’t good. If he was irritated, then she was a bother. She was troubling his mood, ruining his evening. This was not how it was supposed to go, she was supposed to enhance his evening and yet keep a low profile, so that he would not think her a friend who might suck up all of his time. And yet he was amused at the same time, cynically so. Perhaps he was amused with just how massive a mistake he had made, inviting a frilly pink woman to go with him when he considered fashion a flighty occupation and—

No, no, this was reading too much into the small exchange. The coach-man’s raised eyebrow—he was nodding now, and what did that mean? No, she would not consider it. She was making mountains out of mole-hills. She was being worse than Cecil and Gwyneth, she was being flighty. She should not and therefore was not going to assume that these small gestures referred to her. They referred to Cecil. Of course they did. Cecil was an entire extra person, quite a much bigger issue than whether she wore pink or not. Of course they were raising eyebrows over Cecil, and even more plausible was Sir Wallace’s irritability over Cecil. Anyone would be irritated at Cecil. Tamsin herself was irritated at him. Trying to reassure herself thusly, Tamsin entered Sir Wallace’s carriage first, as was customary, and composed her face into a calm, un-flighty smile as the judge came after.

Cecil followed them in and shut the door behind himself. There was quite a loud silence, which was penetrated by the coach-man’s soft call to the horses and the crack of his reins. This state of affairs continued for quite some time: Tamsin herself was trying to think of something to make the situation less awkward, Cecil was happy silently sitting where he was and destroying any possibility of a private conversation, and Sir Wallace… Tamsin couldn’t tell about him, and she feared to watch him too closely in case he felt uncomfortable from that as well. Thus, it was a while before anyone said anything, and when Tamsin finally broke the silence, it was with the not particularly scintillating conversational opener of, “So... what is your fencing club called?”

Sir Wallace replied, “Percival, milady, named after the knight of the Arthurian legends.”
Tamsin was about to say something about Percival, preferably something that the judge might find engaging, but she waited for a hundredth of a second to think and that was too long. Cecil filled the nonexistent void at once. “How noble and chivalric! Percival... Percival... oh yes! Wasn’t he the one who died, the virgin warrior seeking the Holy Grail?”
Tamsin closed her eyes. It could have been an innocent question, but this was Cecil. Cecil never said anything that didn’t have a—and then the second meaning hit her and it was all she could do to stay still and proper in her seat. Was Sir Vandenberg really…? One did not like to think about these things, of course, but now that Cecil had started her mind down that path she—was not going to think about things that Cecil brought up. Look where doing that had gotten her with her dress.
Sir Wallace said stiffly, “He attained his goal. There are few who do so in life.” Tamsin nodded diplomatically, trying to smooth things out without saying anything to give Cecil something to comment on, and Cecil, for his part, smiled sardonically at Sir Wallace, as if to say that while Percival might have obtained the Grail he very much doubted that Sir Wallace would be one of the aforementioned few who succeeded.

The tension in the carriage remained at high levels throughout the rest of the silent but thankfully fairly short ride to the club. Tamsin could not have been more relieved when it drew up in front of the building and Cecil climbed out, followed by Sir Wallace, who held his hand up to help her out. Clasping it, she stepped out, and once on the ground she ignored Cecil’s offered arm, slipping her hand around Sir Wallace’s in preference. “A lovely place,” she remarked. Attempting to forestall any architectural critique from Cecil, she immediately added, “I cannot wait to meet your compatriots. Shall we go in?”

Wallace was sitting alone, away from Miss Pritchard as was to be expected by social demands. Social necessities he would’ve very much liked to breach, because now he found himself being forced to look at the face of Cecil. It was like a painting, one side bearing the most beautiful visage ever created, but flanked by a gargoyle of indescribable horror. Truth be told, Cecil was not that ugly, but his clothing was foppish and even though Wallace had only known him for less than an hour, he already despised the man. It was something that the judge didn’t like to admit, but there was no way around it. This man brought only venom on his veins and an itch to his knuckles, an itch that would be scratched in crashing them into his face. Wallace normally wasn’t one to judge soon, he took pride in equilibrium, calm and logic, but what is logic in the face of towering irritation and vexation? He found that Cecil was a manifestation of all he loathed and more. Miss Pritchard pulled him from the depths of loathing though, pulling his attention to where it felt more comfortable.

”“So... what is your fencing club called?”

The name of his fencing club had been an idea of his master, who had a love for stories and lore. Arthur was his favorite figure and for a while he had been told to ponder about naming his club “Excalibur”, but he had decided that was just way too corny. Galahad might have been an idea inside his mind, but finally he had settled on Percival, because he was the first to strike, but miss. But like a true fencer, he had tried again and succeeded this time. Wallace thought it was a fitting choice.

”“Percival, milady, named after the knight of the Arthurian legends.”

Cecil of course had something to say about that. He liked to talk a lot it seemed, but he had little to say. Wallace listened though, because it was polite to do so and because he might as well stomach the man.

“How noble and chivalric! Percival... Percival... oh yes! Wasn’t he the one who died, the virgin warrior seeking the Holy Grail?”

For some reason, it seemed like Cecil was putting extra pronunciation on the “virgin” part and for a reason, that ticked off Wallace. Most likely because he was so shallow, thinking only about cardinal pleasure and not duty, not greatness. As if the accomplishment of a man were somehow greatened by the fact he had bedded a woman, or as if a person was not truly a man if he had not. A part of Wallace found this offensive because…well…But that was not the real reason. No it was just that this man had piled up stupidity after stupidity and insult after insult over the course of the last few minutes. He could feel his tongue sharpen, but he held it. He was the better man here, he wouldn’t lash out. He would be polite and keep this outing enjoyable, for Miss Pritchards, she was his true guest and he was supposed to think of her…Wasn’t he?

“He attained his goal. There are few who do so in life.”

The man didn’t answer, just smiled a superior smile he should not even try using on the judge. Goddamnit, he was a knight, he was a high-court judge, this wretch was what? An excuse for fashion? A despicable spat on the visage of mankind? Wallace found it hard to believe that he was in any way related to Tamsin and damned the day her family had brought forth an evil to balance out her divinity…
There was no more conversation after that and they passed the ride in uncomfortable silence. Silence, no matter how uncomfortable was better than Cecil’s conversation though, so Wallace quietly relished in it, though grieving over the fact he and Miss Pritchards could not speak without this fool leaving them both flabbergasted with his stupidity. Luckily, Tobias was a good driver and had them at the club in a few minutes thereafter. The driver opened the door and ignored the tense atmosphere that hung inside the carriage, letting them leave the vehicle. Wallace was the second and of course helped miss Pritchards descend. She didn’t seem to see Cecil’s outstretched arm, but instead snaked hers around his.

“A lovely place, I cannot wait to meet your compatriots. Shall we go in?”

He smiled at her, both forgetting and ignoring the presence of Cecil and nodding calmly, his voice calm but friendly. ”Of course, Milady.” He saw that Tobias was already carrying his bag, something Wallace normally did for himself, but this was different of course. He escorted her to the door as the doorman opened it for the two of them, nodding respectfully to Wallace, whom he recognized as a regular patron. They walked into the building and went straight for the big room, where the sound of steel meeting steel could be heard as the masters, who had come a bit earlier were already warming up by fencing against each other. Suddenly, across that song of metal, a voice louder than a mist horn bellowed.

”Wallaaaaace!!!!!!”

The judge whose name was shouted didn’t blink or stop, just turned his head almost casually in the direction of the sound and smiled, before turning back to miss Pritchards.

”It appears that we have been spotted.”

A man just an inch smaller than Wallace, but quite a bit broader with a big nose and wrinkled face, his hair white and combed back looking like silver on the black armour he wore, lumbered over to them. He was older than Wallace, older by far but he showed no sign of the fatigue that caught up with normal people. He was like a man of iron, he was Maître Minnen, the chief of this small group.

"You have exactly five second to formally address me!"

Wallace softly let go of Tamsin’s arm and took the sword that Tobias offered him, bringing it up to his face in a swift motion and bowing fluently, sweeping the weapon down to the floor as he did so, his voice was warm and friendly, unbothered by the gruff and commanding way his trainer spoke to him.

"Bonjour Maître, you're looking fine as usual."

The older man nodded once calmly as Wallace came up again, looking at him with a critical eye before speaking again in that gruff voice of his.

"Bonjour pupil, you're looking out of shape, a good few passes will clear that up. “He then noticed Miss Pritchards and changed immediately, his voice becoming softer and bowing immediately. "Bonjours Madame, welcome to my humble school."

Miss Pritchards curtsied and replied as was customary. "Enchanté, Maître

"Well, I can forgive your infringement for just this once." Then he suddenly noticed Cecil and walked up to him in that lumbering, dangerous way of his and for a moment, Wallace winced, feeling sorry for the man. But that feeling soon disappeared like snow for the sun."What do we have here? What's a flimsy butterfly doing in a school of men?"

“I beg your pardon?”

"I didn't ask you to beg anything and I sure as hell ain't giving you my pardon!” He turned to one of the men dressed in black and called out to them. "George, get this maypole in sober white and teach him not to speak before he learns to wield a tongue of steel.”

”At once, Maître!”

And so, they would be relieved of Cecil’s presence…Wallace felt great.

(OOC: Bavo gave me what Wallace would say on MSN. :) And he said to go that far, too, so excuse the lengthy post. And Bavo, sorry for the loooong loooong wait.)

“Wallaaaaace!!!!!!”

Tamsin turned smoothly to face the source of the sound, far too used to sudden loud bangs and other startling noises in her show to be much disconcerted—except that this voice, that called to Sir Wallace so unexpectedly and loudly, came from a man who was thundering down on them like a ton of bricks. The fellow was dressed in black, much like Sir Wallace was, but the fact that Sir Wallace allowed himself to be greeted this way and regarded the other man with a certain amount of deference made Tamsin conclude that the newcomer was his fencing master. Tamsin immediately registered that the fencing master was shorter than her and quite a bit wider, but no less balanced and fast on his feet than she was. Sir Wallace murmured from next to her, “It appears that we have been spotted.”

She smiled at the statement of the obvious, not mockingly but rather because there was really nothing else that could be said to such a hail as had come from the fencing master. She was about to greet the man, except that he bellowed while still coming towards them, “You have exactly five second to formally address me!”
Tamsin’s eyes widened. It was all so… unexpectedly fast and, well, unexpected. She had not imagined anything like this while daydreaming of how her visit to Sir Wallace’s club would go. She felt Sir Wallace gently slip his arm out of hers then, and realised that of course, she would be in the way while this was going on. She took a long step to the side, taking her out of the way, just as Sir Wallace took his sword and bowed to the fencing master, greeting him courteously—apparently he was to be addressed as Maître. Tamsin thought that Wallace looked very elegant and dignified.

The Maître did not agree with her. He said with far too much relish, “Bonjour pupil, you’re looking out of shape, a good few passes will clear that up.” He was not! Sir Wallace might not be built exactly like a Greek god, but his body was very pleasing to the eye and he was by no means out of shape—not, of course, that she had been observing him with an eye towards that. She’d simply noticed. Tamsin was aggrieved on Sir Wallace’s behalf, and then aggrieved at herself for her own reaction. She should not take such a keen interest in the way other people treated him. Besides, it could be that the fencing master meant that Sir Wallace’s form was out of shape—although nothing looked amiss to Tamsin in that, either. The Maître turned to greet her, and Tamsin, conscious that she must not embarrass Sir Wallace, dipped a curtsey and replied with, “Enchanté, Maître,” instead of what she was really thinking.

The Maître grumbled about infringement, and Tamsin suppressed any panic from showing on her face. She was infringing simply by being here! This was not good; if she was the cause of any disapprobation that fell on Sir Wallace’s head, he would certainly remember her in a very negative light. She was about to make some sort of ameliorating remark when the Maître looked past her and said. “What do we have here? What’s a flimsy butterfly doing in a school of men?”
For an absurd moment, Tamsin thought that the Maître was speaking to Sir Wallace. Then she remembered that Cecil was there—and how could she have allowed herself to forget such a walking disaster was beyond her—and turned to observe the effect that the Maître’s inquiry had on her cousin, stifling a laugh.
Her cousin demanded, “I beg your pardon?”
The Maître thundered, “I didn’t ask you to beg anything and I sure as hell ain’t giving you my pardon!”
Cecil looked almost like he had been slapped, and Tamsin couldn’t help but snicker at the pickle he had got himself into as the Maître turned to another man and yelled, “George, get this maypole in sober white and teach him not to speak before he learns to wield a tongue of steel.”
George came over at once, saluting with his sword. “At once, Maître!”
Cecil stood stock still, a thunderstruck expression on his face. Tamsin, feeling no pity for him because it was his own fault for having obnoxiously inserted his nose in her business in the first place, fell into a fit of silent giggles. Aware that it was not the most diplomatic or elegant thing she could be doing, she strove to stop, but the expression on Cecil’s face set her off again each time she might have got control. Sir Wallace displayed much more composure than she did in the matter, not even a slight smile cracking his expression. Eventually, George prodded Cecil on the arm. “Come along, you.”
Cecil finally found the voice to protest, if not the articulation. “I—I—I—what!?”
Minnen bellowed, “Did I ask you anything, maggot?! You’d better get some padding on, because I’m really itching to meet you on the court and see to it you learn some sense. Now git!”
The resulting expression on Cecil’s face made Tamsin forgive the Maître for having said Sir Wallace was out of shape. Her cousin was standing there, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish, completely unable to think of something to say for once. George pulled him off by his arm, the two of them a distinct contrast in fashions; Cecil with his flamboyant frock-coat and George in his monochrome fencing gear.
Wallace smiled a with a bit of an evil grin and stepped towards Tamsin to softly remark, “He’s a persuasive man, isn’t he?”
She would have happily concurred, except that the Maître overheard the remark and commented, “I know, Wallace, and now I’m persuading you to give your lady here a tour before you head off and get your arse handed to you again, begging your lady’s pardon for the expression. Git!”
Tamsin, a warm, pleasant feeling suffusing her when the Maître referred to her as Sir Wallace’s lady, forgave the Maître his bluff manners, laughing lightly and saying facetiously, “I am so very shocked and disappointed with your expression. Some day I shall learn fencing and hand you your own arse for your language, Maître.” She smiled to take any possible sting out of her words, and looked to Sir Wallace. “Perhaps you might teach me, Sir Wallace?”
Again before anyone could get a word in edgewise, the Maître spoke, “He’s decent I guess, but remember, I don’t fight fair. I’m too old for that.” He, too, looked at Sir Wallace. “Why haven’t you started that tour yet?”
Wallace bowed. “On my way, Maître.”
Tamsin held off taking the arm he offered just long enough to deliver a parting shot to the fencing master. “And I am a woman, Maître. We never fight fair.” She curtseyed slightly and took Sir Wallace’s arm, saying to him, “Come, Sir Wallace, I should not like to get you in trouble. What should I see first?”

Sir Wallace smiled and took her along the outside of a tiled area where several fencers were already sparring with each other, turning aside into a high-ceilinged passage that was bordered on one side with columns that looked out onto another tiled area, this one empty. He opened a small door, saying as she stepped through, “This, as you can see, is the club’s trophy room, with the assorted things we won over the years.” Tamsin looked about the room. It was good-sized, and lined with glass-fronted cabinets. Inside the cabinets were displays of various trophies and boards studded with ribbons and other baubles that obviously signified some sort of achievement. The locked glass cabinets were all the same size on the back wall—large and very impressive—with smaller ones lining the side walls, except for one very large one in the middle of the back wall. Some of them were empty, and some of them had obviously less impressive displays than others.

Sir Wallace pointed to the big one at the back. “That’s the Maître’s,” he informed her.
Tamsin walked forward to inspect it, noting that the Maître seemed to have won several awards for some years in a row—at least judging by the number of trophies that looked the same but for the date. She remarked, “Hmm. He seems to be very skilled, judging by this.”
She was not very interested in the Maître’s trophies, however, since she didn’t know what any of them meant, and her eyes wandered to the side, to the next locker over. The name on a large trophy caught her eye: Wallace Vandenberg. At once, trophies became much more interesting despite that she still had no idea what they were for. She moved to Wallace’s locker, exclaiming, “Oh, look! These are yours!”
As she bent to examine them through the glass, Sir Wallace coughed, and when she looked at him she found him blushing. How delightful! She could make him blush! It looked somewhat incongruous on his stern features, but that only made it the more enjoyable. He said, “I have had some...moderate success over the last few years, yes.” Then he added self-depreciatingly, “But I had the best of teachers.”
Tamsin was not going to let him get out of it that easily. She smiled brightly and said, “Of course, teachers have a great deal to do with success, but there is also something to be said for the student in these things. I recall you said it took you twenty-two years to earn your rank? Surely that sort of dedication cannot be attributed to your teacher.”
Wallace smiled slightly and looked down, and Tamsin felt like pumping her fist in the air. Rather than display such improper emotion, however, she pointed to the very smallest trophy, perched on the side of a stand holding three other much larger awards. “What did you earn this one for?”
He bent beside her to look at it, and said, “Oh, that was my first real trophy. I became third in the National Inter-campus fencing league.” Tamsin was very aware of him next to her, and when she looked at him she thought he might be aware of the reverse, because the blush was back in his cheeks. He straightened to add, “I was very surprised to have made it to the half-finals.”
Tamsin straightened also. “How many years had you studied?”
“Fencing? Well I had been doing it for 16 years then.”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You did not compete before then?”
Sir Wallace shrugged slightly. “The real tournaments were only for last year students. I did do some smaller tournaments, but they don’t belong in this locker.”
She grinned. She would bet money he still had them. People often kept the little trophies of their small achievements, especially ones that led to bigger things later. “But do you still have them?”
“I think so, stashed away in some trunk in the attic. A man gathers a lot of clutter in his life.”
Tamsin objected to this. Memories and their physical talismans were not clutter, in her book. “Clutter!? Accomplishments are not clutter! I…” she paused. She had been going to say that she kept everything that marked itself as an advancement in her life, but that would lead down a road that she didn’t want to travel. He might ask what they were, and then she would have to lie; she couldn’t very well say she had a copy of the program from the first show she had done, since she wasn’t supposed to be doing such things at all. Virtually all of her trophies were things she ought not to have, not as a proper woman. So instead of saying this, she substituted, “If I had ever learnt something that others would find worthy in me, and excelled in it, I think I should keep everything I ever won. I would be proud of it. Are you not proud of your trophies, Sir Wallace?” She waved her hand at the extensive display in needless reminder of them.
Sir Wallace said, “I am proud of them, but…” He paused, then started, “I mean…” There was another pause, longer, and then he started again. “Well, fencing doesn’t help anybody does it?” He looked at the trophies in the locker. “Those are my greatest fencing presentations, and I am proud of them and I feel that the time I spent learning this art has been time well-spent, but compared to some of the things out there...fencing trophies are worth very little.”
Tamsin did not like to hear him say this, partly because she did not want him to think a sport he was so good at was so worthless and partly because it reminded her how little her own pride and joy—her show—was really worth. She said, “The skills learned while fencing would be helpful to others, I am sure. Weren’t you able to avoid crushing Miss Stepford at the ball because of them? But you are right, there are some things that might be more valuable; however, I would make the case that a man cannot always do only that which is most valuable to others. He must do something he enjoys as well, for relaxation, otherwise his life will be endless work.”
Sir Wallace smiled wanly, before restoring his face to its former cast. “Too true, my lady, too true.”
Tamsin noticed the smile, and said the first thing that occurred to her because of it. “You work long hours, don’t you?”
Sir Wallace admitted, “Work keeps piling up every time I turn around and it is my duty to make justice swift.”
Tamsin smiled determinedly. Then he ought to use this time to get away from it, and she would not be the one keeping him talking about work. She said, “It is a worthy occupation. But we must not talk of it any more; you must use this time to enjoy yourself. The court is miles away.” She made a gesture that included his black padded shirt and the fencing practice area on the other side of the wall. “And besides, I should very much like to see you in action.”

As soon as she said it, Tamsin realised that it could possibly be mistaken, that Sir Wallace might read an innuendo that she had not intended into it. She blushed and looked down. It had all been going very well until then, and she hoped with all her might that he would be too much of a gentleman to think of any improper connotations to her words.

Wallace found that his time with miss Pritchard was highly enjoyable, especially with that annoying brat of a cousin of hers out of the way. He knew he should pity the young man, coming up on the maître’s bad side wasn’t a good way to spend your evening, but then again, it seemed that there was immanent justice in the universe, since spending the evening with Cecil must be just as bad…or worse. Wallace found that he might be just a little responsible, he should’ve warned his guest about the slightly explosive nature of his trainer, but then again, any responsibility in causing Cecil distress was responsibility he gladly took…or let slide, depending on which caused the snob more irritation. It was petty, he knew that, but sometimes all people are petty, Wallace included. He felt like a cat that was put near a cup of cream…metaphorically speaking of course. He would never dare to imply anything of that nature about miss Pritchards, not that she wasn’t pretty enough, but…Why was he explaining himself in his own head? Bad sign there…He hadn’t had that since a case around three years ago. He had taken a leap of faith there, lengthening the arrest of the defendant because he believed something missing. A good choice that had turned out in the end, because two days later, during another house-inspection, the police found documents further incriminating him. If Wallace had let him go, the accused would’ve made sure those never saw the light of day…Still, it wasn’t a good sign for him if he was explaining his thoughts to himself…He should get his mind realigned…fencing, yes, that would make him concentrate.

“It is a worthy occupation. But we must not talk of it any more; you must use this time to enjoy yourself. The court is miles away. And besides, I should very much like to see you in action.”

He smiled calmly, projecting a kind of calm certainty to his face to hide the fact that he was all things but. He didn’t know why, but for some reason, he seemed more unsettled now that Cecil was away. Why?

”With pleasure miss..”

He offered her his arm once more and guided her from the trophy room, slowly up the stairs above the main training room. There were benches and places for spectators to sit and watch the fights in the lanes below. He bowed once as he let go of her arm, smiling.

”If you’d excuse me, I’ll see if I can find a duellist to challenge. Please, have a seat and enjoy the show.”

Wallace turned back to head down the stairs, surpressing a momentary urge to jog, to run, to hop. He hadn’t hopped since he had been? Oh wait, he had hopped just four months ago, when he had finished his paperwork and made a walk through the park afterwards. Why was he always mentally insisting that he was old and boring? He jumped down the last two steps of the stairs and joined the men down on the floor, picking up his helmet from his pack and taking his sabre in hand as Tobias handed it to him. Valentine walked up to him with a smile.

”Ah, our benevolent judge decided to grace us by his mighty presence.”

The benevolent judge smiled at the French banker and poked him with his sabre, softly pushing the dotted point into the man’s gut, stabbing softly.

”Watch your tongue, Valentine, I’m feeling like fencing and your chest seems to have recovered from last time…Want me to black it up again?”

The banker smiled, showing his set of white, straight teeth that went well with his olive skin. Valentine was a beautiful man, or at least, he was seen that way. He also was a little vain and very knowledgeable in ways that Wallace wasn’t. Where Wallace was sober and serious, Valentine always seemed to be dancing just on the edge of scandal, one was Flemish and the other French, but both were equally loyal and stubborn when it came to their own version of honour. And on that basis, friendship that seemed impossible had flowered.

”Well…I’d be more than willing to try to give you another stab in the shoulder, but you’ve already got a challenger.”

The French banker pointed to the man in black that stood waiting on the floor, his hand calmly gripping the handle of a very well-crafted fencing sabre. Wallace thought he recognized the pose and posture, but he couldn’t be sure. The padded armour and helmet made everyone look alike, he looked back to Valentine, raising an eyebrow in question. The banker just smiled a grin filled with mirth.

”Three weapons, five passes each. You’d better hurry up, he has been waiting quite a while to cross blades with you I.”

Damn that Frenchie, he was too theatrical for his own good sometimes. Wallace nodded calmly towards Valentine and left the edge of the room to go towards the man in black, waiting for him on the court. The unknown challenger didn’t take off his mask, something that was mostly frowned upon so Wallace put on his. There were no words when they looked at each other, scanning the other for anything that gave away weakness or strengths, waiting for Valentine to take his position parallel to the two duellist, spreading his arms wide to signal that the match was about to begin. Wallace straightened his body entirely, the heels of his boots meeting each other in a perpendicular fashion as he raised his sabre to his mask. His adversary did the same, but when Wallace swept his weapon down, the challenger pointed his straight for Wallace, bringing it back to his face before following the judge’s example. It was an aggressive greeting, usually signalling that the opponent either thought he was far better, or wanted his adversary to give him his all. Wallace smiled, seemed that miss Pritchards would get a great show…

”En garde!” Both fencers took a position that mirrored the other each other, sword raised and pointed at each other, their off-hands held up behind their heads. ”Prêt?” Both fencers nodded as Valentine turned his hands, palms facing the floor. ”Allez!” The arbiter swung his hands towards each other, just as the fencers sprang forwards. Wallace and his opponent were of equal height, which made their advantages and disadvantages over another non-existent in that regard. Wallace swept down in a swift backhand slash, aimed at the visored face of his opponent, who deftly parried the strike, quickly taking the initiative and aiming a stroke to the judge’s chest, who evaded by agilely jumping backwards. The other man moved up, slashing once more in that same horizontal fashion, only aiming higher this time, which allowed Wallace to perform a move known as “Petit bon-homme” or “the little Goodman.” He bent his knees completely, squatting down beneath his opponent slash and returning one of his own, hitting the man straight on the shoulder. Valentine raised his left hand.

”Halte! Attaque gauche, touché. Un - Zéro, avantage gauche!”

Both fencers returned to their spots behind the separation lines once more as Valentine worked his way through the opening rules again. This guy was really fast, but he was too quick to charge. Hotheaded, but his attacks were deft and dangerous…

”Allez!”

In total, they surged 9 times across the court, faults not included. It was neck-to-neck for the entire time, but in the end, his opponent managed to win this weapon with only one point of advantage. A problem, but not insurmountable, Wallace thought as he gave his sabre to Tobias and took the epée the servant offered. Luckily, this was his best weapon, so he could overcome the challenger’s lead and maybe create his own. He tested the weight a few times, stabbed a few times before nodding to the referee. Soon, the three men stood in a half-circle on the court again, two blades ready and six hands raised.

The epée was always a bit of a brute instrument, more a true sword than the floret and a lot heavier and more damaging than the sabre. It was a tool, nothing more and almost anything went. Hit hard, hit first, hit wherever you can, that was the mantra of the epée and Wallace was a practical man. The weapon fit him perfectly. The first clash already showed why. The epée allowed one to turtle up and await his moment, or to suddenly take chances when you saw an opening. None of that priority rules or contact surfaces, just clean stabbing, speed and aim. This round was shorter than the previous one, but twice as explosive, ending with a small lead for Wallace as he won the weapon with 5 to 3.

Tobias quickly ran up the court and relieved Wallace of the heavy epée, replacing it with the much lighter foil. The tired muscles of the judges arms were glad for this switch, but Wallace wasn’t. The foil was his least loved weapon, too light, too many cumbersome rules. Sure, he was a man of the law, but the law and the rules of this game were something different. In the heat of duel, it was one thing to know who had priority, but another to act accordingly. However, it seemed his opponent didn’t like it either, because his strikes became increasingly erratic and predictable, or missed completely. It allowed Wallace to hold his lead and win this round with a nice 5 to 3 again.

”Halte! Cinq - trois, victoire gauche! La sous est terminée!”

Wallace took of his helmet and saluted, glad that he had turned out to be the victor. The opponent did the same, since custom and decorum demanded it of him, The gloved hands going up to the mask to remove it.

”Well done, sir Justice, well done indeed.”

Wallace’s eyes became large as saucers as the mysterious fencer removed his visor with a dramatic flair, underneath it stood a nose and chin that was quite like his, a pair of eyes that was reminiscent of their shared blood heritage.

”Hey Wallace.”

Wallace dropped his sword and mask without any sense of decorum himself, stepped forwards and took his younger brother in a warm bear hug, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders, laughing loudly as he looked at him soon after, trying to look for signs of change in his brother and sibling.

”Nicolas! Brother, how you doing? How’s life been treating you?”

Tamsin sat down where Sir Wallace indicated would be proper, and then watched him as he left. She supposed she might watch some of the other fencers, but in truth she had little interest in fencing beyond Sir Wallace. She supposed she might find it of interest for itself after a proper example, but at the moment, Sir Wallace was her only connection to it. She watched as the judge went down to the court, collecting his helmet and sword, and approached an olive-skinned man. Just as Sir Wallace poked the other man in the gut, however, a man in the white of a novice fencer came up behind Tamsin and furtively tapped her on the shoulder, distracting her from watching.

Tamsin whirled in her seat, ready to say something quite severe to the fellow for touching her in such a fashion. Then she realised who it was and lost all words, simply gaping up at Cecil. Her cousin was dressed in white fencing trousers, with a padded coat on over the flamboyant coat he had worn for the evening. He looked very furtive, and kept glancing about as if watching for someone. Tamsin squeezed a question out through her astonishment. “Why are you dressed like that, Cecil?”
Cecil shifted on his feet and did not answer the question, instead glancing over the court and saying, “I am sorry to startle you so, cousin.”
Tamsin, beginning to have an inkling of an idea as to what Cecil might be about, said, “I confess I am somewhat startled. What are you doing here? Weren’t you to go with the Maître’s gentleman?”
Cecil said evasively, “Well, as to that… I find I have just remembered an urgent appointment that I had made for this evening.”
Dryly, Tamsin said, “Have you indeed?”
“Yes, and I came to beg your pardon for having to take my leave now. I hope you will not be too distressed if I leave you alone?”
“Oh, I am sure I shall survive.”
“To be sure, I would not wish to discomfit you in the slightest, but it really is a most urgent appointment. Sir Wallace seems an honourable sort; I am sure you will be safe with him.”
“I feel certain you are right, cousin.”

Cecil shifted on his feet a bit more, looking extremely uncomfortable, as if he were torn between two very hard choices. Tamsin watched very unsympathetically, and her cousin finally burst out, “Dash it all, I feel terrible to have to leave you alone! Perhaps you ought to come with me, cousin?”
Tamsin pretended to spot someone on the court behind Cecil. “Oh, look, there is the Maître’s man now! Perhaps you ought—”
Cecil interrupted her hastily, turning his face so there was no possibility of it being seen by anyone on the court. “Well, I must take my leave of you now, my dear cousin; I am in such a dreadful rush. I hope you will explain everything to Sir Wallace and give him my sincerest apologies, and also to the Maître. I bid you good evening.”
Tamsin smiled at him as he retreated. “Adieu, cousin! I will explain everything,” she said cheerfully as he turned away to make good his escape.
“You’re an absolute gem!” Cecil called over his shoulder, but not loudly so as not to attract attention to himself.

Tamsin smiled to herself as she watched him hurry off towards the back rooms and the exits that would doubtless be found there. Now her evening was Cecil-free, precisely what she had wished for since the beginning, and everything was perfect. Very satisfied, she turned back to watch Sir Wallace again, and found him engaged in a duel… except she was not entirely certain which duellist was him. The conversation with Cecil had prevented her from seeing Sir Wallace put on his mask and take up his position, and now there were two black-clad masters going at it in front of the man she had seen Sir Wallace poke, each of exactly the same height and in the same dress. She had no way of telling which was Sir Wallace. Her satisfaction with Cecil having left directly morphing into extreme irritation at him for having interrupted her concentration, Tamsin leaned forward.

If she could not tell by outward dress or by face, since both faces were hidden, she would have to wait until one spoke, which seemed unlikely to happen the way they were determinedly but silently slashing at each other with their sabres, or she would have to try and tell which was Sir Wallace by the way that he moved. But despite that she had paid specific attention to Sir Wallace’s way of moving—it was one of his most attractive qualities, his graceful yet powerful manner, if she did say so herself—she could not tell the difference between the fencers. She had never observed him fence before and therefore had no prior match to compare this one to. Annoyed to be unable to choose which man to internally cheer for, Tamsin wilfully decided that Sir Wallace must be better than his opponent, and that therefore the one on the left, who had just scored a point, must be him.

It would be unseemly to actually cheer, of course, but she did smile every time that the left man scored a point. Almost unblinking, she watched the two duellists dash at each other, seemingly hurling themselves forward to stab each other but changing direction at the last moment; their swords slashed out and hit nothing, slashed out again and were met with steel, slashed and hit the other. Their speed was impressive, and the nimbleness and graceful surety with which their feet moved rivalled Tamsin’s own dextrous agility. It was not easy to fascinate Tamsin; she was jaded by her own experience as an entertainer, and correctly assessed her own abilities as being greater than that of most in the profession. The two men duelling on the tiles, however, managed to capture her entire interest without even trying. Just by fencing, following his hobby, Sir Wallace amazed Tamsin.

She continued believing that the left man was Sir Wallace right up to the point where the man on the right scored the last point in the first weapon. Surely Sir Wallace would not lose, would he? Perhaps the other man was him, and the one on the left was the opponent… Tamsin watched with bated breath through the second weapon, and when the left man pulled ahead in points, she sighed softly. She very much wanted Sir Wallace—or at least the man she was currently choosing to believe was Sir Wallace—to win. The man on the left also won the third weapon, and Tamsin smiled gleefully when he was announced as the winner and took off his mask, revealing that it was Sir Wallace. Immediately afterwards, however, the other man also took off his mask, and he was Sir Wallace too.

What the Devil? Tamsin stared at the two Sir Wallaces on the court and then stood up. She did not hear what the second Sir Wallace said to the first, but as she left the spectator seating and drew closer to them she began to see differences; the man who had won the duel was the actual Sir Wallace. The other man was slightly different in the face; he was thinner, and with an even more severe look to him, if that was possible. Her initial shock at seeing two Sir Wallaces where she had expected one fading, Tamsin concluded that the second man must be a relative, and directly after she had come to the conclusion, Sir Wallace dropped his sword and helmet, rushing to embrace the man and calling him brother. Tamsin was about to go to Sir Wallace when she realised she would be interrupting, and also that she might not be welcome on the court—the Maître might have rules about spectators staying off the practice area.

So she drew up short of actually stepping on the court and dithered at the edges, waiting for an opportune moment to speak with Sir Wallace to present itself.

Tag, edit in a moment.