The Quiet Court: Chapter 1
The click of Benjamin’s cane echoed in time with the tap of his shoes on the polished marble floor. At the foot of the staircase, he paused by the rosewood grandfather clock to inspect his reflection in its glass face. A curl of red hair had strayed across his forehead, and he brushed it back with a practiced hand. As the meaty scent of game pie wafted from the kitchen, mingling with servant chatter and the clatter of utensils, his thoughts drifted to lunch.
He hadn’t felt hungry on the way to his father’s Knightsbridge residence - a house that would be considered palatial to most, but which his family referred to casually as “the London rooms”. By comparison with the sprawling Beazer-Green Lincolnshire manor, the London rooms were a quaint footnote in the family’s holdings. It was a place his father, Baronet Oswald Beazer-Green, attended under sufferance, and only when politics demanded his presence in the capital.
Ascending the stairs, Benjamin paused, remaining hidden, when he heard the soft tones of his cousin’s son, Ralph, asking his nanny to let him play in the garden. “It’s too wet, Master Ralph,” the nanny replied patiently, steering the boy back to the nursery. Their voices faded as Benjamin limped upward, stopping outside a pair of carved walnut doors. He slid them open soundlessly and stepped into a room awash with gold, pink, and green fabrics.
Minerva, his cousin, lounged on her favourite sofa, resembling Helen in repose. She barely glanced up as she set down her teacup in its saucer with a faint tinkle. “Fancy meeting you here, Minnie,” Benjamin said, sliding the doors shut behind him.
“So, you’ve arrived, then?” Minerva asked, her tone cool as she cast her eyes over him. Her lips curled in a sneer of disdain. “You were expected yesterday. By parties other than myself.” Her freckled nose tilted upward, and her dark brown barley curls bounced against her cheekbones as she shook her head.
“Had I only known you were here, I might have stayed on the Continent,” Benjamin replied.
“Better that you had.”
“Better for all.”
Minerva’s lips thinned into a line, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. “I heard the tap-tap-tapping of your infernal cane as you came up the stairs,” she said.
“Perhaps we shall hear it rap-rap-rapping against your head, dear cousin.”
“It sounded like you were running up the stairs. Trying to run, at least.”
“Then you shall have no problem hearing me trying to run down them,” Benjamin quipped.
“Back to your French trollop?”
“Simply to ensure your husband has not leapt into her bed in my absence.”
The sharp exchange gave way to movement. As Benjamin limped over the flowered vine border of the thick carpet, Minerva sprung up off the sofa. Her gown caught the light, shimmering in shades from lilac to lavender as she lunged at her cousin, with her hand raised to slap him. Benjamin raised his cane in defence. His thumb released a hidden catch, and the cane separated into a wooden sheath and a slender blade.
Minerva stopped as a flash of silver arced through the air, and the tip of the sword slipped beneath the right petal sleeve of her dress. She shivered at the touch of cold steel on her slender upper arm.