The reluctant cavalier

1802, Wentworth Abbey, Somerset

He had only roses to give her.

Mr. Parsifal Wentworth let out a deep breath and clipped off a yellowed leaf from one of his rose bushes. Miss Annabella Smith deserved much more than that. But there was nothing unique about him, nothing he could give her that she did not already have.

He gazed around his large garden, bright with the sunlight streaming from above the walls. This was his only legacy from his father, who died years ago. All else belonged to Geoffrey, his eldest brother, who resembled their father most. The garden often reminded Parsifal of the times in which he and his father talked of plants and the breeding of them—the only thing they had in common. It gave him a measure of comfort to remember it.

It was warm in the garden, warmer than usual for late spring, as the walls kept out most of the wind. It had always been like this, even when he was a boy. The air was thick with moisture, for the gardeners had just watered the plants, and the heat of the sun made it seem almost as if it were summer. It was one of Parsifal's retreats; he came here when he wished to be alone, and he felt the most contented here, tending his plants ... but not this time.

He clipped off another leaf and caught sight of his large hands—brown, with some soil beneath his fingernails, for he had transplanted a young rose bush a while ago. He was no dandy, with a witty tongue and fine embroidered waist-coat. No doubt he would have been more content as a farmer than as the Earl of Grafton's second son. He grimaced. He had not even a title to offer the lovely Miss Smith. As for money, although he was very well off and lived in relative luxury, she was an heiress. What did he have that was of any worth? Nothing that Miss Smith could want, he was sure, except, perhaps, his roses. And no one really cared for such things except himself.

"Percy!"

Parsifal turned swiftly on his heel and frowned. His sister walked up the row of plants to him, carefully pulling her long skirts away from the dirt. She gazed at his dirty hands, and her lips twisted in clear distaste, and he wished he had locked the garden door.

"Don't call me that, Caroline. You know I hate it."

She shrugged. "What else am I to call you?"

" 'Brother' will do, or Parsifal if you must. Even my middle name might be preferable."

"Edwin?" Caroline wrinkled her nose. "I never liked that name at all. At least 'Parsifal' is romantic, even though it is not really an English name. It should have been Percival. However, foreign names are ever so much more romantic than English ones. Although it would have been better had it been Spanish. I wonder—"

He groaned. "Please, let us talk of something else. I am sure you did not venture here only to talk of names."

"No." She shot him a speculative look. "I was only wondering ... are you going to Lady Laughton's masquerade?"

"I suppose you want me to escort you to it."

"Mama said I could not go unless you accompany me."

"Another one of our dear parent's attempts to push me out into society, eh?"

"You cannot stay with your—your vegetables forever! I do not know why you do not attend more balls and such. It is not as if you were an ugly man, after all, despite your brown skin."

"Thank you. I think."

"And Corisande Bentley has formed a
tendre
for you, too." Caroline said, as if offering him a treat.

"Good God. Definitely I will stay home." He snipped off a dry branch and examined it carefully. No, no disease, thank goodness.

"Oh,
please,
Parsifal! I shall die if I do not go!"

He gazed at her healthy pink cheeks and large, brown pleading eyes. "I doubt it," he said dryly.

Caroline pouted. "How hateful you are!"

"That is
not
a good way of getting what you wish, sister."

"Please?" Her expression changed to one of wistful sadness.

Parsifal sighed and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his apron. No doubt his mother thought he'd be a restraining influence on Caroline. Impossible! But perhaps he could keep her from causing a scandal, at least. He really would rather stay home, though.

"But I don't have a costume, and I doubt anything can be got up on such short notice," he said. It was a last, halfhearted protest, and it was obvious Caroline knew it. She smiled brilliantly at him.

"Oh, you needn't worry. There are hundreds of clothes you can choose from in the attic trunks. I know Mama has not removed the gold thread from even a quarter of them yet."

He looked at the remaining rose bushes he wished to prune. Stubbins, the head gardener, could attend to them perhaps, although it was something Parsifal liked doing himself. He sighed deeply.

"Oh, very well!" he said.

"What of this one?" Caroline said, holding up a Harlequin costume against him.

"God, no." Parsifal eyed the garment with disgust. Even in the dim light of the attic he could see that the fabric's large checkered pattern would make him look ridiculous. "I'd look wider than a brick wall."

Caroline looked at him assessingly. "Hmm. You're right. You do not have the elegance to carry off such a costume. I daresay it would not fit over your shoulders anyway—I have always thought they were too broad for fashion."

"How flattering you are, Caroline!"

She wrinkled her nose at him and continued to pull out clothes from the trunk.

Parsifal idly pushed aside a few clothes in the trunk in which he was looking. Perhaps if they did not find anything for him to wear, Caroline would give up going to the masquerade. He glanced at his sister's concentrated expression and stubborn chin. He grimaced. Little hope of that. She was as willful as the rest of the family.

He shoved away some more clothes—wool, silk, cotton . . . and then leather. Parsifal frowned. Odd that leather should be stored with clothing; sometimes leather dyes could stain cloth if left together for long. He pulled the leather out, gazing at the finely tooled belt he held in his hand ... although it was not quite a belt, it seemed. It was very long, and far wider than his waist. A thick leather strap was attached to one side of it....

A sudden image came to his mind of the belt slung over one shoulder with a sword thrust through the leather loop. He let out a long breath, feeling oddly excited. A sword-belt, then. Was there anything more? He dug deeper into the trunk. More leather—boots, this time, with wide, turned-down tops, and then another belt, clearly one to go about the waist. Parsifal thrust his hand deeper amongst the clothes.

Metal. Slowly, he pulled out a thin, gleaming sword.

A hesitant beam of sunlight pushed through the dirty windowpanes and caught the edge of the blade. Tiny scintillating sparks seemed to shoot from it, and Parsifal blinked. No, that was nonsense. It was only an old sword, but in remarkably good condition. He slid the flat side of the blade over his hand and turned it over. There was not even one speck of rust on it. He would have thought that someone must have come up to the attic and polished it from time to time, but that could not have happened, for the sword had not been wrapped, and there was no trace of oil on it, or on the clothes that had been on top of it.

"What is that?"

Parsifal jerked, startled. A sharp pain ripped across the palm of his hand, and he gasped.

"Deuce take it, Caroline! I wish you would not come up behind me like that!" Quickly he put his hand to his mouth, stemming the blood that oozed from a small cut on his palm.

"I cannot help it if you are easily startled." Caroline peered over his shoulder. "A sword! How curious that it should be stored here. I thought Papa had all the weaponry displayed in the Long Gallery with the portraits."

"Apparently not." Parsifal took the sword in hand again. "It is old, perhaps more than a hundred years. You can tell by the hand guard, the way it is shaped. And a master swordsmith made this blade, I'm sure."

"I did not know you were so interested in swords, brother," Caroline said, looking at him curiously.

"I—I am not, really. It is just something I seemed to... remember."

Caroline nodded absently, pulling out more clothes from the trunk, but Parsifal frowned, then shook his head. He had not had more than a passing interest in swords and swordplay, and that only for exercise and occasional sport. Certainly he knew nothing of how a sword was made. Perhaps it was only something he had remembered from somewhere long ago. Was there a scabbard? He pushed his hand again into the trunk and felt along the bottom. His fingers encountered more metal, and he pulled it out. There it was, a plain and sturdy length of metal, wood, and leather. He slid the sword into it—it fit perfectly.

"Ah hah!"

Parsifal glanced up to see a triumphant smile on Caroline's face. He raised his eyebrows in question.

"This will be perfect!"

"What is it?" He reached for the cloth his sister held to her chest, but she pulled away, a mischievous smile on her face.

"No, no, I will not tell you! You will see soon enough when you put it on."

"Just give it to me, please, and no nonsense!" He reached for it again, but Caroline skipped away.

"How dull you are! No, I think you will like this costume, but you must wait! I think it will fit you perfectly, but I shall have to ask your valet to make sure. And certainly you will not forbid me this very small surprise?" She looked at him with wide-eyed innocence.

Parsifal gazed at his sister with mistrust. He knew her well enough to feel suspicious whenever she took on that innocent expression, for there was rarely a time when that look did not promise some mischief.

His feelings must have shown on his face, for Caroline gave a moue of discontent. "Oh, really, Parsifal, I promise I will not play any tricks on you."

"Hmm. Very well, then." He nodded, then followed Caroline as she turned and walked past the attic door.

He had walked halfway down the hall to his room when he noticed that he had carried the belt, sword, and boots away with him. He frowned, then shrugged. It did not matter. He'd have Howell, his valet, return them to the attic later.

"A Cavalier?" Parsifal said as Howell tied a cape over one of his master's shoulders. He sneezed. The costume had picked up a little dust during its soujourn in the attic. Parsifal caught Caroline's grin in the mirror. She was dressed as a fairy, with small gauze wings at her shoulders. He'd have to watch her closely at the masquerade, he was sure, for she looked at once very pretty and extremely mischievous.

"Oh, yes. It is all the rage, you know." She sat on a chair, watching him as he fidgeted. "I must admit, it was fortunate you did not cut your hair, although I think you would look much better with the latest Brutus cut."

"I do not aspire to look like a hedgehog, Caro."

Caroline let out an impatient sigh. "Oh, heavens! It is the latest thing, and I cannot see how it would hurt you to dress in fashion for once!"

Parsifal glanced away, then shrugged. "As you have said, I am a dull sort, and therefore have no aspirations to fashion."

"Well, at least you are going to be fashionable tonight," Caroline said. "How typical of you! The only way you will be all the rage is if you dress in something positively ancient."

"I look like Great-great-grandfather's portrait. I do not see how looking like one's ancestor can be fashionable."

He gazed in the large mirror. The costume was old, but in amazingly good repair. Caroline had found it in the trunk containing the boots, belt, and sword—and he would not be surprised if it had belonged to his great-great-grandfather. It was dark blue, a somber and unusual color for what he believed had been a colorful age. But it fit perfectly, had needed no adjustment, and felt oddly comfortable, as if he had worn it most of his life. And it was a lucky thing he had brought the other things down with him, too, for the belt, boots, and sword were of an age with the suit, and completed the costume to perfection.

His valet, Howell, had left his hair unloosed from its usual old-fashioned queue. It flowed in dark brown waves to his shoulders and framed his high cheekbones and square jaw, a legacy from more than one Spanish ancestor. That and the large hat tipped over his face and the black mask made him seem foreign and slightly sinister. He put his hand upon the pommel of the sword at his side.

He did not look like himself at all, but a stranger. No, rather, he looked like his great-great-grandfather, who was reputed to have been, a rake and a violent man, who'd duel with a man as soon as look at him. All the Wentworths were wild, except for him—the "gentil, perfit knight" his mother had hoped for when she named him. Parsifal winced. He was sure his mother regretted the name now. She was always complaining about how he spent his days within the conservatory, or digging like a peasant. And his father—Parsifal well knew what a disappointment he would have been to him, for he was neither suited for the army nor the clergy.

A sudden rebelliousness shot through him. Well, this was a masquerade, was it not? He need not be Parsifal for once, the odd one of the family. He need not be a Wentworth, but for one night some stranger who was not the butt of his family's jokes. He lifted his chin and turned swiftly to his sister. Her eyes widened and she gasped.