Читать книгу Rebellious Rakes - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 18

Chapter Ten

‘Alyssandra needs a husband.’ Julian had meant the words to shock and they had. Antoine looked up from the papers spread before him, worry and confusion on his face. ‘What? Why? Is she all right?’ His instant concern almost made Julian laugh. Antoine was such an easy puppet to manipulate. Mention his beloved twin and he melted. It even took him a moment to notice. ‘Mon Dieu, Julian, what happened to your face?’

Julian took the chair on the near side of the desk, shrugging off the reference to his purpling eye. ‘Just a small accident after you left the salle today. It is nothing. It looks worse than it is.’ He reached for the decanter on the desk’s edge. Sometimes Antoine took a little brandy for the pain. He helped himself to a glass. They’d become equals, partners, over the past three years. Older than Antoine by seven years, Julian had painstakingly cultivated the complex role of mentor, friend, uncle-cum-older brother when the case demanded it. Antoine had bought into it wholeheartedly first during his grief over his father’s death and then in the throes of despair after his accident. Today, he was claiming that role to the hilt: taking a chair without permission, helping himself to the brandy—an equal interacting with another peer.

‘It’s time she marries,’ Julian repeated. ‘A husband, a family, is what she needs. She’s twenty-eight. Most of her friends have long since wed.’

‘I know.’ Antoine’s eyes were thoughtful. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Perhaps it’s time to give up the ruse and accept the fact that I will never walk again. We could sell and Alyssandra could go on with her life.’

Julian interrupted abruptly. This was not where he’d imagined the conversation heading. If Antoine were to sell, it would be devastating to him. ‘Why not have the best of both worlds?’ he prompted in silken tones. The salle d’armes was Antoine’s other weakness. It meant the world to him. He must be worried indeed about Alyssandra if he was willing to consider giving it up. ‘Keep the salle, you can “retire” if you like, but let Alyssandra and I run it as husband and wife. I am offering myself as a husband for her.’ He said it quietly, humbly, watching Antoine’s eyes lose some of their softness and become shrewdly assessing.

‘You?’ Antoine said.

‘Yes. Who better? I have been with your father and with you. All total, I’ve spent twelve years in the service of your family. I have known Alyssandra since she was sixteen. I have been with you through death and through despair. What better than to have your sister marry your friend and keep your father’s fencing legacy, your fencing legacy, alive? Some day, there may even be a nephew to look after that legacy.’

Antoine smiled at that, as Julian had known he would. Family was important to Antoine. ‘What does Alyssandra think?’

Julian shrugged. He chose his words carefully. This answer had to be handled delicately. ‘She’s a wild creature. I don’t know that her opinion is the one that matters most here. She may not know what is best for her over the long term.’

Something affirmative moved in Antoine’s brown eyes, and he gave the most imperceptible of nods. Julian pushed his advantage. ‘I fear her head may be turned by the Englishman. He is a fine figure of a man,’ Julian offered. ‘But I think it is nothing more than a sign of how lonely she is, how ready she is to move on with her life. It is too bad Etienne DeFarge has wed.’ The reference to Alyssandra’s old fiancé would make Antoine feel guilty.

‘I like the Englishman, although I’m not sure of his motives. So many of them are just passing through,’ Antoine said tentatively but it was enough to ring alarms.

‘I’m sure North is a fine man. He’s a real man’s man. The other men at the salle seem to enjoy him,’ Julian put in blandly, wondering what Antoine was thinking. He took a swallow from his snifter, hoping Antoine would elaborate.

‘He has desirable qualities; a title in England, wealth, good manners,’ Antoine mused out loud. Julian wanted to argue the last. Those manners had his hands on Alyssandra and his tongue in her mouth. ‘Alyssandra is not without recommendations of her own. He would be a good match for her, and the salle could use him.’

Julian felt his insides freeze. He’d been right not to tell Antoine about the park. It would be all the provocation Antoine would need to start negotiating a marriage. He’d not counted on this. Antoine agreed with him on marriage, but not on the groom, and now Antoine was thinking of giving the Englishmana place at the salle, too. Julian’s ego didn’t like that one bit. He was the senior instructor and he didn’t like to share, which was precisely what he’d be doing.

Julian gave a sigh. ‘That’s a nice fantasy, Antoine, but I don’t suppose it will work, do you? He’s a viscount, heir to an earldom. He’s not going to want to work as a fencing instructor.’

Antoine was far too quick to clarify. ‘Of course not! He would be an owner. If he married Alyssandra, I could leave the salle to them and you certainly. I could retire and you could carry on. He could show up and offer instruction whenever he felt like it, make it a hobby for himself. He’s talented enough.’

Julian took a healthy swallow of brandy. This was getting worse by the minute. It would be complete torture to have to answer to Haviland North at the salle every day, knowing North was going home to Alyssandra every night. He’d have to live every day with the man who’d taken everything from him. That was a lot of ‘everys’ and it was not to be borne.

‘I think you’re forgetting one thing.’ Julian gave a sad half smile as if commiserating with Antoine. ‘He’ll want to go home some day. He’ll have to go home when he inherits. There wouldn’t be much good in that for us.’ This was the second time Antoine had mentioned retiring. It was a bit disconcerting.

Antoine nodded his head. ‘Well, still, it’s a nice fantasy to think of Alyssandra with him, happy, safe, secure. I think she fancies him, and he’d be a fool not to fancy her.’

There was nothing left to say. Antoine seemed determined to ignore his own offer and now was clearly not the time to push it. Julian could only hope a few of his doubts would take root in Antoine’s thoughts. Meanwhile, he needed a secondary plan. Alyssandra could not marry a man who wasn’t there, nor could Antoine hire a man who couldn’t fence well. It might be time to call in a few favours from the streets. With the tournament nearing, there would be ample opportunity to eliminate Haviland North.

* * *

Haviland was not going to let one Frenchman stand in the way of his training. Or maybe two Frenchmen depending on how Leodegrance had taken the news about the park. Haviland couldn’t imagine him taking it well. He squared his shoulders as he entered the Leodegrance salle d’armes on Rue Saint Marc.

He was unsure of his reception. Perhaps it was good news he had yet to receive a challenge. He had no desire to fight a duel with the master. For one, the outcome would be uncertain at best. He had yet to beat the master in their lessons. And two, fighting a duel abroad over a foreign woman was exactly the type of scandal his family had prodigiously avoided for generations. His father would be appalled if news of such a thing reached English shores. It would validate all the reasons his father wanted to keep him close to home. ‘Going abroad to sow wild oats suggests there’s something wrong, something that can’t be aired in public at home,’ he’d argued on more than one occasion when Haviland had brought up his desire for freedom.

Inside, the salle was busy, filled with the clash and slide of steel on steel. It was mid-afternoon and all three fencing salons were busy with clients, pupils and day guests. The sight brought a smile to his face and he allowed himself a moment to drink it all in. Whatever else the reclusive Leodegrance might be, he’d certainly made a little world for himself here. From the moment Haviland had first entered the salle, he’d felt the energy of the place. To his right was the long day salon with its medieval shields and antique swords decorating the walls to set a tone of respect. This was the place where clients could pay by the day to use the services of the salle. Haviland had noticed the price was slightly more than the other salles in the city, but perhaps that increased the prestige. The fee included the use of the salle’s changing rooms and its weapons for those who didn’t have their own.

In the centre was the large main salon for members only. It looked more like a ballroom with its two enormous chandeliers at either end. Weapons and fighting equipment through the ages adorned these walls too, interspersed with silver cups set in niches bearing testimony to the greatness of Antoine Leodegrance and his father before him. The elegance, the trophies, the historic weaponry only a noble family would possess were all subtle, or perhaps not-so-subtle reminders that the fees for this club were well worth it.

Not for the first time, Haviland felt a stab of envy for the eccentric Leodegrance. This salle was his. It might have been his father’s before him, but he’d maintained it through his hard work and his talents. It was a different kind of accomplishment than simply inheriting estates others ran for you. To do what you loved every day and see those efforts grow into a place like this, now that would be a legacy.

The third salon was smaller than the other two and more private. This was where Julian held his lessons, where Leodegrance met with the elite pupils. He would go there later and seek out Julian for his latest lesson, but for now he’d join the other members in the main salon.

The others present were glad to see him. Of course, they were unaware of the contretemps in the park. Haviland soon found himself engaged in a few bouts, helping another member master his in quartata. During his time here, he’d discovered he had an aptitude for teaching. Helping others with their fencing was something he enjoyed doing. ‘Don’t turn too far,’ Haviland instructed. ‘Turn to the inside, bend at the waist and get your left foot behind you so you can deliver a counter-attack. Perhaps if you moved your feet like this.’ Haviland demonstrated.

‘Too much footwork! Do you want to fence like an Italian, Pierre?’ Julian’s harsh tones broke in, scolding the younger man although Haviland knew the scold was directed at him as well. Haviland turned to face the surly senior instructor. He stifled a smile. He’d been right. Julian did look worse. True, he was sporting a bruised jaw of his own but that could almost be overlooked. There was no overlooking Julian’s purple eye which stood out against his paler skin. ‘You fence like the Italian school.’ Julian spat the words in disgust at him. ‘In the French school, it’s all in the wrist.’ If you were a real Frenchman and not some upstart Anglais, you’d know that. Haviland could almost hear the hidden derogatory message being spoken out loud.

‘Are you ready for your lesson?’ Julian queried coolly. The question was designed to remind everyone just who was the instructor and who was the pupil. ‘Although it looks as if someone already gave you one.’

‘And yourself?’ Haviland enquired politely. ‘Did someone give you a lesson, too?’ There were a few nervous snickers from those who’d gathered around to watch. Julian’s talent might have won him respect from the members, but his cutting wit hadn’t won him many friends. Left with no response, Julian narrowed his eyes to a glare.

In the private salon, Julian set to the lesson with brisk efficiency. ‘Today, we will study the methods of the Spanish school.’ He began pacing the floor with an occasional flourish of his rapier. ‘We have a few Spaniards coming to the tournament and no doubt they will be eager to show that their methods are superior. If at all possible, you must have some ability to anticipate their moves. If you have done your reading, you will know that Carranza’s La Destreza system has been the leading influence on Spanish swordplay for nearly three hundred years.’ This was said as a challenge, as if to expose an intellectual weakness.

Haviland decided to go on the offensive. He picked up his foil and joined Julian’s circling so that now they circled each other. ‘The primary difference between the Spanish and Italian schools is that the Spanish focus on defence whereas the Italian school focuses on attacks,’ Haviland answered. He’d done his homework. One of the many aspects he liked about the salon was the clubroom, an elegant gentleman’s gathering place where fencers could meet for a drink or take advantage of the excellent library lining the walls. The library contained nearly every known treatise on fencing from all the major schools in Europe and even a few texts on the katana from Japan.

‘Very good.’ Julian gave him a begrudging nod. He stepped back and went to the weapons cupboard, unlocking it with a key and pulling out two rapiers. He handed one to Haviland. ‘Then you will also know these are Spanish rapiers. You are not required to compete with one, but you should know what kind of weapon your opponent is using, how it manoeuvres, how it feels in his hand.’

Haviland took the blade, noting the difference in design. The Spanish rapier had a cup hilt that covered the hand. He tested it, giving a few experimental thrusts. It was lighter and shorter. It would definitely have an advantage in a longer bout where arm stamina might become an issue, but it would also be at a disadvantage against the reach of a longer French blade.

They worked throughout the lesson on the Spanish defences until Haviland was sweat-soaked. Whatever he thought of Julian Anjou, the man knew his fencing. ‘Will I see Leodegrance on Thursday?’ Haviland asked casually as they put their blades away.

‘I do not know. He has not told me if he has time.’ Julian did not look at him. It was impossible to know if he was lying. ‘He is very busy organising the tournament. There is much to be done.’ He gave a shrug. ‘There is plenty you and I can work on in the meanwhile.’ Julian gave him a hard look. ‘Jusque à demain.’

‘No,’ Haviland said with quiet fierceness. ‘We are going to talk about her. We are not going to pretend Leodegrance is too busy to meet with me because of the tournament and we are not going to pretend you didn’t ambush me in the park yesterday because I was kissing her.’

Julian’s face was a study of subdued anger. ‘You misunderstand the situation. We are not talking about her because doing so would validate the absurd idea that you have any claim on her.’

‘And you do?’ Haviland took an unconscious step towards Anjou, his body tensing, fists clenching.

‘I have been with the family for years. I will be with them long after you’ve left,’ Julian said tersely. ‘If you would exit the room, monsieur le vicomte? I have another lesson.’

The situation was deuced odd. Haviland took a chair in the clubroom close to the bookshelves, nodding for the waiter to bring him a drink. It wasn’t that he wanted to fight Leodegrance in a duel, but it did appear strange that there’d been no outrage on the man’s part. If he had a sister, he’d have been furious. The family would have required marriage. Yet Leodegrance was acting as if nothing happened. Had Julian told him?

Ah. Haviland took a swallow of the red wine. It was starting to make sense. Julian hadn’t reported the incident for exactly that reason. Seeing Alyssandra married to an Englishman wasn’t what Julian wanted. He wanted Alyssandra for himself. That’s why there hadn’t been any repercussions. Antoine Leodegrance didn’t know.

‘Monsieur, a message.’ The waiter extended a salver towards him bearing a single folded sheet of heavy white paper.

Haviland took it and thanked him, waiting until the man left before he read it. A little smile played along his mouth, he could feel his lips twitching with it. He was to meet Alyssandra at Madame LaTour’s salon that evening. It was further confirmation Julian hadn’t told Leodegrance. She’d never be allowed out of the house otherwise. A silver lining indeed, although not without an edge of madness to it. Alyssandra Leodegrance had proven to be dangerous to his health. Surely, there were far easier seductions to be had.

* * *

She must be mad to seek him out so boldly. Alyssandra wove a path through the guests crowded into Madam LaTour’s Egyptian-themed drawing room, discreetly searching the room for any sign of him. Dancing had started and the sidelines were a crush of people as room was made for the dancers. It was early yet, far too soon to conclude he hadn’t come. Although, such a conclusion was within the scope of possibility. Why should he come? The last time she’d invited him to come with her, he’d ended up with a bruised jaw and publicly brawling. She doubted the handsome, mannerly Viscount Amersham had ever resorted to public brawling. He’d known how to bloody his knuckles, though. So many gentlemen were useless outside the salle d’armes. But he’d known how to use all that muscle in practical application. He could defend a woman. Not that she needed defending. Still, it was nice to know he could. And, more importantly, that he would. A woman would be safe with him in all ways. Perhaps that was why she’d risked the invitation. She would be safe with him, body and honour both.

Alyssandra slipped outside onto the veranda at the first opportunity. The fresh air was welcome after the heat of the drawing room. It was a chance, too, to escape the gossips. Julian might not tell Antoine about the park, but that didn’t ensure the gossip tonight wouldn’t reach Antoine’s ears if someone saw her with the Englishman. It stood to reason that if she was with him, Antoine must condone him as an escort. Anyone who knew them well knew Antoine to be a socially reclusive but protective brother when it came to her welfare.

Alyssandra unfurled her fan, this time a white one painted with pink roses to match the rose of her gown. She would rest here for a moment and go back inside to dance with friends and to wait. And to see. If he would come.

‘I knew I’d find you out here.’ His voice was low and sensual at her ear, his hands at her shoulders ever so briefly. She could smell the vanilla and spice of his soap. All men should smell this good. She closed her eyes for just a moment to take it all in in her mind before he stepped back.

‘How did you know I’d be outside?’ She turned with a smile, her eyes skimming his face for signs of yesterday’s altercation. It was hard to see any damage in the dark. She had seen Julian, though, and it made her cringe. She didn’t like thinking of Haviland being hurt because of her.

‘I would know you anywhere.’ It was a lie, of course. She fooled him enough times in the practice room. In there, he had no idea who was behind the mesh mask. He grinned and she could make out the remnants of his split lip, but just barely.

She reached out her fingertip to it. ‘Ouch!’ Haviland scolded, jerking his head back.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Only when people touch it.’ He laughed and then turned serious. ‘Am I to understand your brother remains unaware?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t serve Julian’s purposes to bring yesterday to Antoine’s attention.’

Haviland nodded. ‘I figured as much. Still, I don’t like secrecy or the idea that we have to sneak around. It seems deceptive. Perhaps I could call on him and formally ask permission to take you driving in the park or to escort you to these sorts of gatherings.’

Her stomach clenched. This was hardly deceptive. She could only imagine how he would feel about the deception. If he ever found out. Another thought came to her. ‘I think the sooner you can accept the fact that my brother will not meet with you, the sooner we can move forward.’

‘We’re back to that again?’ Haviland’s eyes darkened, his body stiffening. ‘You insult my honour to imply I am using you for an entrée.’ His mouth came down close to her ear, the harshness of his voice roughly erotic. ‘You know damn well I wanted you before I knew your name.’

‘How do I know that hasn’t changed?’

‘You sent me the invitation.’ He growled, his teeth nipping the lobe of her ear, sending a delicious trill down her spine. ‘Now it’s my turn. There’s a carriage parked at the kerb, pulled by two matched greys. If you believe me, get in. The driver knows where to go. He will wait only fifteen minutes.’

Her throat went dry at the implication. One choice and everything would change.