Читать книгу Once Dishonored - Mary Jo Putney - Страница 14

CHAPTER 8

How long had it been since Kendra had looked forward to a new day as she did on this day? She was ready and waiting when Lucas wielded the knocker at Thorsay House.

He smiled at her, looking as if he was anticipating the day as well. “Because of the rain, we decided to travel by carriage.” His gaze moved to her divided skirt. “That’s your fencing costume?”

“I had this outfit made for riding astride,” she explained as he helped her into her cloak. “I grew up in Northumberland, you know, and we northerners are much less formal than southerners. I like riding astride, and I like the freedom of movement I have with divided skirts, so I had this one made in mourning black after my grandfather’s death. I hope you’re not offended?”

“Not at all,” he said as he held the door open for her. “I respect practicality.”

“I’m looking forward to learning how to use a sword properly,” she said as they descended the steps to the waiting carriage. “It could be useful if Denshire comes near me!”

“Not advised except for self-defense,” he said firmly. “But it’s never a bad thing to know how to defend one’s self.”

They reached the light carriage and he helped her inside, where they sat opposite Simon. There was enough space for the three of them, but only just, which meant her leg and Lucas’s were touching, a fact she tried to ignore. She was too aware of him—and she liked it.

“Good day, Kendra,” Simon said with a smile. “Do you know the history of Angelo’s Academy?”

When Kendra shook her head, he said, “The founder, Domenico Angelo Malevolti Tremamondo, was an Italian sword master.” The names rolled melodiously from his tongue, a reminder that Simon was European as well as English. “The story goes that he fell in love with a beautiful English actress and followed her to London. Once here he looked around and decided the English were in dire need of fencing lessons to make them equal to swordsmen on the Continent.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” Lucas said. “His academy prospered, he took Angelo as his last name because it was simpler, and the academy is now run by his son Henry. The last I heard, Domenico was teaching the boys of Eton and Henry’s son, Henry the Younger, was preparing to eventually take charge of the academy.”

“I hope they continue to teach women,” Kendra said. “Why should men have all the fun?”

Lucas smiled wryly. “Because we have arranged the world to suit male tastes. But women like Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin are changing that.”

Kendra was impressed that he knew about Vindication of the Rights of Women. Change would come slowly, but perhaps someday women would be able to speak in their own defense in a courtroom.

It was a short ride to Angelo’s Academy on Bond Street, and the coachman left them right in front of the door so it was only a brief dash through the rain to get inside. Kendra looked around with interest as she shook the raindrops from her black cloak. The academy’s main room had high ceilings, and molded arches on the walls featured paired swords of many styles, from rapiers to great two-handed Scottish claymores. There was even a pair of dirks, navy style like Lucas’s.

The academy was clearly home to sporting men and easy laughter. Groups of chairs and small tables were scattered near the walls for the comfort of observers, and two pairs of fencers were engaged at opposite ends of the great hall. The low rumble of conversation slowed when Kendra and her companions entered, but it picked up again quickly. Angelo’s denizens must be used to the sight of women.

A genial man approached, his expression welcoming. Kendra guessed it was Henry Angelo. “Colonel Duval, always a pleasure!” he exclaimed, shaking Simon’s hand. Turning to Lucas, he said, “Mr. Mandeville, or rather, Lord Foxton now. How excellent to see you again! It’s been too long, and rumor said you were dead.”

“Rumor is an unreliable fellow,” Lucas said as he shook Angelo’s proffered hand. “But in this case, not too far off.” He drew Kendra forward. “Allow me to present my cousin, Miss Kendra Douglas. She’s interested in possible lessons.”

Henry’s gaze sharpened. No doubt rumor had also reported Kendra’s divorce, but he took her hand with the same warmth he’d shown Lucas and Simon. “Then you’ve come to the right place, Miss Douglas. There are several ladies who practice here regularly. I will talk with you more later, but first, I want to see these two cross swords.” He gestured at Simon and Lucas.

The cousins exchanged a glance and Simon said, “We’re willing.” They stripped off their coats and hats, which were collected by a servant, along with Kendra’s cloak.

As Angelo provided them with two blunted small swords, Kendra said firmly, “Please don’t damage each other! Suzanne wouldn’t like it.”

“Neither would we,” Simon assured her. Eyes glinting, he said, “Now, cousin, let’s see how much you remember!”

“Not much. It’s been a long time,” Lucas replied with a smile, but as he flexed the blade of the light sword to acquaint himself with the weapon’s weight and balance, he had an air of experience.

Onlookers drifted into a loose circle that gave the two men room to fight. Lucas and Simon saluted with raised swords, then began sparring lightly, testing each other.

As the tempo of the bout quickened, Kendra watched, entranced. She’d never been so aware of the beauty of male bodies. Fencing was lethal poetry in action that displayed fit limbs and powerful shoulders, swift turns and agile footwork. Though Simon did seem more practiced, Lucas had a longer reach and was just as fast.

She wished Suzanne was here to appreciate this magnificent display of masculine elegance. It was . . . stimulating, but also charming. Even a novice like her could see how they understood and anticipated each other’s movements, and how much pleasure they were taking in this friendly bout. Almost-brothers indeed!

The informal bout ended when Simon lunged forward and the blunted end of his sword touched over Lucas’s heart. “Bout over! You’re dead, cousin.”

Laughing, Lucas made a sweeping bow of concession. “I shall survive to fight another day. We’ll have to do this more often.”

As both men accepted towels and wiped their sweaty faces, Kendra clapped her hands. “Well done, sirs! It’s lovely to watch two skilled swordsmen who aren’t actually trying to kill each other.”

“Indeed it is,” said Henry Angelo. “Do you wish to lift a small sword yourself, Miss Douglas? I’ll show you myself to get a sense of your aptitude.”

“I did a bit of fencing as a young girl,” Kendra said. “But I have no real skill.”

“That is for me to determine! Let us withdraw to the teaching room and find you a blade.”

Kendra moved off with Angelo, feeling more alive than she had in a very long time. She was beginning to enjoy being a scandalous woman.

* * *

An officer friend of Simon’s claimed his attention, leaving Lucas free to amble around the academy. It had been years since his last visit, but it hadn’t changed much.

A bookshelf on one wall held volumes of the fencing instruction manuals written by various Angelos. The family had a long association with the army, where they were doing their best to raise the level of British swordsmanship to Continental standards.

Lucas was considering joining Simon when the door opened and five men with a family resemblance entered in a gust of wind and rain. Most were obviously sporting gentlemen like the others in attendance, but the group included a man in black who moved unsteadily on crutches.

One of the others, a burly fellow of military bearing, helped him inside, then asked, “Shall I take you to one of the chairs, Godfrey?”

“No, dammit, Patrick!” Godfrey snapped. A proud man, apparently, determined to make his way on his own. Lucas’s bonesetter instincts stirred and he wondered what had put Godfrey on those crutches. A permanent injury, or temporary? It was hard to judge the man’s age because his face was so distorted by lines of pain.

As Godfrey moved awkwardly toward a chair, he looked up and saw Lucas. His face spasmed in shock and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor.

Wincing, Lucas strode forward to help the fallen man. “Are you all right?”

Godfrey recoiled. “You!” he snarled. “Don’t touch me, you vile coward!”

Lucas jerked to a stop, stunned by the rage and hatred in the fallen man’s face. Two of Godfrey’s companions hastened to his side. As they lifted him onto a nearby chair, Patrick asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Him!” Godfrey brandished a crutch at Lucas. “Lieutenant Lucas Mandeville! A coward and parole breaker who is responsible for my crippled state. How dare he pollute the air of this place, which belongs to gentlemen!”

Patrick glared at Lucas. “So this is the coward you spoke of! What brass-balled effrontery! Get out of here, you scum. You don’t belong under the same roof as my brother!”

Lucas had experienced avoidance and some cuts direct, but never such blatant hatred. He drew a deep breath. “I am Lucas Mandeville, but I don’t recall meeting Mr. Godfrey, nor do I recall any harm I’ve done him.”

“That makes it worse!” Patrick snarled. He pulled a pair of gloves from the pocket of his cloak and lashed them at Lucas’s face.

Lucas jerked back reflexively, avoiding the blow. “Good God, man, what am I supposed to have done?”

“Broke your parole, which created greater danger and punishment for those left behind,” Godfrey said savagely. He thumped one crutch on the floor. “You see the results!”

Lucas studied the other man’s face, but it was unfamiliar. “I’m sorry for your pain,” he said quietly. “But I don’t see how I can be held responsible for what a stranger has suffered.”

“And that’s the worst insult of all,” Patrick growled. “Name your seconds!”

“I will not fight you,” Lucas said, beginning to feel anger himself. “I think you must both be mad, and I will not fight a madman over a crime I didn’t commit!”

With a roar of rage, Patrick ripped off his coat and dropped it on the floor, then stepped to the nearest of the alcoves that held weapons and ripped a pair of crossed blades from the wall. He hurled one at Lucas and grasped the hilt of the other with the skill of a trained fighter. “Fight, dammit, or I’ll run you through where you stand!”

Lucas swore as he reflexively grabbed at the sword Patrick threw at him, managing to catch the hilt rather than the blade. It wasn’t one of the lightweight small swords usually used at the academy, but a cavalry saber, longer and heavier and more deadly, and with no cap on the tip to blunt a blow.

He had only an instant to evaluate the weapon before Patrick bore down on him. Lucas knocked the other man’s thrust aside barely in time.

He didn’t want to kill anyone, even this overprotective and misinformed brother. But if someone was to die here today, Lucas didn’t want it to be himself.