Rebellious Rakes: Rake Most Likely to Rebel. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
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