Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
The Fencing Academy
The ring of steel greeted me before I'd crossed the threshold of Angelo's Academy.
I paused in the doorway, letting the familiar sounds wash over me—the clash of blades, the shuffle of soft-soled shoes on polished oak, the sharp commands of the fencing masters echoing through the salle d'armes.
Three mornings a week, I came here and had done so for fifteen years. Before the daily demands of the dukedom intruded, before the correspondence and the meetings and the endless responsibilities that came with my title, there was this—the pure, uncomplicated discipline of the blade.
The academy occupied the upper floors of a handsome building on Bond Street, and this early—barely past eight—only the most dedicated practitioners had arrived. I preferred it this way. Fewer eyes. Fewer whispers.
"Your Grace." The senior instructor, a lean Frenchman named Beaumont who had trained half the aristocracy of London, offered a crisp nod. "Your partner awaits."
"Thank you, Beaumont."
The changing room was blessedly empty. I shed my coat and waistcoat, my cravat and collar, trading the armor of impeccable tailoring for the simpler uniform of the salle: white shirt, dark breeches, soft leather shoes that would grip the floor without sound.
I caught my reflection in the mirror as I rolled my sleeves to the elbow.
Without the layers of civilization, I looked like what I was—a man built for action who spent far too much of his life in drawing rooms.
I selected my preferred foil from the rack—French grip, well-balanced, the leather wrapping worn to the precise shape of my hand—and made my way to the main floor where Lord Benedict Fairfax was already warming up, his blade cutting elegant patterns through the air.
"You're late," Benedict said without turning around. "I was beginning to think you'd found better entertainment."
"Traffic on Piccadilly."
"At eight in the morning?" Benedict turned, a grin lighting his face.
He was a viscount, early thirties, with the kind of easy charm that made him welcome in every drawing room in London.
More importantly, he was one of the few men I might call a friend—though I didn't use the word easily.
"Traffic. Of course. Nothing at all to do with a certain red-haired lady who's been monopolizing your evenings of late. "
I kept my expression neutral as I took the fencer’s stance, "En garde."
Benedict laughed as he did the same. We saluted—a gesture of respect that had survived centuries—and then our blades crossed.
The first exchange was exploratory. Testing. Benedict was skilled—genuinely skilled, not merely competent in the way most aristocrats were—and he'd been fencing with me long enough to know my patterns. He pressed forward with a series of quick attacks, probing for weaknesses.
I parried each one with economical precision. I didn't waste movement. Didn't chase. I waited, watching Benedict's footwork, reading the subtle shifts in his weight that telegraphed his intentions. Three moves ahead—that was how I fenced. That was how I did everything.
Benedict attempted a feint to the high line, then dropped low. I had anticipated it. My blade swept down in a clean parry, and in the same motion, I riposted—a single, fluid thrust that caught him squarely in the chest.
"Damn." Benedict stepped back, acknowledging the touch. "I thought I had you with that one."
"You telegraphed the feint. Your shoulder drops before you commit."
"Does it? Wonderful. I'll add that to the list of things you notice that no one else does." He rolled his shoulder experimentally. "Again?"
We fenced three more bouts. Benedict won the second—a clever attack in preparation that caught me during a moment of distraction—but I took the other two. By the end, we were both breathing hard, shirts clinging damply to our backs.
"You're in fine form today," Benedict said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "I suppose I have Lady Rosalynd to thank for that. Nothing like a beautiful woman to keep a man on his toes."
Anyone else would have received a cold stare for such impertinence. But Benedict had earned the right to needle me—fifteen years of friendship, stretching back to our Oxford days, had granted him privileges I extended to no one else. Still, there was a limit.
"Must you?"
"I must. The whole of London is talking about you two, you know. Seen everywhere together. Grosvenor Square, the Hathaway ball, that charity luncheon for—what was it? Fallen women?"
"Unwed mothers." The correction came automatically. Rosalynd's cause, dear to her heart. I'd written a substantial check.
"Right, right." Benedict's grin turned knowing. "So? Is there to be a duchess soon? Should I be shopping for a wedding gift?"
I busied myself examining my blade for nicks. "Lady Rosalynd and I have an understanding."
"An understanding." Benedict raised an eyebrow. "Not quite sure what that's supposed to mean."
"We enjoy each other's company. Neither of us is interested in marriage."
"You may claim such a thing, Steele, but I’ve watched the two of you together. There's a hunger there—on both sides—that won't be satisfied by an 'understanding' forever."
Something flickered in my chest—that familiar ache I had learned to bury deep. Benedict saw too much. He always had. But what he couldn't see was the memory that rose unbidden whenever I thought of marriage: my wife’s face, pale as wax. The blood. The silence where a child's cry should have been.
I would not put Rosalynd in that danger. No matter what my heart demanded. "Shall we go again?"
"Coward." But Benedict was still grinning as he raised his blade.
We were resting between bouts when a new arrival drew my attention.
The man moved through the salle with the confidence of someone accustomed to command.
Mid-forties, I estimated. Striking, in a cold, angular way, with steel-gray hair cropped close in a military fashion and eyes that assessed everything they passed over.
His posture was rigid, precise—a soldier's bearing that civilian clothes couldn't quite disguise.
Beaumont greeted him with the same professional courtesy he extended to all members, but I noticed a certain reserve in the fencing master's manner. Interesting.
"Sir Victor Creighton," Benedict murmured, following my gaze. "Been angling for membership for months. Finally got in last week."
"I don't know the name."
"You wouldn't. He's new money—made his fortune in shipping and speculation. Very successful at both, from what I hear." Benedict's voice dropped. "Also very ruthless. Word is he's not particular about how he acquires either ships or opportunities."
I watched Creighton select a foil, test its weight with practiced ease. Military training, certainly. The man knew his way around a blade.
"There's more," Benedict continued. "He's been buying up ventures at a fraction of their worth. Struggling businesses, mostly. Circles them like a vulture until they're desperate enough to sell, then swoops in with an offer they can't refuse."
"Legal, if distasteful."
"Perhaps. But there's a rumor he was burned badly in some deal a while back. Lost a considerable sum when an investment went south. The man who arranged it—" Benedict hesitated. "Well. Let's just say Creighton isn't known for forgetting grudges."
Before I could inquire further, Creighton's gaze found us across the room. Something flickered in those cold eyes—calculation, perhaps, or opportunity—and he began making his way toward us.
"Your Grace." Creighton's bow was correct, his smile practiced. Up close, the coldness was more apparent. This was a man who weighed every interaction for advantage. "Sir Victor Creighton. It's an honor to make your acquaintance. I've heard a great deal about you."
"Sir Victor." I kept my acknowledgment polite but distant.
"They say you're the finest blade at Angelo's." Creighton's gaze dropped to the foil in my hand. "I spent twenty years in Her Majesty's cavalry before making my fortune. I'd be honored if you'd consider sparring with me sometime. I suspect I could learn a great deal."
The request was reasonable enough. The delivery was flawless. And yet something about Creighton set my instincts humming—that same prickle of warning I'd honed through years of investigation, long before a copper-haired lady upended my life.
"Perhaps," I said. "My schedule is rather full at present."
"Of course. I understand completely." If Creighton was offended by the lukewarm response, he gave no sign. "Another time, then." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "A pleasure, Your Grace. Lord Fairfax.”
As he moved away, Benedict’s eyes narrowed. "Finest blade at Angelo’s? That's cutting it a bit thick, don't you think?"
“Yes, that struck me as odd."
Benedict puffed up his chest as he struck a pose. “I should say. Everyone knows I'm the best."
I laughed—a rare sound, even to my own ears. Leave it to Benedict to leaven suspicion with absurdity.
As I watched Creighton take his place on the far side of the salle, I filed the man's name away in my memory, Sir Victor Creighton. Made his fortune in shipping and speculation. Ruthless. Patient. And nursing a grudge against someone who'd cost him dearly.
A man worth watching.
"Come," I said to Benedict, raising my blade. "One more bout before I must return to civilization."
Benedict grinned. "Eager to see Lady Rosalynd, are we?"
My lunge came fast enough to have him scrambling backward. But he laughed all the same.