With her foil in hand, Catherine followed him into the fencing salon. Charles had assured her that her disguise would still pass muster, so she didn’t worry about being exposed as a fraud. By design, her pants fit tightly around her calves, but she’d designed them to be baggy around her hips. She’d become a bit rounder in the past year or so, and the loose-fitting breeches helped hide her curves. The doublet, with its heavy padding across her chest and some additional padding she’d sewn around the waist, successfully hid all hints of femininity. The most important part of her disguise came from the careful application of collodion. The bit of theatrical makeup created a puckered scar on her cheek and at her hairline that completed her disguise.
She tugged at the snug white skullcap that covered her hair, assuring herself that no stray strands had escaped. The other fencers were used to seeing her wear it, and only newcomers looked twice at it these days. Years ago, Charles had let slip that Gray had suffered a severe burn, leaving his head horribly scarred, and the fake burn mark she created with the collodion supported the story.
Catherine stopped to absorb the feel of the space, letting it soak into her bones. She bounced on her toes and then tilted her head back to look up at the glowing gas chandeliers. The glittering cut-glass shades caused the light illuminating the large, open room to sparkle. She breathed in deeply, pulling the various mingled scents of men’s colognes and the slight undertone of perspiration into her lungs.
It was the smell of home. Her true home.
Catherine set her fencing mask on the floor along one of the walls. She wouldn’t need it until they picked up their foils. The crisscrossing strands of wire protected her face from being injured by an accidental slashing motion, but the large, one-inch-wide mesh squares would never be able to deflect a direct thrust. At least she could see clearly through it. Papa had given it to her a number of years ago. He always insisted upon safety, and had ensured that both Catherine and Charles were well supplied with the necessary fencing gear.
Smiling faintly to herself, Catherine made a quick perusal of the occupants in the large fencing salon. She spied only two faces she didn’t recognize, so she paused to assess their fencing abilities as they warmed up with some light sparring. After only a moment, it became obvious that they were friends.
“Look more lively, Huntley,” one of the men said over the sound of clashing steel that filled the room. “You’re dragging. Is your search for a perfect wife wearing you down? It must be a demanding task to locate someone perfectly proper.”
In response, the slightly taller man, Huntley, performed an envelopment, sweeping his friend’s blade through a full circle and controlling the match. Then he lunged forward on his long, muscular legs to score a point. The other man scowled, clearly annoyed.
Huntley moved gracefully as he whipped his foil through the air. He looked lively enough to Catherine. The muscles in his extended rear leg bunched and moved under his tight-fitting breeches, reminding her of jungle cats she’d seen at the London Zoo. A panther, she decided, as he pulled off his mask, revealing his black hair. But his eyes seemed slightly incongruous with that image. They should have been golden brown rather than a clear, bright blue.
Huntley regarded his friend and raised his left eyebrow so high it disappeared behind a lock of his tousled hair. “I’m here tonight to escape all that, and thank you for bringing it up.” He peered at his friend more closely. “What’s bothering you? You’re testy tonight. I’d hoped some light sparring would improve your mood, but I’m beginning to think the only thing that will knock some sense into you is a thrashing.” Huntley slipped on his fencing mask and dropped into an “en garde” stance, raising his foil in a salute. “Maybe I can accommodate you.” When his friend didn’t follow suit, Huntley twitched his foil in a beckoning motion.
Clearly unable to resist the challenge, his friend broke into a fierce grin, slid his fencing mask back in place, and then settled across from Huntley in a similar stance. Soon they were engaged in a brisk, but friendly, duel.
They were both good fencers, but Catherine found her eyes drawn to Huntley. She admired his powerful stance as he moved through a series of lunges. Not only was he tall, but he was quick as well. He’d make a formidable opponent.
With an almost palpable intensity, his alert eyes seemed to notice everything taking place in the room, even as he maintained his focus on his fencing partner.
Just like a predator.
Huntley glanced at her, piercing her with his direct gaze, and he clenched his jaw. Catherine began to smile back, but caught herself and changed her smile to a smirk. Where on earth did she think she was, at some soiree? She fumbled with her foil as she realized she had nearly flirted with the man. How could she have been so careless? She turned her back to him, her face flaming.
As she began stretching, feeling the pull of muscles releasing in her lower back, Catherine continued to watch them surreptitiously, glancing over her shoulder, not wanting to be caught staring again. As they sparred, she noticed that they held back, not putting too much force behind their attacks. Even so, Huntley’s impressive combination of polished moves, strength, and power melded into a remarkable athletic display. She’d need to observe them both later during a real match.
With her attention focused on the newcomers, someone managed to slip behind her and rap her smartly on her shoulder with the handle of a foil. Catherine whipped around, but wasn’t surprised to find herself staring up at Maestro Bernini. He loved sneaking up on his students that way, but he usually didn’t manage to do it with Catherine.
His eyes sparkled at his rare victory. “Buona sera, Gray. It’s good to see you. Don’t you ever grow?” His gravelly voice held an Italian accent as the words rolled off his tongue. He shook his head and tut-tutted.
Catherine pressed her lips together at his gibe. Bernini was either unaware of the discomfort he’d caused or he simply didn’t care. She tried to ignore her pang of anxiety.
She wouldn’t be able to pass herself off as Alexander Gray much longer.
“You’re no taller than the last time I saw you six months ago.” Bernini’s brows furrowed together as he glared at her. “Eat, boy. We need to increase your reach.” He clapped her hard on the back, almost causing her to stumble.
Catherine suppressed a grimace.
“Attenzione. Let’s begin, shall we?” Bernini called out, his voice slicing through the commotion.
Maestro Bernini had everyone begin with a few simple drills to practice their footwork, but quickly moved on to having them practice more complex techniques. He observed and corrected each person as they honed their skills.
He gave Catherine a satisfied nod as he passed, and she covered her relief with a grimace. She hated having him annoyed with her. There was nothing she could do about his complaint except grow taller, and unfortunately, that was well beyond her abilities.
As was traditional for the last part of the evening, Bernini demonstrated a more advanced technique for them to learn. Catherine watched him carefully and then slid through the steps of the move, mastering it quickly and earning another nod of approval from the maestro.
She glanced at Huntley in time to see that he, too, earned a similar nod. She hid the small smile of satisfaction. She’d been right. The man had talent.
Excitement raced through her when, at last, the best part of the evening arrived. Catherine rolled forward on her toes as the maestro paired them off to duel.
Bernini assigned sparring partners based on both size and ability. With her small stature, Catherine tended to be the exception, and she normally found herself facing a much larger opponent.
He paired Charles with Huntley. Catherine was both relieved and annoyed that she wasn’t going to fence him. But perhaps it was for the best. She found the man distracting, and the fact disturbed her.
When Bernini matched Catherine with the slightly shorter newcomer, she was intrigued. They approached each other with their fencing masks tucked under thei
r arms, openly assessing one another. She tipped her head back and looked up at him. Shorter was a relative term, since at six feet tall, the man still towered over her.
He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at her with narrowed eyes, assessing her. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate dueling with a mere boy.
“Lord Wentworth,” said Maestro Bernini, “this is Alexander Gray.” He nodded toward Catherine. “Gray, you’ll be matched with one of our new guests this evening, the Earl of Wentworth.”
“You’re having me spar with a boy?” Wentworth curled his lip in a sneer.
Bernini’s smile became crafty. “Don’t let Gray’s size fool you, my lord. He may well be the best student I’ve ever had. His only drawback is his size, and I’m sure that he’ll eventually grow out of it.” Bernini grinned at his own joke, but Catherine had heard it repeated too many times to find it humorous. “He may well win the big tournament I’m holding in a couple of months.”
Wentworth shot her a look of increased interest and cocked an eyebrow. “High praise, indeed, young man. I must admit, you don’t look like much of a challenge. You barely reach my chin.”
Catherine raised one eyebrow at him, and she felt her skin pull a bit where she’d used the collodion to cause it to pucker with the fake scar. She enjoyed being underestimated by newcomers. This should be fun. She didn’t say a word to him but instead turned her attention back to Bernini. “Maestro, did I hear you correctly? Are you holding a tournament?”
The man beamed at her. “The first annual Bernini’s Cup. I’ll explain more at the end of the evening.”
Bernini thought she could win a fencing tournament? A tingle of excitement ran through her. Could she really do something so daring? She imagined herself winning the tournament and then snatching off her white skullcap to show everyone what a woman could do when given a chance. But then the faces she imagined altered. Instead of admiration, they held shock and rebuke. She shook her head to dissipate the image. Her family would face ostracism if everyone learned she’d been living such a duplicitous life. It anyone ever discovered that Lady Catherine had entered the gentlemen’s changing room, she’d be denounced as a woman of loose morals and shunned by society. That would be too steep a price to pay for a brief moment of glory.
But it was a splendid dream.
Even though Wentworth angled his body away from her, Catherine still overheard what he murmured to Huntley. “After everything I heard about Bernini’s, I expected to be a bit more challenged.”
Her fingers tightened on the wire rim of the face mask, feeling it dig into her flesh. If a challenge was what Wentworth desired, then she’d leave him feeling satisfied tonight.
“Don’t be so cocky.” Huntley glanced at her, but she avoided his gaze. “I watched him earlier. He’s very good. He fences like someone twice his age.”
His praise caught her off guard, and a rush of pride suffused her. He’d noticed her? She’d been aware of the man all night, assessing his abilities. How was it she’d missed noticing that he’d been doing the same?
“He’s only a child.” Wentworth spun on his heel and turned back to Catherine. His eyes glittered in anticipation as he donned his face mask.
They saluted, as was tradition, and then Wentworth made a tentative advance, toying with her, and Catherine easily parried the move. He lunged, slapping his foot hard against the boards with a bang, but Catherine danced backward, out of reach.
Wentworth tested her as he continued to search for any weakness in her defenses, but she remained guarded. When he intentionally left himself open to attack, she knew better than to fall for such a blatant ruse. Instead, she blithely slapped his foil aside and grinned. He frowned, obviously irritated that she’d recognized the trap. They continued in this manner for a while, testing one another, but without scoring any points.
Two by two, the other fencers finished their mock duels and began to gather around Catherine and Wentworth until finally, they were the only pair still sparring.
Catherine caught sight of Huntley from the corner of her eye. The man’s head was cocked to one side as he studied them. When she struck the first point directly in the center of Wentworth’s chest, Huntley joined the others in applauding.
The moment he was hit, Wentworth jerked his head back in surprise and then glared at her. He let out a huff of frustration but didn’t waver in his attack. Instead, he immediately dropped into the “en garde” stance to continue the match.
Catherine saw a brief frisson of tension spark through Wentworth’s body. Years of fencing had taught her to recognize an opponent’s mood change, and she recognized the shift in Wentworth’s temper through the small, subtle changes in his body.
“Mind yourself, Wentworth, he’s just a boy,” Huntley called out.
Catherine’s eyes narrowed as she focused on Wentworth, shutting out everything else in the room. Rather than calming him, Huntley’s comments seemed to throw fuel on Wentworth’s already smoldering temper.
“It’s time I taught this boy a lesson.” Wentworth lunged at Catherine in what he probably hoped was a surprise attack. His anger, however, made him careless, and she easily parried his thrust.
The metal of their foils sang as she slid hers up along his, easily scoring another point as she pushed his foil aside and thrust the tip of hers against his right shoulder. She allowed the length of the foil to arch as she pressed the tip against his doublet, offering visible proof of her hit.
While standing frozen in her stance, she watched a deep flush suffuse Wentworth’s face. It was obvious even through his mask. As she stepped back, he clenched his left hand into a fist.
Anger made a person more dangerous and unpredictable, as well as more careless, and that combination in a fencer could be deadly. Judging by the startled faces of their audience, they too had noted Wentworth’s growing rage. Catherine scraped her teeth against her bottom lip, tasting a hint of saltiness.
What would Wentworth do next?
Fortunately, the maestro was also focused on the duel. As the soaring tension between Catherine and Wentworth became palpable, Bernini stepped between them and raised his hands, putting an end to the match.
“Two points,” Bernini announced. “And we are done.” He grabbed Catherine by her free hand and Wentworth by the one holding his foil and raised them above his head. “That was excellent, gentlemen. I know we usually go to three points,” he said, addressing the assemblage, “but I’m sorry to say, we have to cut this short.” He dropped their hands as he paused and offered a salacious grin. “I have a most important engagement this evening and I must ask everyone to leave promptly.” The twinkle in his eye left no one wondering about the type of engagement. Bernini was renowned for his insatiable appetite for women. “Wentworth, Gray… that was excellent. I look forward to hosting your rematch.”
Wentworth gave Bernini a terse nod and backed away without even glancing at her.
At the sudden absence of tension, Catherine nearly sagged with relief. Since Wentworth was new to the academy, she didn’t know him well enough to guess how he might have handled his anger.
“Before everyone leaves, I have an announcement to make.” Bernini paused and glanced around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. “The first annual Bernini’s Fencing Tournament will be held on the second Saturday in March. The winner will be awarded a moderate purse and have his name engraved on a traveling trophy.” He smiled as a spark of interest flashed through the room. “The winner will have his name engraved on a plaque and will be permitted to keep it until he is beaten a subsequent tournament. Anyone interested in registering can speak with Mr. Winston and provide him with your entry fee.”
The room began buzzing with conversation and Bernini quickly disappeared from view as members of the academy surrounded him, besieging him with questions. She wanted to speak with him, too, but it was obvious she wouldn’t be able to get close to him. She’d just end up looking like a small dog trying to force its way int
o a pack of wolves.
Wentworth gripped his fencing mask and yanked it from his head. He locked gazes with Catherine for a moment, glaring at her, and then lifted his chin and closed his eyes. A moment later, his shoulders visibly relaxed as if his anger simply ebbed away. When he opened his eyes again, they appeared cool. He gave Catherine a quick nod of acknowledgment and then spun on his heel and strode toward the door at the end of the large fencing salon. He tossed his foil and mask to a servant just before he passed through the door, apparently leaving the other fencers, and the incident, behind him.
That was quite the trick. Had his temper really abated just as quickly as it had spiked?
She peered at Huntley to gauge his reaction. He appeared relieved as he watched Wentworth stride from the room. And then his gaze turned toward her, almost as though he’d sensed her looking at him. He was halfway across the room, walking straight toward her, before she even realized he’d moved.
Did he mean to speak with her? Apparently so. She slid her mask under the crook of her arm.
“My compliments to you, Gray.” Huntley’s voice held a very faint, but pleasant, Scottish lilt. “You bested my friend on his first night at Bernini’s. He’d planned to show off his finely honed skills, but instead he found himself beaten by a young pup barely out of clouts.” Huntley smiled more broadly as he handed his equipment to a waiting servant. When he glanced back at her, his gaze lingered on the scar on her cheek.
Clouts? Catherine didn’t know whether or not to take insult with his reference to diapering a baby. “I hope your friend will forgive the affront since none was intended. Lady Luck was with me tonight. Lord Wentworth is an excellent fencer. I look forward to our next match.” She scratched her nose as she glanced at the empty doorway through which Wentworth had exited. How much of a problem would the man would prove to be?
“You seem mature for a boy of your years,” Huntley said, drawing her gaze back to him. The man’s cool blue eyes seemed to focus on her with an uncomfortable intensity. She suddenly felt as exposed as a mouse spied by a hawk. “What are you, twelve… fourteen years old?” He narrowed his eyes, measuring every inch of her.
It Takes a Spy...: A Secrets and Seduction book Page 14