She was surprised at how quickly the hour passed and how attached she had become to the few children she had met. It made her ache again for her own family. It made her grateful for what she had.
Kit was quiet during the ride to his fencing salon. So was Violet. But then, the marchioness chatted enough for three people, possibly capable of carrying on a conversation with herself. Violet wondered what Godfrey would think if he could see them. And then she felt guilty that she hadn’t thought of him all day.
But how could she, with Kit to divert her? He looked at her only once during the carriage ride. His eyes had glittered like glass, so clear that she could see through to his soul.
A good soul.
A soul locked inside a man who looked dangerous indeed on the outside.
It had been a humbling day, one that had strengthened Violet’s resolve to dedicate herself to good works. It gave birth to a dream that one day she would be able to endow a school in Monk’s Huntley.
Even if she couldn’t afford to establish it herself, she could collect donations, and Kit could—Her dream ended there. Godfrey would disapprove. He—
Kit’s voice jolted her. “Well, it’s back to business as usual. Pardon me, ladies. It has been a pleasure, but the sword calls.”
“Do what you must,” the marchioness said with a gracious nod.
Violet looked up, realizing that the carriage had stopped in front of an attractive redbrick establishment. From what she could see a sword fight was taking place on the sidewalk. A boisterous audience comprised of students, shopkeepers, and young gentlemen placing bets on the outcome obstructed the passage of traffic. A hot-pie vendor shouted that he had sold his last wares.
“Good gracious!” the marchioness said, blocking Kit’s exit with her outflung arm. “One of those swordsmen is my brother-in-law, and he’s promised the family he’ll behave. Stay here, both of you, while I confront the rascal.”
“Which rascal is it?” Kit inquired, sitting back obediently. “And are you certain I can’t be of assistance?”
“It’s Devon, the one who never outgrew the nursery. Just look at the big lummox. He isn’t wearing any protection at all. Jocelyn will have a fainting fit when I tell her what he’s up to now.”
The door opened, and Jane stepped out into her senior footman’s hand. Kit started to laugh. “I can’t let her go into that fracas alone,” he said in a low voice. He looked at Violet. “Will you promise to stay here if I leave?”
“Do you think anyone would dare harm her?”
“Not on purpose,” he replied, taking his top hat from the seat. “I can’t vouch for what she’ll do, however.”
Violet wished dearly to follow, but the moment he stepped out of the carriage a university student recognized him and shouted at the top of his voice, “Master Fenton is in our midst!”
She smiled as he made an unsuccessful dash for the salle. The crowd swarmed around him, bumping the coach. That a half minute later Weed handed the marchioness back inside, closed the door, and stood guard against the steps was a tribute to his dedication that Violet could only admire.
“What a rout!” Jane explained, collapsing on the seat against Violet. “That man has a following that verges on the unholy.”
Violet looked over Jane’s head to the window. Kit had drawn his sword and was fencing backward. Three of his students forced him to the salon door, where he slipped into a flawless lunge, disarming the trio in one move, and vanished from Violet’s view.
“That was staged,” Violet said in admiration. “They did that on purpose so he could escape.”
But she wasn’t at all surprised that Kit had a devoted following. She had been beguiled by him once herself.
“It is an amusing way to make an exit,” Jane said. “I wish I could do that at some of the affairs I attend.” Jane studied her as the carriage rocked into motion. “Perhaps we shouldn’t tell your aunt or fiancé about this part of our excursion. I don’t think I should mention it to my husband, either. Are you good at keeping secrets?”
Violet smiled at her. “Yes. It’s one of my best traits.”
Chapter 12
On the following day Sir Godfrey called to take Violet and her aunt for an afternoon drive through Hyde Park. He had brought Aunt Francesca a straw bonnet decorated in silk lilies that he’d bought at a discount. When Violet caught her aunt making a face at the hat in the hallstand mirror, she decided that a day in the park might not be a good idea after all.
“I have a treat for you,” Sir Godfrey insisted behind her with a mysterious air that to Violet felt more like a threat.
“What sort of treat?”
“You, my dear, will have to wait.”
Violet compressed her lips. “May I have a hint?”
“No,” he said, escorting her toward the door, “you may not.”
“Will I like this treat?” her aunt asked, pulling off the bonnet and handing it to Twyford with a grimace of distaste.
Godfrey stared at Francesca in arrested disbelief before a respectful smile relaxed his face. “I will be disappointed if you do not, madam,” he said, offering Francesca his arm.
Violet and Twyford glanced at each other before Francesca reluctantly placed her hand upon his forearm and reached back for Violet’s hand. Violet hesitated. She wasn’t sure what had happened between Godfrey and her beloved aunt, but she would rather stay home than serve as peacemaker between them. Moreover, if she left the house, she might miss another visit from Jane, or the message that she could never admit she was waiting for.
She would have to be careful not to bring up the subject of fencing, specifically of fencing masters, to Godfrey. She doubted she could convince him that she had developed a sudden fascination with sword fighting, after she had missed his performance at the ball.
She paused at the door to button up her aunt’s short woolen spencer and followed her with Godfrey to the carriage he had parked in the middle of the street, obstructing traffic to and fro. Perhaps she should pretend that nothing was wrong, a situation rendered impossible as the three of them settled into the carriage and her aunt bent at the waist to examine one in a pile of long objects that poked out from beneath a tarpaulin under her feet.
“What in the name of creation is this?” Aunt Francesca demanded, and then proceeded to frighten the wits out of Violet by pressing the knob at the end of the long object and releasing a sword blade in Sir Godfrey’s face from the polished cylinder.
Violet swallowed a gasp as she stared at her betrothed. The blood drained from his cheeks, and small wonder, with Aunt Francesca swiping a lethal blade at his throat in bloodthirsty delight. “Well, look at that. It is a sword, Violet. Your fiancé has brought a virtual cache of the things with us to the park. How remarkable, Sir Godfrey. Do you intend to open up a shop as we drive along Rotten Row?”
He wrested the cane from her grasp in red-faced indignation. “I have already sold them to the pupils in the academy where I fence. Please, Lady Ashfield, give me that stick before you stab one of us.”
Aunt Francesca’s voice rose in skepticism. “Is the academy you attend located in the park?”
“It is not,” he replied, his jaw tightening. “But some of the students, including myself, are meeting there in a few minutes, and now you have spoiled what I had in store.”
Violet subsided against the seat, afraid that she would start to giggle and never stop if she looked either him or her aunt in the eye. But then it occurred to her that if the other pupils of the fencing school were to meet in the park, it wasn’t unreasonable to hope that the master of the academy might accompany them.
It wasn’t unreasonable at all to hope that she would see Kit again today, which meant that she would have an entirely different problem on her hands than a disgruntled fiancé and meddlesome aunt. She would have a full-blooded blackguard to contend with, an artful one, an amorous one. A person improper to know.
“I assume you have resold these sticks at a good profit,” Fran
cesca said to Godfrey with a sniff of disapproval.
Godfrey watched as the sword retracted into the stick before he answered her. “We are staging a friendly bout by the lake today. You and your niece missed my performance, Lady Ashfield. I wanted to impress you.”
Violet sat in silence as he placed the cane back under the seat. So this was to be his treat. A fencing competition in the park—to honor her? Her throat grew tight. A surprise, indeed, but not what he’d had in mind. “How long have you been planning this, Godfrey?” she asked him quietly.
“For weeks,” he replied, releasing a sigh that hinted she was ungrateful for not guessing.
She could only be grateful he had not guessed the truth.
For weeks. Kit would be there.
She could not ask Godfrey to elaborate. It was enough for her to worry that by a look she or Kit would betray the other. It was enough for her to hide her emotions from her aunt. Should she worry that Kit would break his word? How was she supposed to watch him fight Godfrey and not take sides?
“I have always been intrigued by the notion of what gentlemen consider to be a friendly match,” her aunt mused in the uncomfortable silence that had fallen. “It seems to me that even in sport one can wound an opponent.”
“We are professionally trained,” Godfrey replied, glancing at Violet as if to implore her intervention. “We wear protective garments in the event of an accident, well-padded fencing jackets, gloves, and masks.”
“I understand that,” Francesca said. “But professional training does not erase every vestige of male pride. What if one of you should lose your temper? Anger can erupt even during a friendly challenge.”
“Master Fenton would not allow that, madam.”
Violet leaned forward, pretending a sudden fascination with the handsome team of horses that pulled another coach across the intersection. She was better off not entering into the conversation. Any opinion she ventured on the subject of Master Fenton was liable to arouse suspicion.
“I enjoyed a good sword fight in my day,” her aunt said, her face meditative. “It is a skill, I must admit, that rouses a certain passion in the blood.”
“Aunt Francesca,” Violet murmured with a smile, “I cannot believe you would admit that. If I were to confess such a thing in public, you would reprimand me to no end.”
“I think it’s clear that I have been overstrict in your upbringing.”
“I disagree,” Godfrey said, and there was no trace of confrontation in his tone. “Violet is a perfect example of how a gentlewoman should be raised. Her demeanor is a credit to you, madam.”
Violet gazed out into the street again. She and Godfrey did not know each other at all, she thought. He wanted an unflawed wife, one who would serve as a stage prop in his version of an unflawed world. The realization wilted her spirits. She pictured herself standing on a stage at a wedding altar, waiting until the very last moment for a swordsman with a chiseled face to rescue her. How many times in the past had Kit rescued her and Eldbert from Ambrose or another of their imaginary enemies? But Godfrey wasn’t her enemy. And he was real.
“I hope I never embarrass you, Godfrey,” she murmured.
“How could you?”
A dozen ways came to her mind.
The coach turned into the park, joining the stream of traffic that headed toward Rotten Row. Violet glanced past the elegant phaetons, the matched horses and liveried grooms. She saw a group of ladies with plumed hats, drifting across the grass.
“Where are they going?” Aunt Francesca asked, peering over Violet’s shoulder.
“I’ve no idea,” she said, but she did.
She’d spotted Kit standing in his shirtsleeves and close-fitting pantaloons as Sir Godfrey’s driver was parking behind a landau on the track. He turned, sending a detached glance in her direction. His gaze flickered once to Godfrey.
Her pulse fluttered wildly. To look at him no one would guess she and Kit had ever shared anything more than a dance and a charitable endeavor. She only hoped that she appeared as unmoved as he did.
She wasn’t unmoved inside. His handsome elegance had sent her heart racing. The sight of him warmed her blood.
A footman helped her aunt alight from the carriage, and Violet forced herself to follow at a demure pace instead of running across the park to a swordsman she’d never been able to resist.
Whatever she did, she would not draw undue attention to Kit.
“Who is that person, Violet?” her aunt demanded in the authoritative voice that even God would be afraid to ignore. “The tall man with the group of ladies and gentlemen gathered around him? The lithesome one who is putting on a jacket and mask.”
“I—”
“There is something familiar about him,” her aunt continued, her suspicious nature aroused. “I have the keenest feeling I have seen him somewhere. But surely I would remember a person of such favorable appearance if we had met.”
“That is my fencing master, madam,” Sir Godfrey said, with a pride that strangely touched Violet. “He is the man with whom Violet opened the benefit dance the night before last.”
Francesca hesitated, pulling away from Violet’s hand. “Yes,” she said slowly. “That must be it.” But there was enough uncertainty in her voice that she stole another glance at Kit from the corner of her eye. She looked as if she suspected there was more to his story. There was so much more, and Violet did not know most of it herself.
He was a sight to fluster the senses, a magnetic force caught between two worlds. Neither angel nor devil. A very human being who had suffered and proven his strength until now. Violet would not be the one to weaken him. She would be as faithful to their pact as he had been.
“Let us stand back in the shade,” she said absently to her aunt. “We can see well enough from here.”
“As you wish, Violet.”
No. Not as she wished. What she wished for was unspeakable and disallowed. She wished to walk beside him and share their thoughts. She wished to feel his arms around her, and his mouth covering hers in kisses that took her breath away. She wished to be his best friend, to be . . . his.
She guided her aunt into the shade. She forced herself to concentrate on Godfrey as he strode across the grass. It should not have been a chore to pay attention to the gentleman who would be her husband. It should not be a temptation to compare another man’s muscular shoulders and relaxed figure to her betrothed’s more solid and familiar form.
But was Godfrey really the more familiar? She straightened as Kit swept a button-tipped foil in the air. Violet could have sworn she heard it sing from where she stood. The careless ease of his swing brought back a rush of memories.
She was not the only one impressed by the nimble devil. Several ladies and gentlemen halted in midcon-versation to regard him in wonder. Even her aunt stepped forward, risking the sun for a closer look. To Violet’s astonishment Kit turned, looked straight at Aunt Francesca, and bent in a graceful bow.
“I think I like that young swordsman, Violet,” her aunt said. “But I am not deceived for a moment by that bow. It was meant for you.”
“He didn’t even look at me.”
“Exactly.”
“And he is wearing a mask.”
“All the better to hide his feelings for you,” Francesca said drily. “You must have stirred his romantic sentiments at the ball.”
“And you must have stirred sherry into your morning tea,” Violet said, shaking her head. “Furthermore, if he paid any attention to me, it would be as a courtesy to Godfrey. Let us discuss Godfrey, shall we? Doesn’t he look suave in his fencing jacket?”
“Not to me,” Francesca replied. “But then, dear, you are going to marry him, and it is encouraging that you regard him as your champion in this bout.” She paused. “I assume that Godfrey is challenging the master to duel. It is moving that he hopes to prove his manliness to you, Violet. Unless, of course, he is thoroughly thrashed, in which case he will prove only that he is a fool.”
“I agree.”
Kit and Godfrey now stood only a yard apart, Kit demonstrating a few directions with his foil. In all likelihood Godfrey had paid Kit for this public show. Of course he had. But did she want to see Godfrey humiliated? She wasn’t sure she could watch even a congenial match between these two disparate men with an impartial heart. If she chose one as her champion, was she betraying the other? But to whom had she given herself first?
The bout started with the Grand Salute, a series of gestures by which the opponents showed respect for tradition. Violet noticed that the other pupils stopped their practice fencing by the water the instant that Kit and Godfrey engaged. The students drew together to study the master, as engrossed in Kit’s strategy as she was.
It was all about control. He underplayed his parries. He might have been fastening his cuffs. His calmness never wavered.
He was controlling everyone—his opponent, his audience, and most of all Violet. Yes, he was in complete control of her attention; Aunt Francesca had not breathed a word since the salute. Kit prolonged every move. He provoked. Godfrey responded, already striving to keep up the pace. Even to Violet’s amateur eye, it was obvious that Kit was manipulating Godfrey, and Godfrey, surprisingly, seemed to loosen and counter faster.
“Bash him, maestro!” a boy perched on his father’s shoulders shouted.
“Yes, do,” Aunt Francesca murmured.
Violet glared at her. “What did you say?”
“Achoo.” Her aunt fumbled in her reticule for a clean handkerchief. “I must have sneezed. You know how grass irritates my breathing.”
Violet sighed. The duel immediately absorbed her again. Kit had learned technique, she realized. There were names for the movements of the match—Godfrey had thrust a carte, which Kit parried with the carte parade. But he had been born with that skill.
A forbidden memory rose to her mind—Ambrose chasing her through the churchyard, threatening to tie her to a tree if she didn’t join his army, and Kit flying after him. She was laughing, looking back as he gained on Ambrose. Her heart beat as if it would burst.
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