Edward smirked as he folded his paper. “I’ve plans for the both of us while Kit convalesces. You’ll see soon enough.”
I caught the faintest glint of mischief in his eyes, and my thoughts wandered to the bluestocking salon. She had meant to repel me with that visit, but she had only intrigued me further.
Snatching the paper a second time to distract myself, I spied another headline.
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE STALKS LIMEHOUSE DOCKS—A VIGILANTE AT WORK?
London’s docklands have long been a haven for smugglers, cutthroats, and illicit dealings, but recent nights have seen an unusual disturbance—one that has left more than a few hardened criminals quivering in the alleys.
Several dockworkers and night watchmen have reported a lone figure moving through Limehouse and Wapping after dark, slipping between the warehouses and disappearing before anyone can draw near...
I stared at the paper a moment longer, then huffed a quiet laugh. A lone figure prowling the docks at night, sending criminals scattering? Madness.
And yet, I envied his action.
Edward arched a black brow. “What’s so amusing?”
I folded the paper and set it aside. “Just thinking how much simpler life might be if all my problems could be solved in the dead of night with a well-placed right hook.”
Edward glanced at the paper. “You’re welcome to try your luck in Limehouse. I wager you’d find my sister the greater challenge by far.”
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. He wasn’t wrong.
When the carriage halted later that morning, Edward’s grin bordered on smug as he gestured toward the stately Georgian building on Bond Street.
A discreet sign announcedAngelo’s School of Arms. Inside the building, we entered a grand training hall with polished wooden floors and high ceilings designed for ample room of movement, with mirrors lining most of the walls. Various fencing weapons—foils, épées, and sabres—alongside framed portraits of past masters, including Domenico Angelo—brought a sense of awe.
Finally, I felt like I had come home.
Edward grinned at my obvious reaction. “There are smaller practice rooms adjacent to the main hall for private lessons, should you care for it. I can make arrangements if you wish.”
Even now Edward appeared an enigma as he eased into the group of men, all dandies with tousled curls. He offered cool nods but refused to engage with them, instead leading me toward an older man with gray at his temples. I wondered at the lack of introductions, since the other men seemed to recognize him.
We stopped before the slender man dressed from head to toe in black. Edward gestured to me. “Mr. Angelo, may I present a friend of my family, Mr. Sinclair? He has jousted with the very best in Europe, even with some of Napoleon’s men.”
Mr. Angelo regarded me with an arched brow. “Bah, the French! They think they are the best. Who did you train with?”
“Jean-Louis Michel,” I answered. Egos ran high within fencing circles.
Mr. Angelo barked a laugh. “You might as well have trained with a ballet master. Regardless, I should like to see what you are capable of, young man.”
I discarded my jacket, fully aware of the eyes upon me. My dated breeches and stockings remained at odds with the trousers the other men wore, yet I was no less prepared.
A young gentleman placed into my hand a practice foil. The weapon felt lighter than my preferred sabre, but suitable for a bout of skill.
“En garde,” Mr. Angelo said, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen countless duels. We raised our foils and saluted each other before slipping into the familiar guard position while several other fencers gathered around us.
Mr. Angelo moved to the left in a blur, extending one arm, his blade steady. The moment I shifted intoseconde, he lunged. I parried the thrust, my blade sliding along his before he disengaged and swung his own blade. I countered with a deftquarte, our swords clashing.
“You’ve got some speed, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, circling me like a leopard about to devour its prey.
I stayed light on my feet, tracking his movements, waiting for the inevitable feint. He flicked his wrist, a classicflècheto close the distance, but I slipped back, evading the swipe.
Mr. Angelo pressed forward, his blade flashing in sharp, distracting thrusts. I parried each, allowing him to feel the resistance, then launched my attack and forced him to stumble backward. Gasps followed as he straightened.
“Interesting,” he said, catching his breath with a smirk. “Youarea dancer.”
“Perhaps,” I replied, taking advantage of his pause to knock his blade off course.
