We disengaged, and he lowered his foil. “Not bad at all, Mr. Sinclair. You are a gentleman even if you play the rogue with the sword.”
I offered a slight bow. “Better to be both, sir. One without the other rarely lasts.”
For once, I was glad to be in England. At least Mr. Angelo wouldn’t be privy to Jean-Louis Michel’s knowledge of how low I had sunk as a true rogue and Lothario.
Listen, mon ami,Jean-Louis had said, his eyes keen yet softened with the weight of experience.A man who fights with his heart clouded by anger or regret is as good as dead. Fencing is not about strength, not about power.It’s about clarity—clarity of purpose, of mind. Control that, and you control the blade. Control the blade, and you can do anything.
He had leaned closer, his voice lowering with a paternal warmth.The battlefield, it’s no different from life, eh? We all make mistakes. We fall, we lose ourselves. But we rise, mon garçon. To be a true swordsman—or a true man—one must learn to rise, to steady the hand, and to fight again, clear-eyed. Whatever ghosts you carry, do not let them command your sword, or your life.
I owed Jean-Louis Michel my life. He had taken in a spoiled, rich youth in war-torn France and taught him how to be a man.
A murmur spread through the hall and a blond man advanced from the crowd, watching me with narrowed eyes. I offered a brief salute to Mr. Angelo, the thrill of the match still tingling in my arm, and retrieved my jacket.
Mr. Angelo clapped me on the back. “If you’re ever in need of a challenge, you’ll find it here, in my academy. May I present my best student, Lord Chudley? He has long held our club’s title of champion, but I would advise him not to cling too tightly to his accolades with you in London.”
I paused at the name as the blond man stepped forward. I offered a bow to which Lord Chudley merely placed his hands behind his back while standing erect. “Napoleon’s men trained you? I have always thought the French cowards since the Battle of Salamanca. Unable to stand against Wellington’s might.”
The comment rang loudly, and the low hum of chatter increased within the main room. I, too, was British and had been raised to embrace the same patriotism, but my hackles rose. Not everyone would understand my drive to master the art of fencing, nor my regard for Jean-Louis Michel, who had known more than enough hardship because of his birthplace in Saint-Domingue.
“I have always sought the best teachers, regardless of their nationality,” I answered.
“Impressive work,” Lord Chudley drawled as he stepped forward, his blond hair catching the light. “But I wonder—can you keep pace against a true Englishman?”
The pompous earl had just insulted Mr. Angelo.
I halted, my muscles still taut from the previous match. “Are you offering yourself as an opponent, my lord? Then perhaps it is time you tested whether patriotism alone makes a man skilled with a sword.”
My tone held no heat, but I saw Mr. Angelo’s mouth twitch in what might have been approval.
A faint sneer played on Lord Chudley’s lips. “If you’ve the stomach for it.”
Mr. Angelo hesitated. “Gentlemen—”
“It’s just a friendly match,” Lord Chudley interrupted, retrieving a foil from the rack. He saluted me with a flourish, his eyes gleaming with challenge.
Reluctantly, Mr. Angelo stepped aside.
Lord Chudley’s first thrust reverberated up my arm. I parried, adjusting my stance as he pressed forward. His style was aggressive, meant to intimidate, but I met each strike.
The onlookers murmured as Lord Chudley’s mouth thinned. He surged forward, his blade flashing near my side. I deflected, countering with a quick riposte that nearly disarmed him.
Lord Chudley lunged, his foil flicking toward my shoulder, then abruptly veering upward, the tip stopping a hairsbreadth from my cheek. A calculated feint—or carelessness?
“Enough!” Mr. Angelo snapped as he stepped between us.
We both lowered our blades, though Lord Chudley lingered a moment longer, tilting his foil ever so slightly to let the metal slide along mine with a grating sound.
The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it sent a ripple of unease through me.
“This is a place for skill, not posturing,” Mr. Angelo said, his tone clipped as he glanced between us. “Lord Chudley, you’d do well to remember that.”
Lord Chudley’s lips curled. “A lesson learned, Mr. Angelo. I meant no harm.” He lowered his foil with a sharp exhale, his gaze locked on mine. “Another time, then.”
I inclined my head, quelling the urge to strike the earl.
Lord Chudley pivoted, his cheeks flushed either from exertion or the public reprimand.
“Edward Grenville, old fellow! Did you plan on jousting today or collecting bets?”
