“Quiet, Kit,” Edward warned me in a low voice. “This has been building for days. Let it play out as it must. Better a public bout than an actual duel at dawn with pistols where anything could happen.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I demanded.
He cast me a sideways glance. “I’ll not elaborate. You’ll have to ask Mr. Sinclair yourself.”
Such cryptic answers. Lord Chudley’s piercing gaze slid to mine and held for the barest moment. I saw no humor in those brilliant blue eyes.
Sebastian, however, did not look at me again.
Edward stepped forward, cupping a hand around his mouth. “Go on, Mr. Sinclair! Show him what you’ve got—give him a proper dusting!”
I had heard plenty about Sebastian’s prowess with the blade, but my pulse raced as a servant brought two gleaming sabres into the garden. It was almost as if Lord Chudley had planned the entire thing beforehand.
Edward swore under his breath as he returned. “No foils. Say a prayer, Kit.” He nodded toward the gathering men. “Chudley’s out for blood. At Angelo’s, we use tipped foils—blunted, just for practice. These aren’t.”
Freddy sent me a nervous glance.
Lord Chudley’s sabre caught the sun, its edge far too sharp. He smirked and dropped into position, right leg outstretched, left arm raised for balance.
I pressed a gloved hand to my stomach. I felt ill.
Sebastian inspected his blade as the men cheered. Several wives clustered near Lady Anne, who clapped with forced delight. I caught a flicker of unease beneath her smile—like a child trying to appear brave before a fire-eater.
The next few moments happened so fast—
Lord Chudley lunged just as Sebastian gained his footing. The blades clashed. Nay, rang!
Sebastian slid and sidestepped, reminding me of the waltz we had shared. I must have edged closer, for a firm arm wrapped around my middle and dragged me back.
“Nay, Kit. Do not get too close. One misplaced slice, and you’ll be gutted like a fish,” Edward breathed in my ear.
The men circled each other while we watched, the guests no longer cheering. Lord Chudley lunged again, and Sebastian deflected the thrust, moving in a blur as light slid down his sword.
A golden lock tumbled over the young earl’s forehead, and beads of sweat dripped down his cheek.
“Slippery like an eel,” Lord Chudley taunted as he darted left. “You prance about, always spinning away. Just like those blasted French.”
The men cheered at the insult while I flinched, but Sebastian didn’t appear ruffled in the slightest. Instead, he kept deflecting, parrying each strike, the blades clashing.
“Is it not a foolish game?” I demanded of my brother, hardly able to take my eyes off the men in the center of the garden. “Surely someone will get hurt.”
“They are testing each other, looking for an opening. Cease speaking so loud or you’ll distract them at the wrong moment,” Edward hissed.
I could hardly follow the speed of their blades—each clash rang like a struck bell. Sebastian dodged a sharp swipe and slid back with practiced ease, always a step ahead.
With a sudden feint, Lord Chudley leapt forward. His blade sliced across Sebastian’s cheek.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers as blood bloomed against his skin. I cried out, but Edward’s hand at my waist held me still.
Sebastian didn’t falter. With chilling precision, he sidestepped LordChudley’s next strike and, in a single swift movement, hooked his leg around the other man’s. The earl crashed to the ground, his sabre skidding across the grass.
The crowd fell deathly silent, as if the very garden held its breath.
Edward let out a low curse. “Ungentlemanly, that move on Chudley’s part.”
“The rules do not allow strikes to the face, yes?” I asked, confusion and anger mingling within me.
“Aye,” Edward replied, his voice grim. “Lord Chudley’s strike was a disgrace, and Sinclair’s response was pure skill. It’s one thing to disarm a man—another to humiliate him.” He glanced at me, his expression serious. “And no gentleman ever sends another man to the ground unless thoroughly provoked. Mr. Sinclair made his point.”
