Page 52 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“Fortinbras.”

“And other roles as assigned. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Fred simply nodded from his seat, the surest sign they didn’t consider Manelli above them.

“And this is Kiddell,” Dorsey indicated.

Dante lifted his sword in salute. “An excellent Laertes. I enjoyed your impatience with your father’s lengthy speech.”

“He will be a windbag,” Kiddell said, making his own salute. “I already know to mine own self be true.”

“Touché,” Cerys murmured. “Mr. Manelli, do you mean to join our exercise? Stage fighting is different from a regular duel.”

“So I would imagine. But I cannot bear to see a lady undefended.”

“She’s no lady,” Kiddell scoffed.

“Speaking of ladies.” Dorsey made a lazy thrust, testing Dante’s form. “Have any sway with Lady Baeccon? She made a big show of putting down blunt on our theater if the crowd liked our show. Well, I say they liked us well enough, so time to make good on her promise, aye?”

“I have no influence with her ladyship,” Dante answered. “But I have known her to break a promise or three, so while I share your disappointment, I cannot say I am surprised.”

He said this so blandly. This from a man who had looked like he’d had his guts ripped out when Bathsheba Baeccon walked into the parlor only a few days before. He’d strengthened his mask.

Or he had less reason to be susceptible to her wiles. Was that the reason?

He glanced at Cerys. “Have you asked Miss Evans to approach her ladyship? She seems the sort who knows how to be persuasive.”

Cerys scowled at him. He had indeed been listening in on their conversation, without their knowledge. How uncouth.

“I cannot imagine why,” Cerys said, “but Lady Baeccon seems quite set on refusing to be charmed by me.”

“I cannot imagine why, either.” He watched Dorsey’s approach. “Where did you learn your tactics? Angelo’s?”

“The school of Angelo’s.” Dorsey gave a smug grin, throwing back his shoulders.

“From reading the book.” Kiddell snorted.

Dorsey shrugged. “From one as said he learned from Angelo. The son, not the master himself, but runs the fine school in London all the same. How can you tell?” It seemed Dorsey had decided to like the architect, for all he meant to exploit him in any way possible.

“Angelo has his own inventions, modified from the Italian style.” Dante watched Cerys as she defended an attack from Kiddell, then slipped forward under his foil and scored a hit to his side. “And Miss Evans fights in the French style. Why should her style be different, if you were all taught together?”

Cerys stood back and put up her sword, blowing a curl out of her face. Dante’s regard brushed over her like fire. His gaze dipped over the front of her tightly buttoned frock coat, the quickly tied cravat, the breeches. He followed the curve of her hips with his eyes, then tore his gaze away as if the sight pained him.

Well, one couldn’t fence in a frock, could one? At least not when rehearsing for Hamlet.

“Oh, Cerys had had some lessons afore she came to us,” Dorsey said. “I only needed to show her the stage tricks. En garde!”

“And where did Miss Cerys study?” Dante watched as Cerys parried Dorsey’s heavy attack, then advanced lightly, quickly. She kept her steps small, her movements focused in a small range. She left nothing of herself open or vulnerable.

“A fencing master retired to Newport a few years ago. A friend of Sir—a friend of a friend’s.”

“The one who taught you falconry?” He watched her with a narrow stare, trying to read out her past.

Her past could stay safely where it was, thank you. She was here to be someone new. Someone without a history. “Yes,” was all she said.

“I think Cerys is a lady,” Fred called.

“I think you are right, young Fred.” Dante flipped his foil into play as Kiddell came at him and easily turned his thrust.

“I’m not a lady. I told you all how I was raised.” She blew at her damnable hair, wishing she’d stowed a bandeau in her pocket. Her hair was a curse.