RAKES ON TOUR

Outrageous hell-raisers let loose in Europe!

When London’s most notorious rakes embark on a Grand Tour they set female hearts aflutter all across Europe!

The exploits of these British rogues might be the stuff of legend, but on this adventure of a lifetime will they finally meet the women strong enough to tame their wicked ways?

Read Haviland North’s story in

Rake Most Likely to Rebel June 2015

And read Archer Crawford’s story in

Rake Most Likely to Thrill August 2015

And watch out for more Rakes on Tour stories coming in 2016!

AUTHOR NOTE

Bonjour! Welcome to our first stop in Rakes on Tour. Paris was the traditional first stop on the nineteenth-century Grand Tour for many, and Haviland’s story is centred around a fencing salon. The salle d’armes in this story is modelled after a famous salle that really did exist at 14 rue Saint-Marc and was handed down from father to son. I have tried to be as true as possible to the various schools of thought mentioned in the story as Haviland continues his education as a fencer.

Gentlemen sought out fencing as an activity that furthered their education. Fencing was not only good exercise for the body, but it was also considered good exercise for the mind. To quote directly from L’Ecole d’Escrime Français by Roman Hliva, ‘Handling a sword steeled one’s nerves, provided courage and taught judgement under fire.’ The salles were busy between four and seven in the afternoon, and many—like the one in rue Saint-Marc—had different practising areas, an area for paying members and one for day guests who also likely borrowed the salon’s equipment since they didn’t have their own.

One other note: nineteenth-century French uses the word ‘hôtel’ differently from its modern meaning. A ‘hôtel particulier’, like the Leodegrances’, is not an inn but a large, private, free-standing home in town that does not share walls with other dwellings.

Enjoy Haviland’s story and a glimpse into French fencing!

Stay in touch at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com or at bronwynnscott.com

Rake Most Likely to Rebel

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

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For Monsieur Rouse,

high school French teacher extraordinaire: Votre ardeur pour la langue insuffle mon fil. Merci. (Je regrette, I have not conjugated ‘to inspire’ for some time. I hope the form is correct on insuffle!)

And for Ro and Brony—we will see the City of Light (La Ville Lumière) together soon.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Dover docks—March 1835

There were no pleasures left in London. One could only hope Paris would do better. Haviland North turned up the collar of his greatcoat against the damp of the early March morning and paced the Dover docks, anxious to be away with the tide.

All of his hopes were pinned on France now and its famed salle d’armes. If springtime in Paris should fail to stimulate his stagnant blood, the rest of Europe awaited to take its turn. He could spend summer among the mighty peaks of the Alps, testing his strength on their crags, autumn among the arts and graces of Florence, winter in Venice feasting on the sensuality of Carnevale and another spring, if he could manage it. This time in Naples, basking in the heat of southern Italy with its endless supply of the ancient. If those destinations did not succeed, there was always Greece and the alluring, mysterious Turkey.

The exotic litany of places rolled through his mind, a mantra of hopefulness and perhaps a mantra of fantasy. His father had promised him six months, not a year or two. It would all have to be managed very carefully. In truth, Haviland preferred it not come to that simply because of what the need for such lengths indicated about his current state—that at the age of twenty-eight and with everything to live for: the title, the vast fortune that went with it, the estates, the horses, the luxuries other men spent their lives acquiring—he was dead inside after all.

He’d had to fight hard for this Grand Tour, abbreviated as it might be. His well-meaning father had relented at last, perhaps understanding the need for his grown son to spread his wings beyond London and see something of the world before settling down. Haviland had won six months of freedom. But it had come at a great cost: afterwards, he would return home and marry, completing the plans that had been laid by two families three generations ago.

He could hear his father’s voice, see him behind his massive desk in the estate office as he delivered his verdict.

‘Six months is all we can spare. You’re different than your friends. They don’t have your expectations. Even Archer is a second son and when it comes down to it, his duties are different than yours. They can be gone for years. We can’t possibly spare you that long. The Everlys are eager to see the marriage done, and why delay? You’re twenty-eight and Christina is twenty-one. She’s been out for three Seasons, which is very respectable at this point, but to make her wait any longer will arouse unnecessary suspicions where there are none.’

His marriage, like everything else in his life to date, had been arranged for him. Everything had been accomplished for him. He simply had to show up. He often thought it was the very idea that there was nothing to turn his hand to, nothing that required his effort that had spawned this dark yawning gap in him. He’d struggled for nothing, been denied nothing, not even good looks. He’d managed to snare the lion’s share of the family’s handsome genetics along with the fortune. Perhaps that was why fencing appealed to him so intensely—it was something he could work at, something he could personally excel at on his own merits.

Excel he had. Haviland touched his booted toe to the long, slim case lying at his feet to assure himself it was still there, the one piece of luggage he hadn’t allowed to be stowed out of his sight: his rapiers, specially made for him from the fit of the grips to the weight of the thin blades. There wasn’t a gentleman in London who could touch him in the art of the foil and still it wasn’t enough. There was more to know and he hungered for the excellence that would come with new knowledge. He would go to Paris and study. With luck, he’d move on to the Italian masters in Florence. He knew six months wouldn’t see him to Italy. It wasn’t near enough time. He would need a miracle, but anything could happen if he could just be off.

Haviland took out his gold pocket watch, a gift from his grandfather upon completing Oxford several years ago, and flipped it open to check the time: quarter past five. His companions should have been here by now, which meant they’d show up any moment. None of them were extraordinarily concerned with punctuality but all of them were as eager as he for this journey, for reasons of their own. He closed the watch, his thumb running over his grandfather’s carefully chosen, although not highly original inscription: tempus fugit. He’d wasted enough time already. This journey was a chance for the clock to start again, however briefly, for his life to start again.

Haviland’s gaze strained in the lifting gloom, trying to make out the arrival of his companions. Who would come first? Perhaps Archer Crawford, his oldest friend. They’d suffered Eton together and then Oxford before moving on to the Season, exhausting the joys of London year after year after endless year until the pleasure had become de rigueur. Only loyalty to his mother had kept Archer in London this long. Now that anchor was gone and Archer was as anxious as he to be off.

Then again, the first to arrive might be Nolan Gray, depending on whether or not he’d had a good night at the rough tables of Dover. Nolan had ended more than one night with a tersely offered invitation to duel. His extraordinary skill at cards left many gentlemen lighter in the pockets. Over their years on the town, Nolan had developed the ability to defend his talent and his honour from the business end of a pistol at twenty paces.

Whoever arrived first, it wouldn’t be Brennan Carr. He would most definitely be last and he most definitely hadn’t spent his last night in England sleeping. If he knew Brennan, the night had been spent in the arms of a willing woman. Haviland chuckled to himself at the thought. Brennan could always make him laugh. Brennan had made London survivable long after it had lost its appeal.

Hooves and wheels clattered on the docks, a coach emerging from the lifting fog. Two men jumped out, coats swirling about them. One of them barked an order in a deep commanding baritone that carried in the morning air. Haviland smiled, recognising the voice. Nolan and Archer had come together and it looked as if Archer had brought a horse. Or the horse had followed Archer, which wouldn’t surprise Haviland at all. Archer was always collecting stray horses the way some people collected cats or dogs. In the gloom, Haviland could see Archer tying the beast to the back of the carriage. He heard Nolan’s voice carry across the pier.

‘I win!’ Nolan shouted as they approached. ‘Haviland is already here and he has his case.’ Nolan clasped him on the shoulder affectionately. ‘Good morning, Old Man. Is everything loaded? I told Archer you’d be here overseeing.’

Haviland laughed. ‘You know me too well. I saw the two coaches go on an hour ago and they loaded our trunks last night.’ They’d decided the best way to make haste to Paris and then to destinations beyond would be to supply their own private coaches for travel. They’d have to buy or rent horses in Calais, but Calais was prepared for such purchases. Travellers who could afford it crossed the Channel with their own carriages. Those who couldn’t afford to were reliant on public transport or whatever vehicles were for sale. Haviland had been more worried about finding two coaches for sale at prices that didn’t border on extortion when they arrived.

‘You trusted them with your trunks, which, may I emphasise, contain all your necessary belongings for the duration, but not with one small fencing case?’ Archer pointed to the case at his feet.

‘I told you that, too.’ Nolan crowed. ‘But, no, you insisted he’d have sent it ahead.’ Nolan tapped his temple with his forefinger. ‘I know these things. I’m a student of human nature.’

‘Too bad you couldn’t study that at Oxford.’ Archer goaded him. ‘You might have got better marks.’

But Nolan merely laughed. He and Archer had been sparring for years. They had each other’s measure. ‘What can I say? It’s true. You two were the scholars, not me and Brennan.’ He looked around. ‘Is Brennan here yet?’

‘No.’ Haviland couldn’t resist the ribbing. ‘Did you expect him to be? Scholar of human nature that you are?’

Nolan gave Haviland a playful shove. ‘A scholar of human nature, yes, a psychic, no.’ He grinned. ‘So who is she? We’ve only been in Dover a night. It’s not the barmaid from the inn. She went off with another fellow.’

Haviland shrugged as the captain of their packet approached. ‘Milord, you’ll want to get on board. We’ll be leaving in twenty minutes or so.’

‘Thank you.’ Haviland gave the man a short nod. ‘We’re waiting for the last member of our travelling party.’

He didn’t expect the captain to be sympathetic and the man wasn’t. ‘The tide does not wait, milord. You’ve been lucky. We can leave at once. Some folks sit in the inns for weeks, waiting for the right wind and weather.’

‘Understood,’ Haviland answered, casting a final look at the docks as if he could make Brennan materialise. The captain spoke the truth. He’d heard all nature of accounts from others who’d made the Channel crossing about the risk of having to wait, their travel plans at the mercy of the elements.

‘I should have stayed with him.’ Haviland said as the captain moved off. He blamed himself. One of the things that made his friendship with Brennan work was balance. Brennan made him laugh and, in return, he kept Brennan focused and out of trouble. But last night he’d been worried about the luggage and the arrangements and he’d left Brennan to fend for himself. Admittedly, he thought there’d be very little damage Brennan could do knowing there was an early departure. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

The trio headed towards the gangplank to board. ‘I’ll wager five pounds Brennan misses the boat.’ Nolan announced. ‘Archer, are you in? If I’m wrong, you can win back your losses.’

Once on board, they leaned against the rail, all three of them scanning the docks for a last-minute sign of Brennan. Haviland checked his pocket watch, the minutes racing by. It wouldn’t be the same without Brennan. Perhaps Bren could catch a later boat and meet them in Paris? Brennan knew the route they’d planned. Did he have enough money? Probably not. Brennan never had enough funds.

Beside him, Nolan started at the sound of chains rolling up. ‘They’re pulling the anchor. He’s not going to make it.’ Nolan blew out a breath and leaned on his arms. ‘Dammit, I didn’t want to win that bet.’ The three of them exchanged glances, their disappointment silently evident. Their trip was off to an ominous start.

The boat began to nudge slowly away from its moorings as commotion broke out on the docks. A horse pulling a heavy dray full of crates reared in its traces, followed by a loud, vituperative spray of cursing. A barrel fell. More cursing. Something, someone, was on the move. Haviland squinted. There was something else running, too. Was that a horse? He hadn’t time to consider it, all of his concentration was fixed on the figure sprinting towards them, two more figures some paces behind giving serious chase. Bare headed, shirt-tails flying, and coatless, the figure came racing.

‘It’s him! It’s Brennan!’ Haviland shouted. He waved and called out, ‘Come on!’ He didn’t like the looks of the men behind. As they closed, Haviland could see a pistol flash in one of the pursuers’ hands. He definitely didn’t like the looks of them now. Haviland cast a glance at the gradually widening gap between the boat and the dock. It would be impossible, even dangerous from where they stood, to hazard a leap. The gap was too wide, but at the rear, where the boat was still near the dock, it might be possible. It would be a hell of a jump, but Brennan would have his speed to carry him.

Haviland gestured wildly to the rear of the boat, shouting instructions through cupped hands as he raced towards the stern. ‘The back, Brennan, head for the back!’

Nolan and Archer were behind him. Archer shouted something that sounded like, ‘The horse, Brennan, get on the horse!’ The horse Haviland had spied had now passed the men in pursuit and had pulled up alongside Brennan, matching his stride to Brennan’s as if to encourage him to get on. This was madness! But facing two men with guns didn’t seem like much of an alternative. Brennan’s pursuers were too close now, the boat moving too fast for Haviland’s tastes. The horse would stand a better chance of making the leap. Haviland added his voice to Archer’s. ‘Bren, the horse, now!’ he urged.

Haviland watched Brennan swing up on the fast-moving bay, and watched the pier end.

They leapt.

They landed.

The horse went down on his knees.

Brennan rocketed towards Haviland, taking him to the deck as a pistol report sounded from the docks, a bullet whistling overhead. ‘Dammit!’ In the excitement over the horse, he’d forgotten about the gun and nearly gotten himself shot. What a fine start to the trip that would have been. Instinctively, Haviland wanted to rise and see where it had come from. He grunted at Brennan’s weight on top of him, but Brennan wouldn’t let him up.

‘Stay down!’ Only when the boat had moved a safe way from the docks and Brennan deemed it safe to rise did he let him up.

‘Good lord, Bren, what have you got yourself into now?’ Haviland rose and dusted off his trousers. Beyond Brennan’s shoulder he could see the men on the docks shaking impotent fists their direction. Whatever it was, it had been worth shooting someone over.

Brennan stopped in the midst of tucking in his shirt tails and quirked an auburn eyebrow at him in mock chagrin. ‘Is that any way to greet the friend who just saved your life?’

Haviland answered with a raised dark brow of his own. ‘My life, is it? I rather thought it was yours.’ He stepped forward and pulled Brennan into an embrace, pounding him on the back affectionately. ‘I thought you were going to miss the boat, you stupid fool.’ Sometimes Brennan worried him. He took too many risks, treated his life too cavalierly as if he doubted his own worth.

Greetings exchanged, the horse being looked after in a makeshift stall by Archer who had some explaining of his own to do, the threesome took up their places at the rail. ‘So,’ Nolan drawled, tossing a sidelong glance Brennan’s direction. ‘The real question isn’t where you’ve been, but was she worth it?’

Brennan threw back his head and laughed up to the sky as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he hadn’t been dangling over the side of a boat minutes ago with an angry man shooting at him. ‘Always.’

Haviland smiled into the distance, a little spark starting to ignite deep inside of him. It was a good sign. He wasn’t dead yet, wasn’t entirely numb yet. England faded from sight. It would be a while before they’d see those shores again but in the meanwhile, it was going to be one hell of a trip.

Chapter Two

One month later—the viewing room of the Leodegrance salle d’armes

Mon Dieu! The Englishman was exquisite. Alyssandra Leodegrance’s breath caught behind her peepholes as he executed an aggressive flèche against his opponent in the main training salon. Every movement spoke of lethal grace, his foil a natural extension of his arm as he effortlessly deflected Monsieur Anjou’s sophisticated series of ripostes.

Alyssandra pressed her eyes more firmly to the peepholes of the salle d’armes’s private viewing chamber, hardly daring to believe what she saw: Monsieur Anjou, the salle’s most senior instructor, was labouring now with all his skill to launch a counter-offensive and yet still the Englishman would not be thwarted.

‘He has forced Monsieur Anjou into redoublement!’ She could hear the excitement in her own hushed voice as she tore her eyes away long enough to toss a smile at her brother, Antoine, seated beside her in his wheeled chair, his own gaze as raptly engaged as hers.

Antoine gave a wry grin at her smug tone. ‘You’re enjoying it too, aren’t you?’

Alyssandra shrugged her shoulders, feigning indifference, although they both knew better. There was the courtesy of professional respect between her and the senior instructor, but not much else. She put her eyes back to the holes, not wanting to miss a moment more. Redoublement was probably the last position Julian Anjou had expected to take up.

It had been ages since she’d seen Julian beaten and it did her heart good to see the arrogant master humbled. He hadn’t been humbled since the time she’d beaten him. That had been two years ago and he would not admit to it. He preferred to call it a draw done at his expense to save her pride. Not that he wasn’t an excellent fencer. Julian Anjou’s arrogance was well deserved, but having earned it didn’t make him any more tolerable.

The Englishman initiated an elegant balestra followed by a lunge, a traditional but fearless combination, his efforts confident and deliberate. He knew precisely what he was doing and what he hoped to accomplish. The sparring match had become a chess game. ‘Checkmate,’ she whispered under her breath as they circled one another again—Julian pressed to the extreme to keep the tight frame he was known for, the Englishman athletic and unwinded even after the long bout. A crowd of students and junior instructors had gathered at the edges of the floor.

He must dance like a dream, all that grace contained in those broad shoulders and long legs. The errant thought caught her off guard. After years of assessing men from a purely athletic standpoint as fencers, she seldom spared a thought for the more sensual applications of the male physique. Apparently, she was sparing a thought for it now. A shiver, wicked and delicious, shot down her spine as the Englishman moved in a tight circle around Anjou just out of reach of the man’s foil. It was easy to imagine the confident press of his hand at a woman’s back, of that hand guiding her skilfully through the crowded floor of a waltz. What woman wouldn’t want to be led out on to the floor by such a partner, his body pressed ever so slightly to hers, their bodies attuned to the subtle pressures and nuances of the other?

She had to stop. Now she was being fanciful. It had been three years since she’d had a serious suitor or even been interested in one, nor was there any time for one at the moment with the tournament looming. She gave herself a mental scold. The salle and Antoine were her life now. Until that changed, there was no room for romantic games. A sharp movement from the floor refocused her attention. She’d been so engrossed in her little tangent of a fantasy she nearly missed it—the moment when the Englishman’s blade slipped past Julian’s guard and his buttoned tip pierced the master in the chest.

Julian swept him a bow, acknowledging the defeat, but his face was hard when he took off the mask and retreated to his corner to wipe the sweat from his brow. The Englishman did the same, pulling off the mask and tossing it aside, revealing a face a woman could study for hours and still not discover the whole of it; there was the strong, sharp length of his nose dominating the centre, the dark brows and long, defined cheekbones that likely did incredible things to his face when he smiled. Right now, he was not smiling and they lent him a slightly rugged air. And his mouth, with that thin aristocratic bow on top, and sensual, fuller lip on the bottom, was positively wicked. Suffice it to say, that mouth alone could keep a girl imagining all sorts of wicked things all night.

‘He was perfect today,’ Alyssandra remarked. She and Antoine moved back from the holes to talk, to plan. The Englishman would want to know if there was another master above Anjou with whom he could continue his studies.

Her brother’s eyes held hers in all seriousness for a moment. ‘Not intimidated, are we?’

She huffed at the idea, marking it as ridiculous with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Appreciating him is not the same as being intimidated by him.’ Intimidated? Hardly. Excited? Definitely. Her body fired at the knowledge of it.

No, she wasn’t intimidated. Men in general did not intimidate her. She’d faced men who’d believed they were the best, men like Julian. She revelled in the thrill of matching blades, of wearing them down and striking when their arm was weak and their pride too strong. She sensed, however, that the Englishman would be different. A true challenge, but one she would overcome, she was confident of that. She’d been watching and learning. She was ready and now so was he.

The Englishman had been coming to the salle d’armes for three weeks. At first, she’d watched him because he’d been new and new was always intriguing. He had started with informal matches against the gentlemen who came purely to exercise. Having dispatched them, he’d moved on to those who came to study the art more seriously until there was no one left to face, no one left to coach him except Julian. It had been a testament to his skill and to his wealth that Julian had consented to take him on. Julian took on only a few select pupils with the skills and finances worthy of instruction from a great master. Now, Julian had been beaten. The Englishman had earned the privilege to face her; she, who was even more exclusive than Julian, not because of the money, but because of the secret. None of her clients ever knew they faced a woman. The mask gave her anonymity, her skill preserved it. No one would ever believe a woman could possess such a talent.

Alyssandra reached for her mask, her sword arm already feeling the grip of her hilt in her hand. ‘Shall I go out now?’

Antoine shook his head. ‘No, sit and watch with me. Your Englishman is not quite perfect, no matter what you believe.’ He gave a crooked half smile and nodded towards the peepholes. ‘They’re about to start again.’

She and Antoine pressed their eyes to the holes once more. She watched and waited patiently for Antoine to make his point. They had done this countless times since his accident had rendered him incapable of fencing. She was his legs now and he was her mentor. One of the benefits of being a twin was being able to read her brother’s mind after a fashion. He could read fencers, but she could read him. She knew what he was thinking quite often before he spoke. Like now. They weren’t even looking at each other and yet she sensed he saw something in the Englishman’s parry.

‘There!’ Antoine exclaimed in hush tones although there was no threat of being overheard. The room was soundproofed. ‘Do you see it?’

She did see something, but what? ‘No,’ she had to admit. She was astute at assessing her opponents, but her brother was a master at detecting the subtle movements of a fencer. It was what had made him so good.

‘Right there, he drops his shoulder,’ Antoine said. ‘Watch closely, he’ll do it again.’

This time she did catch it, but only someone of Antoine’s skill would have noticed without instruction. Julian certainly hadn’t or he would have taken the opportunity to drive his button into the Englishman’s briefly unprotected shoulder.

‘When he recovers from a parry, he drops the shoulder. It’s when he’s most vulnerable.’ Antoine winked at her. ‘We’ll help him fix that, of course, but only after you’ve established yourself with him.’

‘Bien sûr.’ Alyssandra laughed with him. It was an effective strategy for gaining a student’s respect to beat him a couple times before showing him why he’d lost. It proved the instructor knew what he or she was doing in theory as well as practice. But she sobered at the solemn look on her brother’s face. ‘What?’

‘You can beat him, right?’ he asked, worry creasing his brow. ‘If you can’t...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. They both knew the reputation of the salon was at stake, as it was any time Alyssandra faced an opponent, masquerading as Antoine Leodegrance, the famed Parisian swordsman.

She smiled to alleviate his concern. ‘I will beat him. All will be well, as it always is. You have taught me perfectly,’ she assured him. She understood his concern. He wanted her to be safe, but he was also frustrated with his own impotence to provide for them without relying on the masquerade. It had been three years since Antoine’s accident, three years since they’d instigated this ruse in order to keep the successful salle d’armes running. No one would willingly study fencing under a woman’s guidance.

Their ‘petite déception’ had worked splendidly up until now. There was no reason to think it would not continue to work. Only one other knew of it and that was Julian, who had as much to lose as they if the secret was exposed. Of course, they had not thought to keep the ruse in place for so long. They’d hoped Antoine would recover the use of his limbs and return to his rightful place as the salle’s master at arms. It was only a matter of time, the physicians had said confidently at the beginning.

After three years, though, she had to wonder how much more time could be allowed to pass before they had to admit Antoine’s recovery was an improbability? And if he didn’t recover? What did that mean for the two of them? Antoine was all the family she had, but they could not sustain the masquerade for ever, for many reasons, not the least being her hopes for a family of her own. The longer she kept up the ruse, the longer she put off her chances to make a worthy match. It might be too late already. Etienne DeFarge had married another last spring, unwilling to wait any longer. Any hopes she’d entertained in that direction were gone now.

But those were thoughts for another time, for a far-off future if it ever came. They had no bearing on tomorrow or the next day. What did matter was the Englishman. Alyssandra turned back to the peephole, intent now on her quarry, all dark thoughts of the future thrust aside along with more seductive visions of a dancing Englishman complete with long legs, broad shoulders and a very kissable mouth. Tomorrow, she thought silently, you, sir, shall meet your match.

Chapter Three

‘En garde!’ Julian Anjou called out, stepping back from the two fencers in the private salle. Haviland assumed the position and faced his opponent, the masked and silent Antoine Leodegrance. Leodegrance had bowed to him respectfully, but other than that, all communication had taken place through Anjou acting as an intermediary. Masked and silent, Leodegrance had an almost surreal presence.

By pre-determined agreement, Leodegrance made the first ‘attaque’. Haviland understood this encounter was more an exercise than a bout. There would be no score kept. Leodegrance would want to see the variety and depth of his skills first-hand. And, frankly, Haviland wanted to see Leodegrance’s. It wasn’t everyone who had the privilege of viewing the selective Parisian’s skill up close.

Parry and thrust, balestra and lunge, battement and liement. Haviland met the drills with ease, his eyes making a study of the great Leodegrance. The man had slim, graceful movements, elegance personified in even the smallest of motions. His parry from the sixte position was flawlessly delivered, his blade up, his wrist supinated. It was the subtlety of these motions that gave the man his edge, the litheness of his movements. Haviland dodged, barely avoiding the tip of Leodegrance’s foil.

By Jove, the man was quick on his feet! With the slightest of efforts, the merest flick of his wrist, Leodegrance had nearly pricked him. There was a certain style to the flick of his wrist that was patently his own and Haviland made quick note of it. It seemed to give him an extra ounce of flexibility in wielding the foil—something easier to note without the Italian preference for a basket over the hilt. With the French blade, one’s grip was exposed on the handle. Leodegrance was using that to envious advantage.

Gradually, the nature of their exercise began to change. The space between them became charged with a competitive electricity. Something combative leapt and sparked between them, a lethal chemistry, more akin to sensual attraction. Leodegrance’s manoeuvres became a seductive dance, stealthy and mesmerising; his strikes came more quickly until Haviland was fully engaged.

The exercise had transformed into an assaut. Haviland grinned beneath his mask, enjoying the thrill of competition. They circled, each one stalking the other, arms and foils held out in full extension to define their space and to protect it. Leodegrance’s frame looked as fresh as when they’d begun, his arm appeared strong. Haviland wondered if it was a bluff. His own arm was starting to ache and yet he dared not waver. Surely, Leodegrance, as slenderly built as he was, was physically affected by the duration of this match.

Haviland wished he could see beneath the full-face mask. Was Leodegrance sweating? He could feel his own sweat trickling down his back, down his face. Leodegrance made a flèche at lightning speed, requiring him to put up a riposte and he did so, proud of the speed of his own reflexes. Haviland parried and moved to launch his own attack. That was when Leodegrance’s foil found his shoulder. He felt the hard press of the wooden button before he saw it, so fast did the strike come. He stared at it in full surprise for a moment before remembering his etiquette.

He bowed as Anjou had bowed before him yesterday in acknowledgement of a fair match and in acknowledgement of the other man’s superiority. It did not gall him to be beaten—this time—it did gall him, however, that he hadn’t seen it coming. The final attack had been most unorthodox, coming as it did on the heels of Leodegrance’s deflected offensive. Haviland had parried the attack. It had been his turn to initiate one of his own, only Leodegrance had not waited. Haviland saw in hindsight what Leodegrance had done—he’d turned the move into a feint, a move designed to distract his opponent both in body and mind, while the real blow was delivered—a most effective fausse attaque.

Leodegrance accepted his bow and offered a slight one in return. Haviland reached up to remove his mask, thinking Leodegrance would do the same. The man did not. Instead, he strode over to Anjou and conducted a conversation in low, hurried French, looked his direction one more time, raised his foil in salute and departed the room with a farewell as unorthodox as his final attack had been.

‘Bien, monsieur, bien. You’ve done well. Master Leodegrance is very pleased.’ Julian Anjou came to him, all smiles. It was the most pleasant Haviland had seen the instructor look. ‘He has asked you to come back Thursday for another lesson. Also, there is a small competition in a matter of weeks. Master Leodegrance would be honoured to have you entered.’

‘He could not tell me himself?’ Haviland interjected sharply. This was by far the oddest lesson he’d ever had. ‘Are we to never speak? Does he ever remove his mask?’

‘Of course not!’ Anjou sounded shocked, as if he’d uttered blasphemy. Anjou lowered his voice, tinged with a hint of French condescension. ‘It is because of the accident, monsieur. You are an outsider, so perhaps you do not know. The scars are too hideous, too distracting for opponents. He wears the mask out of deference for you, monsieur, for all of his pupils.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘We are French, perhaps we are vain, but we put much stock in our beauty. Beauty is life to a Frenchman. We would not willingly inflict ugliness on anyone.’ Anjou inclined his head in a dismissive gesture. ‘Jusqu’à demain, monsieur.’

Haviland watched him depart with a shake of his head. That was the trouble with Frenchmen. They never quite answered your questions even when they did.

* * *

‘We’re going to have trouble with that one.’

Alyssandra looked up in time to see Julian slip inside the private viewing room to join her and Antoine. ‘He’s no trouble. I can manage him. I proved it today.’ She pulled her hair free of the pins that kept it tucked up and in place when she was Antoine Leodegrance and let it fall free about her shoulders. That felt better. She stretched her arms, relieving the tension that had built up in them during the match. She had handled the Englishman, but it had taken much of her strength and skill to do so.

‘Not that kind of trouble.’ Julian fixed her with a stare before moving his gaze and his conversation to Antoine. ‘Our Monsieur North has been asking questions. “When can he meet you?” “Why don’t you take off the mask?” “Why won’t you speak to him?”’

‘But you handled it all beautifully.’ Antoine gestured towards the peepholes where he’d watched the entire lesson. ‘I saw it. He understood.’

‘But he does not accept it,’ Julian answered sharply. ‘He’s been asking questions around the clubroom when the men gather after their exercise and in the main salle. He talks to everyone and everyone talks to him.’

‘Let them talk, there’s nothing anyone can tell him.’ Antoine remained unconcerned.

Alyssandra walked up behind Antoine’s chair to stand with her brother. It was a gesture she knew aggravated Julian, a non-verbal reminder that she and her brother were united on all things. ‘We’ve seen his sort before. He’s just another Englishman on the first leg of his Grand Tour. He’s just passing through like so many of them.’

Julian gave her a shrug of concession. ‘In that regard, you’re right and perhaps we can use that to our advantage. Those Englishmen are all looking for the same thing on their tours; a little cultural experience and a lot of sex.’ Julian paused thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You should arrange for him to meet one of your more sophisticated friends. Perhaps Madame D’Aramitz?’

‘Are you suggesting we spy on him?’ Alyssandra rebelled at the idea of Helene D’Aramitz enjoying North’s charms and reporting back all the details.

Julian’s eyes were twin orbs of calculation. ‘Yes, I am suggesting exactly that.’ He flashed her a cold smile. ‘I can keep an eye on him when he’s here at the salle, but it will be up to you to use your connections and to keep an eye on him in society.’ He gave Antoine a respectful nod. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a lesson to prepare for.’

‘I don’t think North is a threat,’ Alyssandra said after Julian left.

‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Antoine blew out a breath. ‘I hate being tied to this chair. It should be me out there fencing him. We shouldn’t even have to worry about an inquisitive Englishman, but because of me, we do.’

What could she say? Her brother could no more change the facts of his existence than command his legs to walk. ‘We’ll manage. Julian makes too much of it.’

‘I think Julian is right. He does bear watching so he’s not given the chance to become trouble. But, I don’t think Helene D’Aramitz is the answer. She’s a terrible gossip and far too perceptive. Then we’ll have her asking questions, too. She’ll want to know why we’re so interested in what North does.’ Antoine’s face became thoughtful. ‘If anyone is going to watch him in society, it should be you. It will eliminate the risk of exposing ourselves unnecessarily to outside parties. Will you do it?’

Her stomach somersaulted at the prospect of engaging the handsome Englishman on two fronts: as the masked, mysterious Leodegrance, and in person as herself. Part of her—the very feminine part of her that responded to him as a handsome man— revelled in being able to meet him on her own merits. But the other part of her understood the enormous risk she ran. ‘La petite déception’ had just become a grande one. She must don two identities in order to preserve one. The feminine part of her could not afford to be distracted from the professional goal of protecting the salle and Antoine. She would start tonight. She had a fairly good of idea of where North and his friends would be. Anyone of note was attending Madame Aguillard’s Italian musicale.

Alyssandra squeezed her brother’s hand. ‘Yes, of course, I will do it,’ she said as if there’d ever been a choice.

Chapter Four

The match lingered on his mind that evening, distracting Haviland from Madame Aguillard’s elegantly appointed entertainment. The musicale was unable to hold his attention for long no matter how lovely the Italian soprano, or how talented the pianist who accompanied her or even how often the hostess herself trailed her beautifully manicured fingers down his arm in provocative suggestion. No matter the enticement, his mind drifted back to the faceless, silent Leodegrance. Even without words, without a visage, the man had a charisma that had drawn Haviland. The force of that presence was disturbing to say nothing of the circumstances in which it had been felt. Fencing with Leodegrance had been like fencing a phantom. He’d never faced an opponent shrouded quite literally in such mystery. He couldn’t quite get over it, or past it.

‘Stop brooding,’ Nolan scolded sotto voce as they moved through the crowd at the intermission. ‘It’s bad form, and our hostess is bound to notice. You’re still thinking about the match.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Haviland said defensively.

Nolan chuckled. ‘Yes, you are. You’re a terrible liar. It’s a good thing you don’t aspire to cards. It’s probably some fetish of Leodegrance’s. He’s French, after all.’ Nolan shrugged as if to indicate being French explained away any unexplainable eccentricities.

He clapped Haviland on the back. ‘As for me, I’m off to the card tables in the other room. I, for one, won’t risk disappointing my hostess. There’s an inspector playing who is apparently unbeatable.’ The French were mad for gambling, and Nolan had immediately become popular among the card set. After almost a month in Paris, Haviland still found it odd how the ability to gamble for large sums of money acted as a superior calling card in French society.

‘I hear there’s a certain pretty French widow playing tonight, too.’ Archer joined them, catching the last part of the conversation as he handed off the flutes of champagne he’d retrieved from the refreshment table.

Nolan smiled broadly. ‘Madame Helene is a talented card player. I fancy she recognises those same skills in myself.’

‘Well, probably not those particular skills, but certainly others if rumour is to be believed.’ Archer laughed.

‘What rumour would that be?’ Nolan raised his eyebrow in mock chagrin.

‘The “rumour” from our dear butler that you haven’t been home before breakfast for the last week,’ Archer supplied.

Really? Haviland hadn’t noticed. He watched Archer and Nolan spar in friendly fashion and felt detached from their banter. He should be glad everyone was finding Paris so hospitable. Archer had found a horsey set of young men eager to share their knowledge of the Continental breeds. Nolan had been easily assimilated into the aristocratic gambling circles and Brennan, well—he had been easily assimilated into several French beds as far as Haviland knew. But what he ought to feel and what he did feel were different.

What he felt was lonely, left out. He’d spent his waking hours at the salle d’armes. He was away as much as the others and he missed most of their days. They were together in the evenings in some form, two or three of them usually, although seldom all four. Even tonight, three of them were here at Madame Aguillard’s, but Brennan was absent.

Perhaps it was better this way, establishing this sense of distance. Haviland sipped his champagne. At some point, the others would continue on the tour without him unless by some magic he wrested another six months from his father.

Nolan departed for the card tables, and Archer picked up the threads of their conversation from earlier that afternoon when he’d returned home from the salle. ‘I’ve been giving your match some consideration,’ he began thoughtfully as if that discussion had not been broken by hours of intermission. ‘How do you know it was Leodegrance if he wouldn’t remove his mask?’

That thought had crossed Haviland’s mind, too, but he’d quickly discarded it. ‘The man was too good to be anyone else. His talent spoke for him, which might be what he intended all along with his secrecy.’ The effort seemed unnecessarily dramatic, but perhaps Leodegrance was a dramatic sort of man and there were the scars to consider as well.

‘Then it’s settled. You have your explanation and you can enjoy the evening.’ Archer shot him a sideways glance etched with challenge and took a large swallow of his champagne.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Haviland said crossly.

‘That you don’t really believe your own explanation about talent speaking for itself. You think something is afoot. Admit it.’

‘That’s ridiculous. There was an accident a few years ago. We even heard about it in London. It’s entirely plausible he’s become a bit reclusive as a result. It’s not as if Anjou’s explanations about the scars don’t make sense,’ Haviland argued. Perhaps Nolan was right. He just needed to stop brooding. When Archer pressed him to see a conspiracy, he simply couldn’t come up with a motive for such efforts. Perhaps that was what Archer intended all along; to make him see the foolishness of his notions. A silent look of comprehension passed between them.

Archer smiled in confirmation. Haviland had read him aright. Archer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Put it to bed, old friend, and have some fun. You need a distraction. Perhaps I could get our hostess to introduce you to one. There’s several pretty ones here tonight.’

The crowd around them ebbed, affording Haviland a glimpse across the room. Archer shifted to the right to deposit his empty glass on a passing tray and there she was—a distraction to end all distractions. She must have come late. He would have noticed her earlier otherwise. She was the sort of woman who could command a man’s attention without doing a thing. She was proving it right now, simply standing against a wall and stealing his breath along with any ability to formulate coherent thought.

‘Archer, don’t move. I think I’ve found my distraction.’ She was a stunning brunette in an evening gown of crinkled taffeta the shade of gentian blue. The gown was plain by French standards, unadorned with ruffles or embroidered hems, yet the plainness lent itself to an understated elegance, as did the exquisite tailoring. For all its lack of affectations, this was not a poor woman’s gown and no one would mistake the wearer for a peasant.

‘I take it it’s not a masked man?’ Archer raised an interested eyebrow, but remained obediently frozen.

‘Hardly.’ Haviland inclined his head in the smallest of gestures for Archer to follow his gaze. ‘Turn your head slowly and remember I saw her first.’ He did see her, the woman beyond the dress. When he looked at her, he saw the confidence of her carriage, the delicate beauty of her very bone structure that declared her a woman of high birth. There was strength, too, in that delicacy. This was no retiring wallflower and yet she was alone.

Archer smirked. ‘What are you thinking?’

Haviland gave him a wry grin that spoke volumes. ‘I’m thinking I’m looking at Plan B.’ One last affaire, one last opportunity to drink from passion’s cup before settling into his marriage. He might not have chosen Christina Everly, but neither had she chosen him. He would not shame her with infidelities after they wed, regardless of the circumstances surrounding their union. Until then, however, a gentleman need feel no such restraint, especially if travelling abroad.

The woman in question looked their direction, catching his stare, the slight raise of his eyebrow. She answered his silent enquiry with the flick of her wrist, her fan opening in a sophisticated gesture that covered just the bottom of her face. Haviland’s gaze dropped to her hands. She held the fan in her left, and Haviland smiled at the discreet sign to approach. Negotiations complete. Beside him, Archer let out a low whistle of appreciation. ‘Now, that’s a woman to cross a room for.’

‘I doubt men stop there,’ Haviland said under his breath. They’d cross mountains, even oceans for her. She was the sort of woman who could wreck a lesser man, one given to baser instincts and spontaneity. Thank goodness he wasn’t such a man. ‘Here, hold this for me.’ Haviland handed his flute to Archer.

‘Why? Do you think you’ll be back for it?’

Haviland chuckled. ‘With luck, no’, and then he crossed the room.

* * *

Alyssandra felt a little tremor of anxious anticipation skate down her spine, so strong was her awareness of him. His eyes were on her, piercing and intense, demanding she meet his gaze as he approached, demanding she be aware of him. But it was too late to back out of this exquisite deception. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d orchestrated her evening around in the hopes of it happening.

She’d not known with certainty that he’d be here, but she’d known it was highly possible. The odds had favoured her. Madame Aguillard’s soirée in the seventh arondissement was a coveted invitation and the Englishman and his friends had become coveted guests in certain circles. Men with money and connections could not be kept secret for long, and North was positively delicious on both accounts. He had looks and was heir to a title and a fortune, both English, which made him more impressive than his Continental counterparts. French nobles and Italian contes were thick on the ground and notoriously light in the pockets. In short, Haviland was the stuff of mothers’ dreams. Even French mamans.

Who wouldn’t jump, nay, who wouldn’t leap at the chance to marry their daughters to such prestige and such security? There were those who would leap for much less than an offer of marriage. Alyssandra reminded herself she wasn’t here for purely selfish reasons. It was what her brother needed. Her presence here tonight was professional. She had to remain objective just as if she were facing him from behind a fencing mask. There was no room behind the mask for carnal thoughts and there was no room for them now, although that didn’t seem to be stopping them from trying to intrude.

She’d heard the women talking behind their fans all night. ‘With a body like that, he cannot help but be extraordinary in bed,’ one woman had remarked. Another had commented, ‘I just want to look at him, preferably naked.’ Alyssandra could understand the sentiment. He was gorgeously made, lean hipped and broad shouldered. She had studied that physique from behind peepholes for weeks now in anonymity. She had seen that body up close today during their exercise and it had been positively scintillating. It was in part responsible for the more feminine side of her wanting to risk the encounter tonight. She wanted to test the electricity between them. Would it happen again or was the spark between them limited to the fencing floor?

Around her, women whispered, watching his approach with interest and perhaps hope, from behind their fans. His stride was purposeful, confident, his gaze locked on her, making his destination clear to those who hoped otherwise. Alyssandra raised her chin just a fraction, enjoying a moment of defiant victory. The Englishman was coming for her.

Alyssandra lowered her fan and met his gaze with equal strength. She let the rush of excitement over meeting him as herself fill her, let him take her hand and bend over it with eyes that never left hers. He would never look at her incarnation of Antoine Leodegrance the way he was looking at her, all banked fire and desire in those blue eyes. His lips brushed her gloved knuckles. Even that briefest of touches sent a jolt of awareness up her arm. The connection she’d sensed today at the salle was still there.

‘Mademoiselle, enchanté. I must apologise for my boldness. I could not wait for a proper introduction. May I present myself? I am Viscount Amersham.’

She’d known all of his names, of course. It was on his application at the club although he preferred to go by his given name there. Therein lay her advantage. He was meeting a stranger. But she was not. She knew him, whereas, there was nothing to connect her to Antoine save her name, and that would be revealed when and if she chose.

She let a little smile play across her lips, her eyes flirting coolly, her body trying to ignore the hot spark that passed between them upon contact. ‘I know who you are.’ She gestured to the groups gathered around them with her closed fan. ‘Everyone knows. You’ve become quite the celebrity.’ She rose and retrieved her hand, breaking the electric connection. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’

‘What reputation would that be?’ He arched a dark brow.

She gave a laugh and spread her fan again, enjoying having the upper hand for the moment. ‘Are you fishing for a compliment, monsieur le vicomte? I don’t think vanity becomes you. I think you know very well what sort of reputation.’

‘Touché.’ He grinned, showing even white teeth in that kissable mouth of his. It was every bit as delectable up close as it was from the distance of the viewing room or from behind a mask. His blue eyes danced, his gaze taking in all she had to offer. She was acutely alert to the skim of his eyes roaming over the slender length of her neck, how they’d dropped discreetly to the low sweep of her décolletage. His attraction to her was not in doubt.

Electric awareness crackled between them, broken only by their hostess signalling the end of the intermission—a critical moment that would define the direction of the evening and perhaps even their association. Allowing him to go back to his seat would suggest at worst she did not return his level of interest or, at the very least, she had not been serious when she’d summoned him. She must act quickly. She had done the summoning; the next move was hers. She had to be one to establish the purpose of having called him to her.

Alyssandra placed a hand on his arm, braving the physical pull of him. Men had crossed rooms for her before. Tonight, she had even encouraged such a response, knowing how well she looked in the gentian blue and the careful upsweep of her hair, both of which showed the silhouette of her body and the profile of her face to advantage. Would it be enough? ‘Some of the others will go to the card rooms instead of returning to their seats. Perhaps you might enjoy a tour of the gardens? I have been here before, if you’re interested.’ He was a sophisticated man. He would hear the entendre in her words and the invitation, just as he was aware she would see the silent interest he communicated with his eyes.

‘I have heard much about the beauty of the French gardens. I would be delighted to see one in person if you could be spared?’

Alyssandra smiled. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

He allowed her to step slightly ahead of him, his hand at the small of her back to guide her through the crowd finding their seats, his hand confident of its reception, as if it belonged there. She could hear his voice, low and familiar at her ear. ‘It will be mine as well, I am certain of it.’ She recognised, too, what this was; the touch, the words, the very closeness of him. His body was advertising its skills in his touch, in his bid for familiarity. These were the opening moves to a seduction and it would be up to her just how far they would go. Suffice it to say, it was much harder to be professionally objective just now.

Chapter Five

There was nothing wrong per se with the garden. It was inherently respectable with its paper lanterns and exotic-shaped shrubs. The incipient lure to wickedness was Alyssandra’s construction entirely. She knew very well they’d not come out here to be respectable, or even to see the topiaries, although the famed shrubs did make a good ruse for the reality: They’d come outside to test the waters of their attraction in the way sophisticated men and women do who are not necessarily looking for attachment but something more fleeting: momentary pleasure, momentary escape.

While she understood the allure escape held for her, she was hard pressed to imagine the allure of escape for a man like Haviland North, whose life was already perfect. And yet what did she know of him? He was here after all, wasn’t he? In Paris, hundreds of miles and a body of water way from home. The Tour itself was an escape of sorts and those on it escapees. It often stood to contrary reason that the more perfect something looked on the outside, the more rotten it was on the inside. What imperfections might the handsome viscount have, hidden away behind those blue eyes? It did make a girl wonder what he might be running from, and there was nothing sexier than a man shrouded in intrigue.

It was part of her mission to peel away those perfect outer layers and get to those imperfections beneath. Of course, she wouldn’t peel all those layers tonight. That took time and trust. Tonight was about establishing the latter. ‘Do you see the shrub shaped as a dog?’ She pointed to the shape near a fountain. ‘It was modelled after Madame Aguillard’s favourite hunting hound. The fountain itself is made from marble imported from Italy.’

‘Very impressive.’ North said, walking beside her, his hand always at her back, offering a physical reminder of his presence.

‘Very expensive, if you ask me,’ Alyssandra shot back. It had always struck her as foolish to have imported the marble at extra cost when there were quarries nearby. It was darker now. There were fewer lanterns and even fewer guests in this remote corner of the garden. Her pulse began to leap. They’d reached their destination—somewhere private.

‘It seems we have reached the perimeter of the garden.’ North commented, his eyes full of mischief. ‘What do you suppose we do now?’

Alyssandra wet her lips and turned towards him so they were no longer side by side, but face to face. ‘I’ve talked far too long. You could tell me about yourself. What brings you to Paris?’ She stepped closer, drawing a long line down the white linen of his chest with her fan. She’d genuinely like to know. She’d spent the past three weeks making up stories in her mind about what he was doing in France.

But she’d not come out to the garden to acquire a thorough history of Viscount Amersham. That would come in time, as those layers came off. Tonight was about making first impressions, ones that would eventually lead to...more. Even so, she rather doubted her brother had expected ‘more’ to involve stealing away to the dark corners of Madame Aguillard’s garden with somewhat illicit intentions. Julian, on the other hand, had envisioned exactly such manoeuvres when he’d suggested Madame D’Aramitz.

‘I could tell you my life story,’ he drawled, his eyes darkening to a deep sapphire. ‘Or perhaps we might do something more interesting.’ Those sapphire eyes dropped to her mouth, signalling his definition of ‘interesting’ and her breath caught. Something more interesting, please.

It was hard to say who kissed whom. His head had angled towards her in initiation, but she had stepped into him, welcoming the advance of his mouth on hers, the meeting of their bodies; gentian-blue skirts pressed black-clad thighs, corseted breasts met the muscled firmness of his chest beneath white linen.

Her mouth opened for him, letting his tongue tangle with hers in a sensual duel. She met his boldness with boldness of her own, tasting the fruity sweetness of champagne where it lingered on his tongue. Life pulsed through her as she nipped his lip, and he growled low in his throat, his arm pressing her to the hard contours of him. She moved against his hips, challenging him, knowing full well this bordered on madness. Desire was rising between them, hot and heady.

‘You are bold for an Englishman.’ She sucked at his earlobe until she elicited another growl of arousal.

‘Is that a problem?’ he whispered hoarsely against her throat, his lips nuzzling the column of her neck, his hands moving over her rib cage, warm and sure. A hand closed decadently over a breast, a thumb offering a circling caress over the fabric of her nipple. It was both a siren song and a swan’s song. This had to end.

‘It is if I have to go and I do.’ She summoned the shreds of her resolve. If she didn’t pull away, she’d end up half-naked in the garden, her dress around her waist and his hands on her breasts. The only layers that would end up being peeled would be hers and that would hardly bring him back for more.

Alyssandra stepped away, smoothing her skirts, taking a formal tone designed to cool anyone’s growing ardour. ‘It has been a most enjoyable evening, monsieur le vicomte.’

‘Perhaps you might call me Haviland,’ he offered abruptly as if the use of his title offended him. She thought she understood. After such an intimacy he wanted to be a man, not a title. It was not so different from the reason she was reluctant to give him her own name.

‘Bon nuit, then, Haviland.’ She dropped a little curtsy in a flirty farewell. Maybe she would escape this encounter unexposed after all.

She turned to go. His hand closed on her arm. ‘Not so fast, my lady of mystery.’ His voice held a tone of authority beneath the seduction. ‘While we’ve had some pleasure tonight, one pleasure yet eludes me. Might I have your name?’

She did not mistake it for a request that could be denied or flirted away. How would Haviland North, Viscount Amersham, a man used to power and obedience, feel about her name now? Would he be angry? Would he feel betrayed or used? She dropped her eyes, assuming a demure, penitent posture. ‘May I tell you a secret?’

‘Absolutely. I love secrets.’ His voice was a sensual whisper close to her ear, but she did not miss the firmness in it. His tolerance had limits.

‘I must beg your forgiveness. I fear I have had you at a disadvantage.’ She looked up beneath her lashes, gauging his reaction.

‘Ah, so it’s absolution you’re seeking.’ His eyes narrowed in assessment.

‘Not absolution, sanctuary. If I tell you, you must promise not to be angry.’ She let her eyes dance, building the mystery so that he would promise her anything to hear her secret.

He leaned close, a smile on his lips. She could smell the clean scent of linen and sandalwood soap on him, ‘Sanctuary it is, then. Tell me your secret.’ Good, curiosity had got the better of him. She hoped bad judgement hadn’t got the better of her.

She locked eyes with him and let her secret fall into the night between them just before she fled. ‘My name is Alyssandra Leodegrance.’

* * *

Curses tumbled through Haviland’s mind. He’d spent four glasses of brandy and three hours sitting in the dark and he still could not get past it. He’d been kissing Alyssandra Leodegrance, his fencing instructor’s...his instructor’s what?

This was where things got fuzzy and it wasn’t entirely the brandy to blame. What exactly was her relationship to Leodegrance? Was she his sister? His cousin? His wife? The latter wouldn’t surprise Haviland, although it would repulse him. Frenchmen were forever throwing their wives at guests. It was considered rude not to ogle one’s hostess as a means, he supposed, of congratulating the husband on such a splendid catch. If he had thought for one moment she was another man’s wife, any man’s wife, let alone Leodegrance’s, he would not have kissed her no matter how lovely she’d been.

‘You came home early.’ Archer stood in the doorway of the sitting room, his form barely outlined by the lamp left burning in the entry.

‘Maybe you came home late.’ It was nearly three in the morning, after all. Haviland drained the last of his brandy.

‘May I join you?’ Archer gestured towards the decanter on the table, ignoring the cross response. He poured a glass and took the chair opposite him. ‘I suppose this means the meeting with our lovely stranger didn’t go well?’

Typically, Haviland enjoyed Archer’s directness, but usually it was aimed at someone else. ‘It went well enough, very well, actually.’ Those particular memories were still warm. His mind was a riot of snippets, all of them full of her in bright, vivid colour: the mysterious spark that lit the depths of her chocolate-brown eyes; the long, black lashes that made her appear demure and seductive all at once. Those lashes had been quite engaging when she fluttered them, the perfect foils for her sophisticated conversation with its hidden messages, the blue of her gown, the lace and paint of that exquisite fan she’d employed so expertly, that sexy flick of her wrist...a flick practically identical to his instructor’s.

Haviland had not fully appreciated that flick at the time. In hindsight, it was easy to say he should have recognised the resemblance right then. Antoine Leodegrance’s wrist movement was signature.

‘Then what’s the complaint?’ Archer nodded towards the empty glass. ‘By the look of the decanter that wasn’t your first brandy of the night.’

‘Her name. She’s Alyssandra Leodegrance, only I don’t know what that means precisely.’ Not just in terms of her relationship to Leodegrance, but in terms of what had she been doing with him? Had she known who he was ahead of time? Had she deliberately put herself in his path in the hopes of engineering what only appeared to be a chance meeting between two strangers? The more he’d drunk, the more it seemed likely and the more his mind had unwound each piece of the conversation, each gesture. When he held such speculations up against the oddness of his previous encounter with Leodegrance, meeting Alyssandra tonight began to look more than coincidental.

‘If Leodegrance is a recluse, perhaps he sent her to vet you on some level?’ Archer mused out loud, his train of thought mirroring Haviland’s more private ones.

Haviland looked into his empty glass, debating whether or not to pour himself another and decided against it. Four was quite enough, and he had no desire to wake up with a thick head if it wasn’t too late for that already. ‘That makes little sense at this point. For Leodegrance’s purposes, I’ve already passed. I’ve beaten his senior instructor. Vetting me now seems like an effort made too late.’

‘Or it makes perfect sense. Now that you’ve reached Leodegrance, it may be that he wants to be sure you’re worthy.’ Archer raised his brows over the rim of his glass. ‘We should have Nolan vet him. Nolan is far better at these sorts of games.’

But he and Archer weren’t too bad at it either. One could not come of age in the ton without a healthy amount of social intuition. The second explanation, that Leodegrance felt the need to protect himself, perhaps reassure himself that his latest pupil was indeed an appropriate candidate for the honour, seemed logical. Haviland had already proven his skill, but Leodegrance would want more. He’d want to make certain Haviland’s social credentials were what they were supposed to be and that his wealth was more substantial than mere rumour. Leodegrance would want to know he was a man who didn’t just say he was rich, but was wealthy in truth. But that didn’t explain most of what had happened with Alyssandra. Skilful conversation would have accomplished those goals. Frankly, there hadn’t been that much conversation between them and what there had been had been pure flirtation. Fencing hadn’t come up once.

‘Ah, I see, she did more than vet,’ Archer said softly when the silence stretched out between them. ‘Did she fulfil your need for distraction, then?’

Good lord, yes. Just watching her had been a tantalising fantasy. Tasting her, touching her, had been a different elevated plane of sensuality altogether. That’s where his pride came in. Had she’d been told to do those things or had they been part of the natural chemistry at work between them? Which all came back to the initial question: Had she known him before he’d said his name?

She had not told him her name until the end and she had done so penitently, knowing full well it would mean something to them both. And it had. She’d fled into the night, not waiting to hear his response, and he’d fled to the dark privacy of his rooms to mull that response over.

‘I hope she isn’t his wife,’ Haviland said quietly. It would ruin everything. He’d have to leave the salle, have to forfeit instruction with Antoine just when he’d begun lessons with the master. He’d have to start over, one of his precious months of freedom now wasted. But most of all, he hoped she wasn’t Leodegrance’s wife because he wanted to see her again, wanted to kiss her again, wanted to feel what he’d felt this evening in the garden again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such initial, intense attraction before, hadn’t ever felt such overwhelming fire course through him at a woman’s touch. It was exquisite and quite obviously addictive.

‘Because you are my friend, I hope so too,’ Archer replied, rising from his chair. ‘But be careful. A woman like that knows her way around a man. That makes her dangerous to a man like you who has so much to protect.’

A title, a family, a reputation, a fortune—Haviland knew all too well the things he had to protect. What he wouldn’t give to forget all that for a while and simply be a man. He’d thought tonight, with her in the garden, perhaps such forgetfulness might be possible. But that was before he’d known her name. Now, his hopes hung in the balance of a kiss and its motives. Why had she done it? Why had she kissed him? For passion or for a plan?

Chapter Six

‘You did what?’ Antoine’s disbelief radiated in all possible ways, in his tone, in the look on his face, even in the sloshing of his tea when he set it down too forcefully as her confession spilled out over breakfast.

‘I kissed him,’ Alyssandra repeated firmly, meeting her brother’s eyes. She would not look away as if she was embarrassed by what she’d done. She was twenty-eight and well past the age of needing permission for her actions. If she could successfully masquerade as a fencing master, she was certainly capable of deciding who she was going to kiss. Her brother’s attitude of indignation sat poorly with her this morning. She was not a child or even a naive girl out of her league with men like Haviland North. Alyssandra buttered a piece of bread with unnecessary fierceness. ‘It was just a kiss, Antoine.’ Had he forgotten she’d once been highly sought after before their fortunes had changed?

‘Why? This is not what we’d talked about. You were supposed to talk to him, not kiss him.’ Antoine fought to keep his voice from rising. ‘It’s not just a kiss! Who knows what he’ll be thinking now.’

‘It hardly matters what he thinks. He’ll only be here long enough for you to make some money on him and that’s all that matters to you and Julian,’ Alyssandra shot back uncharitably. How dare he ask her to play this double masquerade and then question her execution of it.

‘Yes, plenty of money; money from lessons, money from the tournament when I wager on him. Money for the salle when people see the kind of fencer we can turn out. That money keeps you in this fine house, keeps you in gowns like the one you wore last night,’ Antoine retorted sharply.

She supposed she deserved that. It was an unfair shot on her part. Money always made Antoine prickly. He was acutely aware of the limits of his ability to provide for them. There was always enough, but just enough. She bit her tongue against the temptation to remind him just how much of that money she helped earn. He would not appreciate it and she already had one black mark against her this morning.

‘Since he truly is only here a short while there’s really no harm in it, is there?’ Alyssandra soothed. She sensed there was something else bothering him. She felt terrible. Guilt niggled at her for causing her brother angst. She wanted to believe there was no harm in last night’s kiss, that she could indulge herself just a little. At times she felt that she had become a recluse, too, along with Antoine.

Before his accident, she used to go out to all nature of entertainments. She used to dance, ride in the parks and the woods outside town, shop with her friends—many of whom had long since married and had children. Now, she seldom went out at all. When she did it was only in the evenings after the work at the salle was done.

At first, she’d stayed in because she felt guilty about dancing and riding when Antoine, who’d loved those activities, could no longer do them. They’d been things the two of them had done together and it seemed disloyal to her twin to enjoy them without him. In the early days after his accident, there had been nursing to occupy her. Then, there simply hadn’t been time. Antoine had needed her at the salle and at home. Any attempts at maintaining her old social life had eventually faded, replaced by other needs.

‘We have to be careful,’ Antoine said. ‘A conversation is one thing, but a kiss might have him sniffing around even more than he would have otherwise and that’s hardly solving the problem.’

Alyssandra knew too well how fragile their masquerade was, how lucky they were it had lasted this long and how little it would take to see it all undone. Everything was done covertly. They kept only the most loyal of staff. No one could see Antoine leaving the house or entering the salle, carried by his manservant. No one could come to the house. Antoine conducted all his business in writing or at the salle where he had Julian and her to act as his legs.

She understood maintaining the ruse was a great sacrifice on Antoine’s part, too. If he allowed everyone to know his injury was lingering, he could go about publicly in his chair, or with his manservant. He could attend musicales and plays, the opera, picnics even. But to do so would mean the end of the salle and the end of their income. Ironically, without income and means there would be no social invitations to such events. They would be nothing more than the impoverished children of a dead vicomte. It was not a bargain Antoine could afford to make. So in exchange for social security, Antoine had fashioned a secretive, reclusive life for himself—a life that consisted of his family home, the elegant Hôtel Leodegrance in the sixth arondissement, his father’s salle and his sister’s well-being; three things only after a life that had been full of so much more.

‘I’m sorry.’ Alyssandra bowed her head. She had been selfish last night. She should not have kissed Haviland North. She should have resisted the temptation to seize a little pleasure for herself when Antoine could seize none. All the choices he had made had been for her, for them. She should do the same. They were all each other had left. Perhaps that was what was worrying him this morning—a fear of losing her.

The very thought of having caused him such pain when he already had so much to bear made her chest tight. She’d not thought in those terms last night—indeed, she’d hardly thought at all in Haviland’s arms. She rose and went to Antoine, kneeling at his side and taking his hands in hers, tears in her eyes. ‘I will not leave you. I promise. You mustn’t worry about that, never again.’

Antoine placed a hand on her head. ‘I know it’s hard and I know it’s unfair to ask you to stay,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what it costs you. You could be out dancing every night. What would become of me without you? I am afraid I’m too scared to find out, but perhaps I won’t always be. Maybe some day I’ll find the courage to let you go.’

She shook her head in denial. ‘You must never worry. You are my brother—’ Hurried footsteps interrupted her. The butler stepped into the room. She rose and smoothed her skirts. ‘What is it, Renaud?’

The butler drew himself up, trying with great effort not to look disturbed. ‘There is a gentleman downstairs. He is asking to see you. He has given me his card.’ The butler handed it to her, hiding a very French sneer of disdain. ‘He’s English.’

Her initial reaction was one of relief. No one was asking to see Antoine. People had stopped asking to see Antoine years ago at home. The story about facial scars had worked well in keeping people away. But the sight of the name on the card put a knot in her stomach that curled right around her buttered toast. She passed the card silently to her brother. Antoine had been right. It hadn’t been just a kiss. The kiss had become an invitation to seek her out and he had. Haviland North was here, in a home that hadn’t seen a visitor in three years.

‘You’d better go down.’ Antoine handed the card back to her.

‘Take him for a walk through the back garden or over to the Luxembourg Gardens. That will look civil enough.’ What he meant was ‘normal’ enough and it would get North out of the house, away from any telltale sign of Antoine’s incapacity.

Antoine glanced at Renaud. ‘Did he say anything about the nature of his business?’

‘No, he did not.’

But Alyssandra knew. She had no illusions as to why he had come. He was here to make her accountable for last night.

* * *

‘You played me false last night.’ Haviland announced the intent of his visit the moment she stepped into the drawing room. This was not a social call and he would not treat it as such by dressing it up as one, nor would he allow her to escape the reckoning he’d come for. It would be too easy to forget his agenda in those deep-brown eyes, too easy instead to remember those lips on his, the press of her body against his.

He’d come as early as he dared in hopes that morning light would mitigate his memories of the midnight garden and show them to be just that—fantasies exaggerated by the lateness of the hour and his desire for distraction. He’d also come early simply because he wanted the situation resolved. Resolution would determine his next course of action.

He might have come earlier if finding the house had been easier. No one at the salle had been eager to give up the address, directing him only to the sixth arondissement. No one, not even Julian Anjou, had refused him outright, of course. They’d said instead in the indirect way of the French, ‘The master does not receive anyone.’ Haviland had been forced to rely on general directions from merchants and shopkeepers who recognised his description of Alyssandra and eventually made his way.

Alyssandra gestured to a small cluster of furniture set before the wide mantel of the fireplace. ‘Please, monsieur le vicomte, have a seat.’ He grimaced as she returned to formality as she had at the last in the garden. ‘Shall I call for tea or perhaps you’d prefer something more substantial? Have you eaten?’ The formality and now this. It was a deft reprimand regarding the hour of his call.

Haviland shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was sit and eat. He understood her strategy. If he was determined to not make this a social call, she was determined to do the opposite. A social call required a different set of rules, polite ones. He was intent on something a little more blunt, a little more direct.

She sat and arranged her skirts, the unhurried movements calling attention to the elegant slimness of her hands, the delicate bones of her wrists. Haviland could not help but follow her motions with his eyes. She was in no rush to answer his accusation and her sense of calmness rather took the wind out of his bold claim. He’d expected the passionate woman of last night to leap to her own defence and deny him. He’d expected her to engage him in a heated argument at his charges of duplicity. She did neither.

She arched a dark brow in cool enquiry as he sat. ‘You are disappointed? Perhaps you thought to make some drama of this?’

‘I do not appreciate being toyed with,’ Haviland said tersely. ‘You did not tell me who you were.’

She dropped her lashes and looked down at her hands as she had last night and, like last night, she was only playing at being penitent. ‘I did not think it mattered so much at the time. We understood one another, I thought.’

Inside the drawing room perhaps they had understood one another. They had made eye contact, she’d given him tacit approval to approach, to flirt. At that point, a name had not been of issue. ‘It mattered a great deal in the garden,’ Haviland answered, his eyes resolutely fixed on her face, watching for some reaction, any reaction that might give her away, daring her to lift those deep-brown eyes to his. She was far too serene for his tastes. He wanted her agitated. She’d kept him up all night, damn it.

She did lift her gaze, a worldly half smile on her lips to match the hint of condescension in her eyes. ‘Then I kissed you and apparently that changes everything for an Englishman. Are all of you so chivalrous? Tell me you’ve not come to propose marriage to atone for your great sin.’

‘I am not in the habit of kissing women whom I do not know. That makes me particular, not chivalrous,’ Haviland corrected. She was mocking him and he didn’t care for it, although he recognised it was an offensive move of some sort, a protective strategy, something to put him on the defensive much like a reprise in fencing after an attack has failed. He recognised, too, that she would not be much help in supplying the answers he wanted without his asking directly. ‘Are you his wife?’

She made him wait for it, studying him with her eyes, letting precious seconds pass before she uttered the words, ‘No, I’m his sister.’

Haviland felt the tension inside him ease. One mystery solved, but another remained. He asked his second question, the one that mattered more in the larger sense. The first question had been for his private pride. ‘You knew who I was last night the moment you heard my name. Why did you pretend otherwise?’

‘You promised me sanctuary in exchange for my secret.’ She stood and pierced him with narrow-eyed speculation. How had he lost the upper hand? She had played him and now, somehow, he was the one in violation.

‘Is this how an Englishman keeps his word? By interrogating a lady?’ Her retort was a powerful dismissal. Manners dictated that he should rise, too, but he knew where that would lead if he didn’t change the direction of this conversation. It would lead to farewell and he had not yet got what he came for. Her manoeuvre had been skilfully done. She’d put his own leave-taking into motion, taking control of the interaction out of his domain.

Haviland rose. He was skilful, too. He wasn’t going to be outflanked. He smiled charmingly. ‘You are right, of course. My curiosity has got the better of my manners. I can do better if you would give me a chance. Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the park? It’s a lovely day, and I’d prefer not to walk alone. Or should I ask your brother?’ He did not think she needed the approval. He’d added the request for formality’s sake. He didn’t want to risk angering the eccentric Leodegrance. It was also a goad. She wouldn’t refuse a dare. She was old enough to make her own decisions as she’d exhibited last night. A woman who kissed like that didn’t live under her brother’s thumb.

‘There’s no need to ask him,’ she said too quickly. ‘I’ll send for my hat and gloves.’ He was not prepared for the odd look that crossed her face ever so briefly. Was that fear? Anxiety? She was hiding something, that much was clear. Perhaps it was nothing more than the fact that she hadn’t told her brother she’d met him last night. And perhaps it was something more. Maybe Alyssandra Leodegrance was a woman with secrets.

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