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.
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
