male trainees’ rooms. Servants and trainees alike used the narrow back staircase to reach all their activities.
The second floor was designed for classrooms, the largest space outfitted for fencing on one end and boxing on the other. The spymaster designed two hidden walkways on either side of this floor, their entrances rendered invisible by the same wood panels adorning all the hallways. Slivers of rectangular windows, placed at eye level, enabled him to observe indoor and outdoor training activities without being seen.
From this vantage point, he watched Olivia’s pathetic attempt to keep up with the other trainees at calisthenics and wondered how long it would take for her to give up and go home where she belonged.
“Fifty push-ups. Hit the ground, lads,” Denville said when they had finished running in place. When he noticed Olivia still standing, he added, “You, too, Fairchild.”
“Yes, sir.” She observed what the others were doing and lay down on her stomach. She put her hands on the ground and pushed hard, but when she raised her head, her stubborn body refused to follow. On the third try, she caught sight of a pair of boots close to her face and turned her head up to face Denville. “I’ve never done push-ups before, sir. I don’t know how.”
One of the men snickered.
“There’s no call for that!” Denville said sharply. He turned back to Olivia. “Lie back down, Fairchild. Elbows bent, but stiff, hands flat, in line with your brea—er, chest. Not too near your shoulders, mind. Keep your body stiff as a board, toes pointed down. Now push as hard as you’re able.”
To her astonishment, Olivia succeeded in lifting her upper body a few inches off the ground. But not her torso. Perhaps women were not meant to do push-ups, she thought with despair.
“Right, then.” He coughed to smother a chuckle and walked back to his place.
By the time the other trainees had completed fifty push-ups, Olivia had wobbled through five. Triumphant at her small victory, she darted a glance at Denville, but he paid no heed.
“Jumping jacks. Begin.”
I can do this! Yet when she jumped apart, her arms would not follow, and when she raised her arms over her head, her feet turned to lead.
Denville chose to ignore this, at the same time admiring her determination. “Time,” he announced, and strode away in the direction of the spymaster’s office.
She trudged after the other trainees, relying on them to lead her to the next activity. She tapped the young man in front of her on the shoulder. “Where are we going?”
He threw her a lopsided grin, his face covered with freckles. His light brown hair was stringy, but his eyes were lively. Rufus Riggs was the youngest of the trainees.
“Codes and ciphers. On the second floor,” the young man whispered. And shot a gap-toothed grin at her. He added, “Name’s Riggs. Rufus.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid her. “Fairchild,” she whispered back.
Sir Aaron Foster, a short, balding man with gentle blue eyes had been knighted by the Regent for code work that defied Napoleon’s staff. He’d meant to retire from government service after the war he helped win, but Viscount Sidmouth had other plans for him. The home secretary persuaded him to take his current post as instructor for future undercover agents.
Once seated in the two-hour class, Olivia relaxed, though every bone in her body screamed in protest after her unaccustomed physical exertion. She enjoyed the mental challenge, thinking it very like solving intricate puzzles. Although she did not grasp everything the master teacher said, she was pleased with herself. Codes and ciphers class was far easier than calisthenics.
When Foster dismissed them, the trainees moved across the hall to the fencing room on the same floor.
Riggs appointed himself her guide. He helped her find a suitable vest, a glove and a wire mask. They were too large for her, yet not as ill-fitting as the clothing she wore.
Olivia had been tutored in fencing when she was still in the schoolroom. The duke wished to share his favorite activity with her, for she threatened to be his only child at the time. She suppressed a giggle at the thought of her father. Little did he know to what use she would put it.
Andre Fourier, a Frenchman with a thin mustache, black hair and a slight frame, swept into the room wearing his fencing vest. He carried his glove and his mask, and eyed his students as if he were inspecting sides of beef, a familiar task for him, for he was also chef for the academy.
“I am Fourier, messieurs.” His Gallic eyes fell on Olivia and he bowed to her. “Mademoiselle.”
“Bien! We begin.” He launched into an explanation of the art of dueling and paired the trainees off for practice, replacing one or another to illustrate his point when he thought it necessary. Which was often.
“We commence wiz ze lunge and ze parry—Prime, seconde, tierce, quarte, quinte, sixte, septime, octave.”
Olivia was partnered with Riggs, whose clumsy handling of his foil, rendered safe by the button at its tip, forced Fourier to stop him. He took Riggs’ foil, placed one hand behind his back and faced Olivia.
“En Garde, sil vous plait. Prime.” The others stopped and turned to watch. Surprise registered on more than one face when Olivia acquitted herself well in her first parry. But when she dropped her foil in the second, silence rang in the air. Until Fourier laughed heartily.
“I am saved from shame. Well done, Fairchild.”
At the end of class, Fourier turned to Olivia. “Your fencing glove ees too large, as is ze vest and ze mask, eh? I shall order better equipment for you.” He waved his hand in the direction of the other trainees and turned to leave. “Dismissed.”
The trainees replaced their fencing equipment and proceeded to the library on the ground floor. They were seated around a long table, when the other young men introduced themselves to Olivia.
The trainee next to her offered his hand. He was small-boned—mid-twenties, Olivia thought—his high forehead exaggerated by sparse hair. “Name’s Harold Perkins. Well done in fencing, Fairchild. Fourier’s an exacting taskmaster. Praise from him is praise indeed.”
“Good show, Fairchild. We’re the Reeds. He’s Billy and I’m Bobby. No one can tell us apart so they call us BillyBob.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Olivia thought, swallowing a giggle. She could look them in the eye, for they were not much taller than she was. They had mischievous eyes as blue as the sky on a cloudless day.
“Carter here,” said the last man. Well-groomed in spite of the unflattering uniform, Olivia sensed there was something arrogant about him. He seemed to have a smirk on his thin lips when he spoke, as if to underline his superiority. His abundant head of hair was always in place, as was a thin mustache. How old was he? she wondered. She couldn’t tell his age, though he acted as though he was far wiser than the other lads. “You’ve fenced before, haven’t you, Fairchild?”
Startled by the hostility in his voice, she said, “Yes, it’s true. Do you find fencing difficult, Carter? I find push-ups far more difficult. Tell you what. I’ll fence for you if you do push-ups for me.” The other trainees laughed in appreciation at what they took for a set-down.
