He left her then by the windows to ponder his warning, his offer, and strode off down the hall.
It was time to make his next move. He needed to speak with Antoine and start laying his groundwork. He just needed Antoine to take up his suit with Alyssandra once more—perhaps this time it would succeed. When he’d approached her before, it had been three years ago, during the early stages of Antoine’s accident. In hindsight he could see it had been too soon. She hadn’t been nearly desperate enough. She was full of hope that Antoine would recover. Frankly, so was he. But those hopeful days were long past. He wondered if Alyssandra had admitted her brother would never walk again. There would be no miracle. She needed to start planning the rest of her life. He needed to convince her he was part of that plan. Together, they could keep the charade up, the salon running until a son of their own could take over.
Who better to leave the salle to than Alyssandra’s husband, his very own brother-in-law? If that happened, Julian needn’t wait for a son to establish his claims. He could claim it outright. Truly, how long would Antoine last? Cripples didn’t live long healthy lives and he’d already put in three years.
He knocked on the door to Antoine’s study and stepped inside. ‘I need to speak with you. It’s about Alyssandra.’
Marriage to Alyssandra would solidify his dreams. He was so close and one damn Englishman wasn’t going to get in his way.
‘Alyssandra needs a husband.’ Julian had meant the words to shock and they had. Antoine looked up from the papers spread before him, worry and confusion on his face. ‘What? Why? Is she all right?’ His instant concern almost made Julian laugh. Antoine was such an easy puppet to manipulate. Mention his beloved twin and he melted. It even took him a moment to notice. ‘Mon Dieu, Julian, what happened to your face?’
Julian took the chair on the near side of the desk, shrugging off the reference to his purpling eye. ‘Just a small accident after you left the salle today. It is nothing. It looks worse than it is.’ He reached for the decanter on the desk’s edge. Sometimes Antoine took a little brandy for the pain. He helped himself to a glass. They’d become equals, partners, over the past three years. Older than Antoine by seven years, Julian had painstakingly cultivated the complex role of mentor, friend, uncle-cum-older brother when the case demanded it. Antoine had bought into it wholeheartedly first during his grief over his father’s death and then in the throes of despair after his accident. Today, he was claiming that role to the hilt: taking a chair without permission, helping himself to the brandy—an equal interacting with another peer.
‘It’s time she marries,’ Julian repeated. ‘A husband, a family, is what she needs. She’s twenty-eight. Most of her friends have long since wed.’
‘I know.’ Antoine’s eyes were thoughtful. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Perhaps it’s time to give up the ruse and accept the fact that I will never walk again. We could sell and Alyssandra could go on with her life.’
Julian interrupted abruptly. This was not where he’d imagined the conversation heading. If Antoine were to sell, it would be devastating to him. ‘Why not have the best of both worlds?’ he prompted in silken tones. The salle d’armes was Antoine’s other weakness. It meant the world to him. He must be worried indeed about Alyssandra if he was willing to consider giving it up. ‘Keep the salle, you can “retire” if you like, but let Alyssandra and I run it as husband and wife. I am offering myself as a husband for her.’ He said it quietly, humbly, watching Antoine’s eyes lose some of their softness and become shrewdly assessing.
‘You?’ Antoine said.
‘Yes. Who better? I have been with your father and with you. All total, I’ve spent twelve years in the service of your family. I have known Alyssandra since she was sixteen. I have been with you through death and through despair. What better than to have your sister marry your friend and keep your father’s fencing legacy, your fencing legacy, alive? Some day, there may even be a nephew to look after that legacy.’
Antoine smiled at that, as Julian had known he would. Family was important to Antoine. ‘What does Alyssandra think?’
Julian shrugged. He chose his words carefully. This answer had to be handled delicately. ‘She’s a wild creature. I don’t know that her opinion is the one that matters most here. She may not know what is best for her over the long term.’
Something affirmative moved in Antoine’s brown eyes, and he gave the most imperceptible of nods. Julian pushed his advantage. ‘I fear her head may be turned by the Englishman. He is a fine figure of a man,’ Julian offered. ‘But I think it is nothing more than a sign of how lonely she is, how ready she is to move on with her life. It is too bad Etienne DeFarge has wed.’ The reference to Alyssandra’s old fiancé would make Antoine feel guilty.
‘I like the Englishman, although I’m not sure of his motives. So many of them are just passing through,’ Antoine said tentatively but it was enough to ring alarms.
‘I’m sure North is a fine man. He’s a real man’s man. The other men at the salle seem to enjoy him,’ Julian put in blandly, wondering what Antoine was thinking. He took a swallow from his snifter, hoping Antoine would elaborate.
‘He has desirable qualities; a title in England, wealth, good manners,’ Antoine mused out loud. Julian wanted to argue the last. Those manners had his hands on Alyssandra and his tongue in her mouth. ‘Alyssandra is not without recommendations of her own. He would be a good match for her, and the salle could use him.’
Julian felt his insides freeze. He’d been right not to tell Antoine about the park. It would be all the provocation Antoine would need to start negotiating a marriage. He’d not counted on this. Antoine agreed with him on marriage, but not on the groom, and now Antoine was thinking of giving the Englishmana place at the salle, too. Julian’s ego didn’t like that one bit. He was the senior instructor and he didn’t like to share, which was precisely what he’d be doing.
Julian gave a sigh. ‘That’s a nice fantasy, Antoine, but I don’t suppose it will work, do you? He’s a viscount, heir to an earldom. He’s not going to want to work as a fencing instructor.’
Antoine was far too quick to clarify. ‘Of course not! He would be an owner. If he married Alyssandra, I could leave the salle to them and you certainly. I could retire and you could carry on. He could show up and offer instruction whenever he felt like it, make it a hobby for himself. He’s talented enough.’
Julian took a healthy swallow of brandy. This was getting worse by the minute. It would be complete torture to have to answer to Haviland North at the salle every day, knowing North was going home to Alyssandra every night. He’d have to live every day with the man who’d taken everything from him. That was a lot of ‘everys’ and it was not to be borne.
‘I think you’re forgetting one thing.’ Julian gave a sad half smile as if commiserating with Antoine. ‘He’ll want to go home some day. He’ll have to go home when he inherits. There wouldn’t be much good in that for us.’ This was the second time Antoine had mentioned retiring. It was a bit disconcerting.
Antoine nodded his head. ‘Well, still, it’s a nice fantasy to think of Alyssandra with him, happy, safe, secure. I think she fancies him, and he’d be a fool not to fancy her.’
There was nothing left to say. Antoine seemed determined to
