The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca Winters

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 ignore his own offer and now was clearly not the time to push it. Julian could only hope a few of his doubts would take root in Antoine’s thoughts. Meanwhile, he needed a secondary plan. Alyssandra could not marry a man who wasn’t there, nor could Antoine hire a man who couldn’t fence well. It might be time to call in a few favours from the streets. With the tournament nearing, there would be ample opportunity to eliminate Haviland North.

      * * *

      Haviland was not going to let one Frenchman stand in the way of his training. Or maybe two Frenchmen depending on how Leodegrance had taken the news about the park. Haviland couldn’t imagine him taking it well. He squared his shoulders as he entered the Leodegrance salle d’armes on Rue Saint Marc.

      He was unsure of his reception. Perhaps it was good news he had yet to receive a challenge. He had no desire to fight a duel with the master. For one, the outcome would be uncertain at best. He had yet to beat the master in their lessons. And two, fighting a duel abroad over a foreign woman was exactly the type of scandal his family had prodigiously avoided for generations. His father would be appalled if news of such a thing reached English shores. It would validate all the reasons his father wanted to keep him close to home. ‘Going abroad to sow wild oats suggests there’s something wrong, something that can’t be aired in public at home,’ he’d argued on more than one occasion when Haviland had brought up his desire for freedom.

      Inside, the salle was busy, filled with the clash and slide of steel on steel. It was mid-afternoon and all three fencing salons were busy with clients, pupils and day guests. The sight brought a smile to his face and he allowed himself a moment to drink it all in. Whatever else the reclusive Leodegrance might be, he’d certainly made a little world for himself here. From the moment Haviland had first entered the salle, he’d felt the energy of the place. To his right was the long day salon with its medieval shields and antique swords decorating the walls to set a tone of respect. This was the place where clients could pay by the day to use the services of the salle. Haviland had noticed the price was slightly more than the other salles in the city, but perhaps that increased the prestige. The fee included the use of the salle’s changing rooms and its weapons for those who didn’t have their own.

      In the centre was the large main salon for members only. It looked more like a ballroom with its two enormous chandeliers at either end. Weapons and fighting equipment through the ages adorned these walls too, interspersed with silver cups set in niches bearing testimony to the greatness of Antoine Leodegrance and his father before him. The elegance, the trophies, the historic weaponry only a noble family would possess were all subtle, or perhaps not-so-subtle reminders that the fees for this club were well worth it.

      Not for the first time, Haviland felt a stab of envy for the eccentric Leodegrance. This salle was his. It might have been his father’s before him, but he’d maintained it through his hard work and his talents. It was a different kind of accomplishment than simply inheriting estates others ran for you. To do what you loved every day and see those efforts grow into a place like this, now that would be a legacy.

      The third salon was smaller than the other two and more private. This was where Julian held his lessons, where Leodegrance met with the elite pupils. He would go there later and seek out Julian for his latest lesson, but for now he’d join the other members in the main salon.

      The others present were glad to see him. Of course, they were unaware of the contretemps in the park. Haviland soon found himself engaged in a few bouts, helping another member master his in quartata. During his time here, he’d discovered he had an aptitude for teaching. Helping others with their fencing was something he enjoyed doing. ‘Don’t turn too far,’ Haviland instructed. ‘Turn to the inside, bend at the waist and get your left foot behind you so you can deliver a counter-attack. Perhaps if you moved your feet like this.’ Haviland demonstrated.

      ‘Too much footwork! Do you want to fence like an Italian, Pierre?’ Julian’s harsh tones broke in, scolding the younger man although Haviland knew the scold was directed at him as well. Haviland turned to face the surly senior instructor. He stifled a smile. He’d been right. Julian did look worse. True, he was sporting a bruised jaw of his own but that could almost be overlooked. There was no overlooking Julian’s purple eye which stood out against his paler skin. ‘You fence like the Italian school.’ Julian spat the words in disgust at him. ‘In the French school, it’s all in the wrist.’ If you were a real Frenchman and not some upstart Anglais, you’d know that. Haviland could almost hear the hidden derogatory message being spoken out loud.

      ‘Are you ready for your lesson?’ Julian queried coolly. The question was designed to remind everyone just who was the instructor and who was the pupil. ‘Although it looks as if someone already gave you one.’

      ‘And yourself?’ Haviland enquired politely. ‘Did someone give you a lesson, too?’ There were a few nervous snickers from those who’d gathered around to watch. Julian’s talent might have won him respect from the members, but his cutting wit hadn’t won him many friends. Left with no response, Julian narrowed his eyes to a glare.

      In the private salon, Julian set to the lesson with brisk efficiency. ‘Today, we will study the methods of the Spanish school.’ He began pacing the floor with an occasional flourish of his rapier. ‘We have a few Spaniards coming to the tournament and no doubt they will be eager to show that their methods are superior. If at all possible, you must have some ability to anticipate their moves. If you have done your reading, you will know that Carranza’s La Destreza system has been the leading influence on Spanish swordplay for nearly three hundred years.’ This was said as a challenge, as if to expose an intellectual weakness.

      Haviland decided to go on the offensive. He picked up his foil and joined Julian’s circling so that now they circled each other. ‘The primary difference between the Spanish and Italian schools is that the Spanish focus on defence whereas the Italian school focuses on attacks,’ Haviland answered. He’d done his homework. One of the many aspects he liked about the salon was the clubroom, an elegant gentleman’s gathering place where fencers could meet for a drink or take advantage of the excellent library lining the walls. The library contained nearly every known treatise on fencing from all the major schools in Europe and even a few texts on the katana from Japan.

      ‘Very good.’ Julian gave him a begrudging nod. He stepped back and went to the weapons cupboard, unlocking it with a key and pulling out two rapiers. He handed one to Haviland. ‘Then you