by Amy Corwin
“Distracting,” Alexander murmured, clasping his hands behind his back.
Lady Olivia straightened. Her brows tightened into a frown as she shut the door behind him. “We can cover them if they prove too distracting.”
With the door closed, the air reeked of mildew and dust. Alexander took a deep breath and tasted something else in the back of his throat. The iron odor of death lingered in the house. He glanced at Lady Olivia.
She cast a puzzled look around the hallway. “That odor —”
“Unpleasant, eh?” Miss Denholm’s gaze roved avidly around the hallway, her mouth hanging slightly open. “Blood, I suppose. Well, it can’t be helped. We will simply have to open windows, Lady Olivia.” She drew off her gloves, untied her plain poke bonnet, and yanked it off her head. “We shall need rapiers, of course. Let us get on with it, then.”
“There was not that much blood.” Lady Olivia stared at Alexander.
He lifted his head and took a deep breath, smiling crookedly as he remembered Lady Olivia’s beagles sniffing his trousers. “There does seem to be a touch more to that scent than one would expect from blood.” He walked past the staircase to a discreet baize door that stood ajar. The putrid smell was stronger near the door.
“It is terrible here,” Lady Olivia said, stepping closer to him. The light scent of lavender that clung to her clothing couldn’t mask the rank odor of decay. “Mr. Grantham died upstairs, in my office. Not in the servants’ hall.”
“Dead rats,” Miss Denholm said with brisk finality. She shouldered her way past Lady Olivia and reached out a long arm to push the door open further. “Must be in the kitchen. Well, never mind. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“One minute, if you please, Miss Denholm,” Alexander said. “Wait here. I shall return shortly.”
The servants’ hallway was dim, and the soles of Alexander’s boots scraped and crunched unpleasantly on the filthy wooden floor. The boards creaked and complained, and when he trod on something soft, he grimaced. There were certainly dead mice, if nothing worse.
Two large windows in the rear wall provided better light for the kitchen, but being able to see more clearly didn’t improve matters. An old, scarred oak table stood in the center of the room, and the walls were lined with various cupboards and cabinets, some of which gaped open to display downy gray puffs of cobwebs and dust.
A deep breath burned the back of his throat. He gagged. Something was indeed dead, and it wasn’t a rat.
A more careful scrutiny revealed a pair of worn black boots on the floor on the far side of the oak table. The laces were broken and were roughly knotted, too short to be properly tied. And the boots were still connected to a pair of thick ankles, exposed under the tattered hem of a gray skirt.
The body of a middle-aged woman lay on the slate floor, partially twisted to one side. She faced away from him, with her right arm draped over her stout body. Graying brown hair straggled out from beneath a black bonnet, and an old, gray shawl covered her shoulders. Below that peeped a black pelisse so old that the wool was worn through in patches to expose a red striped lining.
“Mrs. Adams,” Lady Olivia whispered in an appalled voice. She stood at his right shoulder, her hand pressed to her mouth. “Is she … dead?”
“Yes.” He walked around the table and knelt on one knee to examine the body.
The floor beneath her, although gritty with dirt, lacked bloodstains. He moved her head gently. Under the brim of her stout bonnet was an ugly wound on the right temple.
He glanced around the room again. The kitchen was cold enough to prevent too many insects from infesting her, but from the puffy slackness of her skin, she had been dead for several days.
The lividity of the cheek facing up, and sheer logic, suggested she had been moved. Certainly the constable would have found her had she been in the kitchen when they examined Grantham in Lady Olivia’s office upstairs.
“How did she — what happened?” Shock strangled Lady Olivia’s soft voice.
“It appears she was hit on the head.” He stood and pulled on the hems of his gloves, although they were already snug on his hands. “We must notify the authorities.”
“Again?” Lady Olivia pulled out one of the ladder-backed chairs and sat abruptly, touching her temple with one hand. She took a long, shuddering breath and stood again abruptly, swallowing. Her pale skin turned greenish in the poor, afternoon light. “I am sorry, I can’t stay here.”
“Go back to the hallway. Explain to Miss Denholm. I must find a constable,” he ordered. He gripped her elbow and turned her toward the hallway. “Go on.”
She stumbled at the doorway, and he caught her arm to steady her. “I am quite well. There is no need to treat me like a child.” She shook her arm to free herself.
“Si.” He let her go with a nod. “In this place, death must seem quite familiar to you, mi niña bonita. An old friend.”
She whirled around to face him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes snapping with clear anger despite the poor light. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nada.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles and smiled. “It is good, however, to see the color back in your face, even if it is merely anger at me.”
“You are impossible. And stop speaking Spanish. You only do it to annoy me.”
He chuckled. His teasing distracted her, and he would rather see her irritated with him then ill with shock. “No doubt, mi niña bonita. Now go back to Miss Denholm and wait for me. I shall not be long.”
With an annoyed flick of her skirts, she walked away rapidly. He watched her go until the shadows swallowed her. Finally, even her quick, light step faded from hearing.
He went to the kitchen door, noting that while it was latched, it was not locked. With a final glance at the woman sprawled next to the table, he strode outside and threaded his way through the narrow alley running between the academy’s outer wall and the house next door.
The street in front of the townhouse thronged with pedestrians, carriages, and numerous riders on horseback. He hesitated at the wrought iron gate in front of the academy, reluctant to leave the women alone for too long. Even the brawny Miss Denholm was human and therefore vulnerable.
When he spotted a lad with a raggedy brown cap pulled down low over his forehead, he called to him and waved a sixpence.
The boy recognized the gesture with sharp blue eyes and, dodging the traffic with alarming swerves and short dashes, ran over to Alexander. His gaze locked on the coin and remained there as he panted to catch his breath. Under the dirt on his face, he appeared to be about twelve years old, though he was scrawny and small for his age.
“What do you be needing, my lord? A woman?” The lad winked lewdly and smacked his thin lips.
“I need the constable and coroner. Inform them there has been an accident here, and we require their assistance.”
When the boy reached for the coin, Alexander held it out of reach.
“You may have this sixpence now.” He placed the coin in the lad’s hand and caught the thin wrist before the child could run away. “And another when you return with the men I requested. Do you understand?”
“Aye, my lord.” The coin magically disappeared before the boy tilted his head like a robin eyeing a likely worm. “And another when I return.”
“With the constable and the coroner. Agreed?”
The boy nodded and slipped away, leaving Alexander unsure if the lad would return or simply disappear into the back streets of London.
With a shrug, Alexander went back inside.
The women were gone. He listened for a moment and heard footsteps and the echo of voices above him. He found them in one of the rooms on the first floor. The two ladies were standing in front of several épées, foils, and rapiers laid out on top of a large desk. Beyond them, a wardrobe yawned open with a dried, black stain painting the base of the main compartment and a small area of the floor in front of it. Footprints meandered to the right in a short path four fee
t away from the stain on the floor.
“Lord Milbourn,” Lady Olivia said, glancing up at him. Her face was tense and pale. Small, worried wrinkles pressed between her brows, crushed the skin around her lovely eyes, and pinched her mouth. “Is the constable here?”
“Not yet. I sent for him. He should not be long.”
Miss Denholm picked up one of the rapiers and held it up, pointing the tip at the window and staring down the length of the blade. “We should have plenty of time for a lesson, then.”
“I don’t think —” Lady Olivia protested.
Miss Denholm cut her off with a snort. “Well, he shall want to speak to us, and I, for one, have no intention of simply standing about, awaiting his indulgence. No point in that, eh?”
Lady Olivia flicked a last glance at Alexander before she shrugged. “Very well.” She picked up one of the épées and walked around the desk to find corks to place on the sharp tips of the weapons.
“Where are your masks?” Alexander asked sharply.
“They…” Lady Olivia sighed. Her gaze strayed to the wardrobe.
Alexander went to the wardrobe and after searching several drawers, he pulled out several wire mesh masks. He placed them on the desk next to the remaining two rapiers. “Wear them.”
“They — there is blood on them.” A look of distaste wrinkled Lady Olivia’s nose. She held her épée down at her side, pointing the weapon at the floor, and thrust her other hand behind her back, clearly unwilling to touch the masks.
Alexander drew out his handkerchief and wiped off the dried flakes of blood. “There. Your academy will not do so well if you are disfigured, mi niña bonita. Wear it.”
Miss Denholm picked up one of the masks and turned it over, studying it. “Do men wear these things? I have never seen one before. A bit awkward, are they not?”
“It may be awkward, but you cannot fence without it. And yes, men do wear them.” He didn’t add, “on occasion.” He frowned at Lady Olivia until she flushed and picked up one of the masks.
“Awkward,” Miss Denholm repeated, her lower lip thrust out.
“Then let this start your lesson.” Alexander picked up one of the masks. “You have heard of Texier De La Boessiere, the French master, have you not?”
Lady Olivia obediently nodded, but Miss Denholm just stared at him with blank, blue eyes. With her red lower lip still protruding, she looked like a large, frustrated child about to have a tantrum.
“He developed these to assist the fencer maintain his position and neither advance nor retreat. That should appeal to you, Miss Denholm. Stand your ground and fight.” He reached over and gently wrested the rapier from her hand. “Épées, por favor. If you please.” He picked up the remaining épée and, holding it up with the blade resting on his left forearm, he examined the weapon.
The balance and workmanship were excellent, and he thought he recognized the collection of swords as those used by Lady Olivia’s brothers when he tutored them.
Miss Denholm smiled, tucked the mask under her arm, and picked up an épée. “Lead on, Lady Olivia!”
With a sigh, Lady Olivia picked up a mask and led the way to the ballroom on the ground floor, to the rear of the house. They barely entered the huge, empty room before Miss Denholm was fastening the mask over her face and waving her épée back and forth in front of her.
Alexander dropped his blade on the floor and moved swiftly toward her.
Once more, he gripped her wrist to hold Miss Denholm’s arm still. “If you please.” He held his hand out to Lady Olivia, palm upward.
She eyed him and Miss Denholm’s naked blade and handed him one of the corks. While he protected the tip of Miss Denholm’s épée with the cork, Lady Olivia removed her bonnet and pelisse, placed a cork on the tip of her own blade and donned her mask.
Miss Denholm moved away from him and pointed her sword at Lady Olivia, as if she were about to charge.
“Relax, por favor,” Alexander said, picking up his own épée from the floor.
Lady Olivia’s face was hidden by her mask, but her movements were hesitant as she walked out into the center of the room. She moved into a semi-profiled position, and although her chest expanded and contracted with a long, deep breath clearly intended to steady herself, her overall stance suggested uncertainty, rather than the cool confidence she should exhibit.
On the other hand, Miss Denholm strode with alacrity to face Lady Olivia. She was at least six inches taller than Lady Olivia and seemed to be vibrating with energy and confidence.
“Now,” Lady Olivia said, her masked face turning briefly in Alexander’s direction. “Think of a circle around you, drawn by the furthest reach of your arm and sword.” She demonstrated by holding out her épée and slowly turning. “Each of us has such a circle that moves as we move. When we face our opponent, our circles may overlap, and when they do, that presents an opportunity for attack.” As she spoke, she turned without thinking to face Miss Denholm.
Leaving herself open.
Alexander stiffened and moved closer, although staying well out of the way of the two women.
The tension in Miss Denholm’s shoulders and arms increased until she seemed to quiver with anticipation. Her masked face followed every gesture, every move made by Lady Olivia. She looked like a muscular tiger keyed up to attack.
Miss Denholm suddenly touched the side of her sword to her mask in a salute and lunged forward, hacking the air from right to left and then backhanded, forcing Lady Olivia to defend herself and retreat as best she could. Sharp barks accompanied each slashing motion by Miss Denholm, and as Lady Olivia retreated, Miss Denholm pressed forward harder. Her motions were crude, and at one point, she threw herself so close that she punched Lady Olivia’s shoulder with her free hand to force her to stumble back far enough to give her room to hack at her shocked teacher.
While Lady Olivia managed to defend herself, Miss Denholm’s superior reach and strength, combined with her aggressive attack, forced her to give way. Her back hit the wall. She pushed forward one foot, then two, her blade sliding up Miss Denholm’s and dislodging the cork.
“Halt!” Alexander ordered, racing forward.
Miss Denholm plunged forward, pushing Lady Olivia’s blade aside and punching her in the shoulder again to jolt her against the wall. Instead of stopping, Miss Denholm stepped back to grant Lady Oliviaroom to maneuver and raise her épée.
“Halt!” He grabbed Miss Denholm’s wrist and whirled her away from Lady Olivia, inserting himself between the two ladies and trusting Lady Olivia to obey his command to stop. The icy calm of cool indifference slipped over him as he held the blade in his hand.
Miss Denholm, good sense overcome by the excitement of the moment, slashed at him, entirely without grace or form. It was easy to slip in under her guard, and in a few strokes, he disarmed her. Her blade went clattering with dull thuds across the wooden floor.
“I say! Excellent sport!” Miss Denholm exclaimed, her massive chest rising and falling rapidly. Her breath whistled through the mask as she panted and paced back and forth in a tight path in front of Lady Olivia. “Again?”
When she moved in the direction of her épée, Lady Olivia stepped forward. “That is enough. We must work on form first, not leap into a duel.”
“But I was winning!” Miss Denholm laughed and made a dash to circle around Lady Olivia and Alexander to retrieve her weapon.
He held his blade out, blocking her path. When she slipped her forearm under it as if to push it out of her way, he stepped back to flick her épée further away with the tip of his sword.
“I was winning, was I not?” she complained. “I want to try again.”
“No. Not now. You must learn proper form and not behave like the bull charging the red cape,” he said.
A movement from Lady Olivia signaled that she had removed her mask. She pressed her forearm against her forehead and pushed up some dislodged curls. “We must be more methodical in our approach.”
“Meth
odical.” Alexander chuckled and strolled over to collect Miss Denholm’s épée and remove temptation from her greedy grasp. “Beware the novice for he will attempt maneuvers an expert would not.”
“She,” Olivia corrected distractedly. “She will attempt maneuvers and so on.”
“Si, mi niña bonita — she. Perhaps your brother, Edward, can assist you. He has the form and proper attitude for the sport.”
Of all the Archer boys he had tutored, Edward Archer was by far the most promising. He might appear quiet and staid, but when he held a sword, his calm silence transformed into the cool indifference that inspired both fear and mistakes in his opponents. At times, Alexander had wondered if Edward, the student, would eventually surpass Alexander, his tutor.
It seemed ironic that Lady Olivia, who lacked the instincts for the fight, desperately wanted to excel, while Edward, who had the instincts and talent to become a master swordsman, had no wish to do so.
“Edward?” Lady Olivia stared at him, her cheeks flushed and gleaming with perspiration. A long curl of rich brown hair had escaped again to hang over her brow, and she kept pushing it back with her wrist as she exclaimed, “Edward! I am sick to death of having Edward held up to me, as if he were a master fencer rivaling the famous Domenico Angelo himself. He hasn’t fenced in ages, and I daresay he is entirely incapable of teaching anyone the first thing about it.”
“Lo siento.” He bowed at her, hiding his grin. “I regret, I spoke without thought.”
“Yes, you did,” Lady Olivia agreed.
Before she could continue, they heard the unmistakable sounds of booted feet in the hallway.
A deep male voice echoed down the hallway into the ballroom, “Anyone here?”
A staccato burst of light footsteps dashed toward them, growing rapidly louder. The young lad Alexander had sent for the constable ran into the room and came to an abrupt halt. His eyes widened like a startled rabbit as he glanced from Lady Olivia, to Miss Denholm, and finally, to Alexander.
Alexander dug into his pocket and extracted another coin, which he flipped to the boy. “I trust you had no difficulties.”
