Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1)

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘He was better with a sword than we thought,’ the one with the bandaged shoulder said with a hint of accusation in his tone as if he believed he’d been led astray.

  ‘I warned you he was good. Surprise was your best element.’ Julian cursed freely. He’d given them every advantage and yet they had failed.

  ‘You didn’t warn us about her. You said nothing about her being a sword-wielding bitch.’ The bandaged man spat. ‘She put that blade to my throat and that was after he stabbed me and blood was running everywhere.’

  ‘And she kicked me and bit me and scratched me,’ the other man sporting a purple jaw complained.

  ‘Bested by a woman? Tsk, tsk,’ Julian scoffed. ‘I’m not sure I’d be bragging about that.’ He stopped his angry stabbing and stared at each of them. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

  The men looked down at their feet. ‘No, we’d like our money, please, and we’ll be off.’

  A cold fear uncurled in Julian’s belly. These men hadn’t just been beaten. They’d been thoroughly whipped. What had the one said? Alyssandra had held him at sword point? He didn’t know them personally, they were arranged for him by an old friend from the streets—they owed him nothing in terms of loyalty. If circumstances were dire enough, they would not feel compelled to die to keep his secrets.

  Julian whipped the sabre up, pressing the point of the blade into the stockier man’s belly. They needn’t know a sabre was for slicing, not piercing. All they needed to know was that blades were sharp and Haviland had already taught that lesson for him. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing! We swear,’ the other man avowed hastily.

  Julian gave an evil grin and pushed the blade harder, watching the man gasp. ‘I am not sure your friend agrees with you. Maybe you would like to try a different answer?’

  ‘He told them your name,’ the man with the sabre pressed to him confessed, ratting out his ‘friend’ with apparent ease. ‘It wasn’t me, I swear that’s true.’

  ‘No,’ his companion sneered. ‘You couldn’t do anything. That gentleman had laid you out cold with his fists. It was just me trying to fend for myself, trying to get us both out of there.’

  Julian gave a cold chuckle. ‘Don’t lay it on too thick. I doubt you were a veritable hero in the alley. You gave me up quick enough. I’d say your loyalty could use a little polish.’ He put up his sabre. ‘Go on, get out.’

  ‘But our money, sir?’ one of them managed to stammer. Clearly he’d not frightened them enough.

  Julian made a threatening gesture with the sabre that sent them scurrying towards the door. ‘I don’t pay men for failure and I certainly don’t pay them for betrayal. Get out if you value your lives.’

  Alone, Julian sat down hard on a crate of equipment, head in his hands. What did he do if he valued his own life? He couldn’t simply just ‘get out’. His whole livelihood was tied to the salle. Would Alyssandra go to Antoine and expose him? Would it be enough to turn Antoine against him? Antoine had always been his unwitting champion—dear, young, impressionable but ungodly talented Antoine. He’d recognised the vulnerability and the skill in the young vicomte from the start and he’d used it to win Antoine’s friendship. The boy he’d been had been so desperate to give it after his father’s death and the man he’d become needed him so much now. Perhaps the need would allow Antoine to forgive him.

  If Alyssandra ratted him out. Perhaps she wouldn’t. How could she without exposing herself and her little perfidy? There was some hope in that. What would Antoine do if confronted with his sister’s affaire with an Englishman versus his friend’s attempt to mitigate the Englishman’s presence in all of their lives? Perhaps he could sell his actions as those chosen out of misguided loyalty for Antoine?

  The door to the training room opened. Julian rose and took a moment to compose himself before turning. It would be his student come for the sabre lesson. ‘Bon soir, Monsieur Delacorte. I am just...’

  His words died. Alyssandra slammed the door shut and strode across the room, trousers tight across her hips, shirt tucked into the waistband emphasising the fullness of her breasts. Another time he might have given those charms more appreciation, but at the moment all of his rather considerable appreciation was fixed on the sabre in her hand.

  ‘En garde.’ Her face bore no expression as she took up the position, a sure sign of the depths of her fury. Good lord, there was a reason men didn’t teach women to fight. Sometimes they got angry.

  Julian matched her position, his own eyes narrowing. Perhaps this was the perfect time after all to teach her a lesson about what happens to a woman who overreaches herself in a man’s world. He executed a couple of feints to see what she would do. ‘Come for a lesson, have you?’ He parried her initial attack. ‘Straight from your lover’s bed? I have to inform you I do have a lesson shortly.’ He barely dodged a slice at his right side.

  ‘Then I hope you’ll have enough time to get cleaned up.’ She deftly sidestepped his blade. She’d become good. He’d not faced her with sabres for a while. Damn her father for training both his children in the art of all the blades. She was as gifted as Antoine and it didn’t matter the sword—rapier, épée, daggers, sabres—the Leodegrances were born with a talent for them all in their blood.

  She lunged, and he was too slow. Her blade sliced through the sleeve of his shirt. Fabric ripped. ‘You tried to kill him today.’ They circled, Julian dancing back from the edge of her sword.

  ‘Killed is far too strong a word, my dear. A scratch, a nick, is all. But even that didn’t succeed.’ He tried to sound more nonchalant than he felt. The truth was, he didn’t know exactly how far Alyssandra was willing to go. Was she intent on blood? On murder? Murder was doubtful. He didn’t think she had it in her. Most women didn’t. Did she intend an injury that would take him out of the tournament? That was his worst fear. He needed that tournament to boost his own importance.

  Julian launched another offensive with his blade and with his words. ‘What sort of man sends a woman to beg in his place? If he’s spoiling for a fight, he should face me himself.’ He gave a smirk. ‘Or are you his rendition of an alley thug? Makes us even, I think.’

  ‘He did not send me.’ Alyssandra went for the other sleeve, slicing it down the centre. If he wasn’t careful he was going to end up looking like a vagabond for the lesson.

  Blades met in a resounding clash, steel and bodies came together, the strength of the other’s arm pushing their blades into the air. He grinned. He had the superior strength here. His strength would outstrip hers. He pushed her to the wall, their arms still raised above their heads, sabres still locked. ‘You were foolish today, Alyssandra, to let him see your skill. He might start to suspect there is something afoot. How do you think he’d feel if he knew what you’d been up to? Masquerading as your brother, duping people, duping him, into spending sums of money on lessons with “Antoine Leodegrance” when in reality they were only fencing a girl?’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare tell,’ Alyssandra ground out with effort. He’d keep her pinned a little longer, make her sweat, make her think about what she risked, make her see that she needed him and his protection.

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ Julian mused. ‘I could destroy you.’

  ‘And I could destroy you. What do you think my brother would do if I told him about the alley? About the threats, that you are not so loyal as you pretend. You are loyal only to yourself and you will betray him the moment it is beneficial to you.’ Alyssandra’s eyes flashed, and his groin tightened. She was magnificent in her temper, all fire when cornered. That would make some rousing bedsport.

  ‘Your brother will think what I tell him to think. He will believe me when I give him penitence for my actions and tell him it was out of concern for him that I resorted to drastic measures,’ he sneered. ‘He will not believe you, an ungrateful sister who would risk us all for the sake of a short-lived affaire.’

  ‘I hate you,’ she spat, arms showing the first si
gns of trembling. She would have to surrender soon and she would hate that even more.

  ‘I know you do. But that won’t matter in the end.’ He relished the thought of her capitulation. He would wait for her to break, wait for her to admit defeat. He pressed against her, taking advantage of her weakening arms, knowing full well his erection would be evident.

  ‘Me faut retourner à la pute qui m’a accouchée,’ he muttered to his opponent.

  Alyssandra moved, he could feel her muscles bunching for a last try. But her last try had nothing to do with their swords. Her knee came up between them, taking him sharply in the groin. She gave him a shove that put him on the floor, doubled over with pain. She strode past him.

  He heard her open the door and say to someone in the hall—probably his lesson, dammit— ‘Give him a moment to collect himself.’

  He would get her for this. He would give her one last opportunity to redeem herself. If not, the time had come to reveal the Leodegrances for the frauds they were.

  Chapter Twenty

  The salle d’armes was a crowded, bustling hive of activity when Haviland arrived the morning of the tournament. Outside, the street was bursting with energy. Vendors, sensing a profit to be made, had gathered with their wares and were doing a brisk business. He stepped inside and let the excitement of the atmosphere engulf him, let the anticipation of competition override his rage towards Julian Anjou, let the thrill of facing other excellent swordsmen from around the Continent dull the complexities of wanting Alyssandra. Now was not the time to have his mind distracted by either rage or lust.

  At either shoulder were Archer and Nolan, who had come ostensibly because they were eager to see the tournament. But Haviland suspected they’d come out of concern for his safety. He didn’t truly believe Julian would attempt anything at the tournament. For one, it was too late in the game. Anything Julian wanted to do to him could be attempted on the piste should they meet. For another, it was far too public a venue to get away with anything covert.

  He flexed his grip around the handle of his long sword case and approached the entrance table. Today was the day he proved to himself just how good he was. More than that, he had a chance today to prove how worthy he was of his dreams. Were they dreams only? Or was there reason to hope in them?

  Haviland recognised one of the young men at the table as the student he’d helped with his balestra. The young man saw him and smiled. ‘You’ll be entering rapiers, no doubt.’ He nodded at the case in Haviland’s hand. The competition featured all nature of swords, but the rapier was the premiere event given that it was Antoine Leodegrance’s speciality. As a result, it was also the most heavily entered event. Haviland nodded and pushed forward his entrance fee.

  ‘We have both changing rooms available today,’ the young man said. ‘And we’re using the day guests’ salon as a warm-up centre. All the matches will take place in the main salon.’ He nodded to Nolan and Archer. ‘Your friends can find seats in the stands if they hurry.’

  Haviland parted company from Nolan and Archer and headed to the changing rooms. Compared to the bustle in the salle’s lobby, the changing rooms were quiet, but only relatively so. The rooms were crowded, but the energy was friendly as men stripped out of street clothes. Most would fight in trousers and shirts covered by padded vests for protection. Haviland recognised a few of the other more advanced clients of the salle among the crowd who’d come to compete and went to join them.

  ‘Is this all of us who’ve come to champion the salle’s good name?’ Louis Baland, who’d been one of the first to befriend him when he’d arrived in April, clapped Haviland on the back in welcome. ‘The six of us will make good showing, but isn’t Anjou coming?’

  ‘I hope not. I don’t stand a chance against him,’ Jean-Marc, a sandy-haired man with laughing hazel eyes, complained good-naturedly. Haviland liked him. He was a strong fencer in practice, but he lacked the competitive urge to win when the match was on the line. ‘I just want to make it further than I did last year before I have to face Anjou. It’s a shame to have to fight him all year and then have to face him in the tournament, too. We should be exempt. I think I’ll propose that to Leodegrance for next year,’ he joked.

  ‘North here can take him. I’ve seen him do it,’ another, Paul Robilliard, put in. ‘I’d say North is a great favourite in this tournament. The odds on you in the stands are good. I can arrange a go-between if you want to wager on yourself,’ he added quietly.

  Haviland politely declined. He knew some of the fencers wagered on themselves to lose in order to make money. But he wasn’t here to win money. He wanted to win something far grander.

  ‘There’s Anjou.’ Jean-Marc directed their attention with a discreet nod of his head.

  Julian Anjou sat alone in a corner, dressed only in tight buckskin trousers. He was shirtless and impressively well muscled. Louis snorted. ‘Showing off his physique to intimidate us, no doubt.’ Julian’s pale hair was severely pulled back away from his face. His eyes glittered as he acknowledged the group with the slightest of nods, but he made no move to join them. ‘He likes to be alone before he competes.’

  ‘Do you think he can stand up?’ Jean-Marc queried, his face breaking into a knowing grin and the group laughed. ‘Have you heard, North? Delacorte showed up for a sabre lesson yesterday and Alyssandra Leodegrance had kicked him in the balls.’

  ‘Everyone knows he’s been sweet on her for years,’ Louis put in. Haviland barely registered that last remark. He was still groping over the first one.

  ‘What was she doing here?’

  Louis laughed. ‘We don’t know, but whatever it was, she was wearing trousers and she was mad, mad, mad. Delacorte says there were two sabres in the room when he got there. Maybe they were duelling?’ It was clear he didn’t take his own suggestion seriously. The men laughed, but Haviland’s mind was racing. She’d left his bed and gone straight to the salle to confront Julian. And not to just confront him verbally. She’d done it with a weapon.

  Over him.

  These men could think it was a lovers’ spat between Alyssandra and Julian, but Haviland knew better and part of him was shamed by it. It was not her place to defend him. If anyone was to confront Julian, it should be him. He’d hoped to have the chance to settle things on the piste. Apparently, Alyssandra had beaten him to it. He was going to have stern words with her when he saw her next.

  The announcement came that the first rounds were posted and the changing room disgorged as everyone surged into the main salon for their matches. He had to put Alyssandra out of his mind and focus on the task at hand, which apparently would be a fencer from Spain.

  This would be a defensive match. His mind immediately emptied of everything except the pages of the treatise, images of the lessons flashing through his head in review—the triangles the Spanish school loved, the geometry of the steps. Haviland found a quiet space and took out his rapier, practising with a few experimental lunges and stretching his muscles. He could feel excitement building inside himself and did his best to control it. Too much adrenaline could leave one breathless, or cause one to go out too recklessly. Haviland closed his eyes and drew deep breaths, imagining the match to come, seeing himself execute flawless attacks and strong parries.

  They were calling for his match when he opened them. ‘On the centre piste, Mr Haviland North will face Señor Julio Navarra.’ Mr Haviland North. He drew another breath, his heartbeat steady and controlled now. Haviland North would fight this tournament, not Viscount Amersham. He hadn’t been Amersham for weeks now, not since he’d crossed the Channel. His father would say he was being selfish, but Haviland would argue he was being free. Haviland stepped to the piste, exchanged bows with the officials and his opponent and took up his stance. The officials gave the signal and everyone at the eight pistes lining the salon took up their en garde positions.

  Fighting in a large arena with other matches going on around you took some talent and some experience not always acquired in practice,
Haviland soon realised. It took far more concentration to simply block out the matches on either side of him than he’d expected. During practices in the main salon, there were any number of bouts going on haphazardly at one time, but the randomness of those bouts was hardly distracting. In the beginning, the synchronisation of the matches was the distraction as they went through many of the same opening strategies at the same pace. There was a beautiful symmetry to it that addicted the eye, but it would also see him eliminated embarrassingly early if he wasn’t careful.

  Haviland took deliberate stock of his opponent, using the early moments of the match to assess the quality and speed of Navarra’s moves. Navarra was a man of middling height and years. Grey streaked the temples of his dark hair and his moustache. He was perhaps in his early forties, but his physique was well maintained. Haviland would have the advantage on him when it came to reach and to stamina, but he was not arrogant enough to discredit Navarra’s superior knowledge of the Spanish strategy. He needed to go on the offensive immediately and initiate the French school, force Navarra to fight outside his comfort zone.

  * * *

  Ten minutes into the match, Haviland caught him off guard and executed a flèche to his right line, earning a direct hit and five of the ten points needed to win the bout. They resumed their en garde positions, the Spaniard given the opportunity to initiate the first offensive movement. It would be a chance to also initiate the Spanish line of attack, but Haviland used a strong riposte to take control and land his second direct hit to the man’s upper shoulder.

  At the declaration of victory, Haviland felt a surge of excitement pass through him. It was only round one, but he was focused now, his thoughts centred on the tournament. He would not fight again for a few hours, but he remained on the floor of the salon instead of joining Nolan and Archer in the stands. He removed his gear and went to watch the second round of matches, to study whoever his next opponent might be. The match featuring a late entrant from Austria intrigued him. The Austrian was slim and tall, with elegant movements that were beautiful to watch as well as deadly, delivering lightning-fast defeat to his opponent. Impressive, Haviland thought. Afterwards, he came forward to compliment the Austrian, but he had disappeared into the crowd, gear and all. It was to be expected. Haviland knew from experience in some of the London tournaments that some fencers enjoyed socialising between matches and exchanging tips on technique while others preferred to slip away to a quiet spot to think and to plan. Still, he would have liked to have met the Austrian.