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

by Bronwyn Scott

  * * *

  Alyssandra locked the door of the private practice room behind her and slipped off the mesh mask. She unbuckled the leather protective vest and breathed a sigh of relief. Her first match had gone well. She’d been fast and decisive, the first match of her round to conclude. She’d been able to slip out unnoticed and that had been her plan. The Austrian, Pieter Gruber, had done well.

  Haviland had done well, too. She’d discreetly watched his match against Navarra. It was no surprise Haviland had won. Navarra was fifteen years Haviland’s senior and limited in his ability to adapt to the different schools of strategy. Julian had won as well, but he had done so meanly and harshly. His match had not been pretty. He was under-matched against a young boy from Belgium. Julian had made him look ridiculous, using complicated moves and unnecessarily difficult attacks. Julian could have beaten him just as easily with straightforward efforts the boy was at least likely to recognise.

  His choice was a testament to the depths of Julian’s anger, however. She’d shamed him yesterday and he was determined to exercise his superiority. Perhaps she’d misstepped. It did occur to her belatedly that she ought to have left Julian alone, poking a sleeping dog and all that. But part of her could not simply ignore what he’d done and that part had begged for confrontation. In truth, she was more than a little frightened as to what Julian might do to her and to Antoine. Would he go so far as to expose them publicly? Or would he opt for a more private blackmail over public ruination? Which one would offer him more? Either would destroy Antoine.

  She buried her face in her hands. What a mess she’d made. In her attempts to protect her brother, she’d become the instrument of his ruin and he didn’t even know. Her conscience asserted itself. It’s not fair to keep this from him. It’s his future that will be ruined, and he’ll never see it coming. At least you’ve seen this evolve from the start.

  She’d been selfish and prideful, wanting Haviland for herself, thinking herself worthy of a little pleasure to hold the long empty years at bay. She’d even convinced herself Haviland was safe. He would move on and pose no threat to her. Yet, she’d not been able to keep him secret. She’d provoked Julian and turned him, once an ally, into a powerful enemy. Worse than that, she’d not been able to keep her heart free of entanglement. Giving up Haviland would destroy her just as assuredly as Julian’s betrayal would destroy Antoine. But keeping Haviland would be the utmost in selfishness. He was a titled lord, not meant for her. Satisfying her wants would hurt both her brother and him.

  There was a rattle outside the door, the click of a key in the lock. Alyssandra took a panicked step backwards. No, she would not panic. She had an alibi—she was merely practising—and she already knew who would be coming through the door. Only Antoine had a key.

  She was right about the latter. She was wrong about the former. Antoine rolled himself into the room, his face thunderous. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Pieter Gruber of Austria? Did you think no one would notice? No, let me rephrase that, did you think I wouldn’t? Why are you doing this? Do you know what you risk?’

  ‘Risk? What about you, rolling around in these back corridors? What if someone sees you?’ It was an entirely non-responsive answer to his barrage of questions.

  ‘I am perfectly fine. I will ensure no one sees me. What is going on? I thought we’d decided you would only fight in the final,’ Antoine reprimanded.

  ‘You decided that.’ This was another piece of her pride coming back to haunt her. She’d flouted her brother’s authority in order to assuage her damnable pride. She could protest all she wanted that she’d entered to keep Haviland from winning so he wouldn’t throw away his future on her, or that she had done it to keep Julian from hurting Haviland on the piste.

  But deep inside those weren’t the only reasons. She’d done it for herself, because she wanted to prove to herself just how good she was without her brother whispering her opponents’ weaknesses in her ear, without having her brother study those opponents ahead of time with her through peepholes, to fight without the assurance that Julian would lose in the final to preserve the name of Leodegrance.

  ‘Yes, I decided that. It is what makes most sense.’ Antoine gave her a hard stare. ‘You do understand that being unmasked is more than just public embarrassment, don’t you? It can be construed as fraud and that is a crime, a punishable crime, Alyssandra. The longer our masquerade goes on, the more people we’ll have duped and the more criminal it will look to the public.’

  ‘No one is going to tell.’ It was a brave lie. So much for telling her brother the truth. She would shut Julian up herself if she had to.

  Antoine shrugged. ‘I don’t worry about telling as much as I worry about discovery.’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘What if Pieter Gruber is exposed to be a woman and my sister at that? And of course you’ll have to forfeit if you make the final or even the semi-finals because you can’t fight yourself.’ They were arguing technicalities now because the larger issues were too difficult to face.

  ‘If you’re worried about discovery, help me maintain my disguise. How did you know it was me?’ Alyssandra asked.

  ‘The way you move. You move like I do...’ Antoine paused. ‘I mean, the way I used to.’ His tone softened and for the first time she could see the pain it must bring him to plan the tournament, to see the matches and not be able to participate. The knife of selfishness dug deeper into her gut. ‘Only someone who knows you well would see it.’ He grinned, trying to hide his hurt. ‘Besides, I’m your twin. I’m supposed to know things like that.’

  Antoine reached a hand out for her. ‘Maybe we should give it all up after the tournament. We could sell the salle. Maybe Julian could buy it? We could retire to the country house and forget all this. I’m not going to walk again. There’s little sense in continuing the masquerade. It would only take one last lie—that I have sickened in the interim—to explain the wheelchair. Then I could go about as myself at my will and so could you.’

  ‘How long have you been thinking about this?’ These didn’t sound like impromptu plans born of a sentimental moment.

  ‘A few months. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure of myself, and then lately, things have been a bit off between us. My fault, I fear. I know you’re lonely. I know you gave up Etienne for me.’ Rage and sadness infused his features. ‘If only that accident hadn’t happened, if only I’d not taken that jump without knowing what was on the other side.’ His fist came down hard on the armrest of his chair. His eyes sparkled dangerously with tears. ‘I’ve ruined both of our lives in a moment of foolishness.’ Is that what he thought? How selfish of her to have let him see her moment of weakness, to have let him see any ounce of resentment that she was tied to him for life. He was her brother, and she loved him.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she was quick to answer. She could not handle Antoine’s tears. They were rare things indeed and she was ill equipped to cope with them. He’d not wept when the doctors had brought him the news of his legs, he’d not cried when their father had died. She would promise him anything to forgo those tears. She didn’t like the idea of selling to Julian—it would make him a fixture in their lives, but perhaps it would neutralise the threat he posed. She squeezed his hand meaningfully. ‘Let us get through the tournament and we will be gone, off to a new beginning.’ Even if it would be a new beginning without Haviland. Nothing had been decided between them and now it had been decided for them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the next day the field was considerably narrowed. All events had concluded except for the foil competition, which was moving into the quarter-finals with eight fencers left. The stands were full. The unknown Austrian, Pieter Gruber, had quickly garnered a following of those awed by his footwork and wrist play. Julian Anjou had turned his matches into blood sport in his last two bouts the day before. While such behaviour was inappropriate, especially from an instructor who ought to have known better, it did bring spectators.

  The
athletic Englishman, Haviland North, was bound to meet one of them in the quarter-finals and the spectators held their collective breath, both loath and eager to see which of the three would fall first. The fates spared the audience until the semi-finals. All three would advance, but a pairing now was inevitable. It would be North and Anjou on the centre piste second, Pieter Gruber and the Italian master, Giovanni Basso, first.

  Haviland stood at the edge of the floor, studying Basso and Gruber. He would meet one of them in the final round before facing Leodegrance. Three matches to go. The tournament was not only about skill, but about endurance. He’d fought five matches yesterday and, thinking positively, he would fight three today. Nolan and Archer were in the stands again and Brennan had come, too. Nolan was making a fortune on wagers. He was glad for it. His friends might need the money as they continued their tour without him. If all went well, that is what he meant to happen. He meant to stay in Paris, but he couldn’t force them to wait.

  That was putting the cart before the horse, and Haviland quickly shoved the thoughts away. There was only room for thoughts of this match and the next. The quickest way to failure was to look too far ahead. Gruber was undeniably good. If he’d wagered, he would have picked the Italian simply on reputation and years of study. He’d seen Basso duel yesterday and had been suitably impressed. The man was good and Pieter Gruber was an unknown. Gruber had apparently come alone. He had no friends here and had not travelled with a fencing group. Haviland knew, he’d asked around.

  But for a man whom no one knew or ever heard of before yesterday, there was something oddly familiar about Gruber. His face was covered and, with the leather vest and protective padding, it wasn’t possible to really tell what Gruber looked like. The familiarity was in the rhythm of his movements, in the fluid grace of them. Haviland gave up watching Basso and studied Gruber.

  There! That arm motion. He had his answer. Gruber moved like Leodegrance and eerily so. It was more than the way someone might study another and pick up that person’s gestures. Haviland had never seen such a successful mimic, but ‘mimic’ seemed to be inadequate to truly capture what he was witnessing. This was ingrained, innate. Gruber advanced aggressively and gave a turn of his wrist, the motion disarming Basso and bringing the match to a close.

  An unreal conclusion asserted itself: Gruber was Leodegrance. No one could so precisely match another and the odd habit of disappearing immediately after his rounds fit Leodegrance’s reclusive personality. But why? Leodegrance had no reason to duel covertly at his own tournament.

  Another image settled in its place—a woman with a fan, a woman with a sword-stick pressed against a thug’s throat in an alley. A woman who had gone after Anjou with a sabre and kneed him in the groin if rumour was to be believed. Snippets of their last conversation came back to him, words that hadn’t fully registered. We were both twenty when my father died. Alyssandra was a twin—a twin who had trained side by side with her brother. She would need the anonymity of the mask. Women were not permitted and it would certainly do Leodegrance no good if she were discovered.

  That did not answer his question of motive, however. Why would she do such a thing and risk her brother’s credibility? Whether he thought it was ridiculous or not, the tournament would be disgraced and that could hardly be what either of them wanted. Alyssandra had made no secret of the fact that the salle d’armes supported them financially.

  You will have to face her to get to Leodegrance. He would have to face her. It seemed to be a bit of twisted irony that the woman he loved would be his last obstacle. She would quite literally be all that stood in his way. Had that been why she’d done it? Or was there someone else, something else she was protecting? Maybe he was overthinking it. It might be nothing more than wanting to prove herself. Had she finally had enough of living in her brother’s shadow? If so, her reasons for wanting to compete were not much different than his own: freedom, pride in personal accomplishment, the desire to show the world for a brief moment he was more than the sum of his title and wealth—things that had come to him as an accident of birth, nothing more. He understood those reasons well enough.

  He felt a presence close at his shoulder and stiffened. It wasn’t a friendly presence. ‘Have you figured out Pieter Gruber’s little secret?’ The voice carried a smirk. It was Anjou, and his proximity made Haviland want to do violence. How dare the man saunter up to him as if he hadn’t ordered an attack on his person two days ago, as if he hadn’t faced Alyssandra with a sabre. Haviland didn’t like imagining what had transpired in that room to cause Alyssandra to go for his groin.

  ‘Keep your distance,’ Haviland growled.

  ‘Or you’ll what?’ Anjou was all casual insouciance. ‘Draw your foil and start our match early? Get ejected from the tournament for foul play?’ He gave a laugh. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do to me right here. Perhaps you’d like to save some of that vengeance for the piste? I know I will.’

  It galled Haviland to think that anyone watching them would think they were acquaintances, friends even. But Anjou was right. Haviland couldn’t touch him here as much as he wished otherwise without sacrificing what he’d worked so hard to achieve. Perhaps Anjou was hoping he’d lose his cool and be disqualified.

  Julian changed tack, nodding towards Pieter Gruber, who was exiting the floor yet again, to hide in seclusion until he was called. ‘She’s a fool, of course. After I beat you, I’ll beat her and perhaps teach her a rather public lesson about interfering in the games of men.’ Julian smiled coldly, his intentions thinly veiled. He meant to expose Alyssandra. Had he thought that through or was anger talking? Surely he’d harm himself in the process.

  ‘You won’t beat me,’ Haviland answered, keeping his gaze forward. He would not give Anjou the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. ‘You haven’t beaten me for some time.’ And now, knowing that Alyssandra was at risk, he certainly couldn’t allow it. Julian facing Alyssandra would be disastrous. He was hunting revenge for last night and possibly more. There was far more bad blood between Alyssandra and Julian than she’d alluded to.

  Julian shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I’ll take my chances all the same.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s not me you should be worried about, you know. I am a straightforward fellow. You know exactly where you stand with me. I don’t like you. I want you gone. Defeating you is the fastest way I can get rid of you. But Alyssandra is a different matter. She’s not been plain with you from the start. I know this because I know the real truths. I know what she hides from you.’

  A cold finger ran down Haviland’s back. Julian was merely trying to get a rise out of him. Julian would like nothing better than to pierce his calm and distract him. Unfortunately, it was working. He could not discard this latest probe as the jealous lashing out of a thwarted suitor. Julian was not spinning lies in the hope of hitting a target. He was spinning truths knowing full well they would hit a target.

  He’d known there were secrets, things to hide. Privacy meant secrets and one did not get much more private than the Leodegrances—Antoine with his odd habits in the lessons and Alyssandra and her penchant for withholding information. She had done so since the beginning when she had not disclosed her name until it was too late. She’d kept him hidden, too, not wanting him to call at the house and conduct a proper courtship, not wanting him to address her brother. She’d not told him she was a twin or that she fenced.

  What else hadn’t she told him? What had there truly been between them besides great sex? Sex so good that he’d believed there was something more, something worth fighting for, breaking free for. It was horrid to think, after all his years of practising detached physical affairs, that he’d fallen into the trap he’d tried so hard to avoid. And he’d fallen unaware.

  The announcer called for their match. ‘Are you ready?’ Julian sneered. ‘I’ll take you apart a piece at a time.’

  ‘And risk being thrown out of the tournament yourself? You were warned yesterday one more infraction would se
e you expelled. Leodegrance won’t tolerate it,’ Haviland said coolly.

  Julian scoffed. ‘Leodegrance will do nothing, he is nothing, that’s how little you know. Are you familiar with the concept of smoke and mirrors, North? Do you think this is the first time Alyssandra has masqueraded as a man? She’s rather good at it—too good at it, don’t you think?’ He strode off to take his position at the end of the piste, waving to the crowd who cheered as he passed on his way to be helped into the padded vest and mask waiting on his side of the arena. Then it was Haviland’s turn to step forward, to take the adoration of the crowd. He raised his arm in acknowledgement, smiling, wiping away any trace of unease. He would not give Julian the satisfaction of knowing what his insinuations did to him. Julian would not win any game with him, mental or physical. But, by Jove, did he really mean what Haviland thought? That Alyssandra was the Leodegrance? But how could that be? She couldn’t be both Pieter Gruber and Antoine Leodegrance in the prize round, assuming she won the match between them. And she might win. If Julian was right and she was the face behind the mask during his lessons, he had never beaten her. Would she lose on purpose to preserve her identity or would she win to prevent him from achieving his goal? Did she care for him so little that she would thwart him in such a manner?

  Haviland let the piste assistants help him into the equipment. Where was his foil? It should have been back from cleaning by now. He never let his foil out of his sight and it made him nervous not to have it now. At the last minute, a boy acting as squire ran up with his foil.