A Bride Unveiled (24 page)

Some helped themselves to whatever happened to be left around: a forgotten cloak, a good sword, a half-drunk pint. The rule was to take only what you needed and return it when you could.

There were more returns than thefts.

But on most nights at least one swordsman came by and ended up spending the night at Kit’s lodging house. Some had gotten into trouble at home and needed advice. Some had no home. Some were looking for trouble.

Kit heard laughter drifting from his private dressing room.

He detected a female’s scent in the air, not cheap, but the costly perfume of a Mayfair wife. It reeked of explicit passion. He walked past the small gallery stairs and saw a woman’s cloak lying over a chair.

He knew right away that his visitor was not Violet. He would have been furious if she had come to this part of London at this hour without a damned good reason. He pushed open the door of his dressing room, where a lamp burned low.

His mouth thinned in disgust. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness and identify the half-naked figure straddling the young man who sat spread-legged on the armchair.

Although all Kit could make out was her bare back and loosened red hair, he knew he had seen her before.

It was a strict rule of the school that ladies, either visitors or pupils, must be under escort at all times. If an actress arrived for lessons to prepare for a part, she did so in daylight and laughed off the insinuations of disrepute that such activity engendered.

The woman turned at the waist, one hand coyly covering her breasts.

“Master Fenton?” she whispered.

He stared at her, recognizing that cloying voice. Not any Mayfair wife, but Viscountess Bennett.

“Where have you been?” she said, petulant now. “You missed several scheduled lessons. My servant has been watching the salon for hours.”

“Then he can see you back to your husband.” He entered the cramped room in cold fury, recognizing the man lounging back in the chair. “I should have known you’d be involved.”

Pierce glanced up, casually refastening his shirt and trousers. “I took the liberty of covering for you. I didn’t think you’d mind. The other students needed practice. And Lady Bennett had other needs.”

He stood unmoving as she approached, relacing her gown. “What are you doing here?”

She shook her head, the answer obvious. “This is your place of business. Name the price.”

He gave an incredulous laugh. “Do you think I am a male whore to be bought?”

She slowly pulled up her sleeves. “We both know you are not a wealthy man. I desire you.”

“I have never shown the slightest interest in you. Why should you desire a commoner who disdains you?”

“Christopher Fenton is no ordinary commoner,” she said. “He can ward off a man with his sword and pleasure a woman at the same time.”

He leaned back against the door. “That is the most ludicrous statement I have ever heard.”

“It is also said that you are a master in more ways than one.”

A cab rattled by in the street. Kit’s patience was dwindling. It would be just his luck if a group of his younger pupils burst in to witness what could easily be mistaken as a ménage à trois.

“What kind of woman,” Lady Bennett asked, her gaze still riveted to his face, “do you desire?”

He thought instantly of Violet, and his body responded.

“What kind of woman,” Lady Bennett asked, her hand lifting, “tempts a man who is dedicated to his art?”

He caught her wrist before she could touch his belt. “Since you have shown an interest in the art, let me explain a basic rule in fencing. A man does not leave his blade or any other part of his body unguarded.”

She looked rather pleased that she had at least provoked some physical reaction from him. “I will be waiting if you change your mind. I could make you a very wealthy and satisfied man.”

He released her hand and looked past her to the man sitting motionless on the chair. “Walk her to the door,” he said curtly. “And don’t bring a woman here again.”

Pierce laughed. “I didn’t bring her here. She wanted you. I was keeping her company to be polite.”

A moment later Pierce returned to the salon. Kit was standing in front of the stairs to the fencing gallery. “Why are you the only student here?” he asked suddenly, realizing that his rooms had been empty when he returned home. “Where has everyone gone?”

“They’re probably at Wilton’s house, sir. We ran into a spot of trouble outside his club last night. Kenneth and Tilly had to take him to his mother’s house. We tried to find you, sir, but no one knew where you’d gone.”

Kit could not hide his reproach. “Do not tell me that you and Wilton got into a public fight.”

“Sir, we answered an insult. Wilton required the services of a surgeon, but he held his own against the men who disrespected us. You would not have wanted us to slink off like cowards.”

Kit stared at him in contempt. For a moment he could have sworn he saw a flash of malice in Carroll’s eyes. The bastard had a taste for blood. There was trouble in a pupil like that.

“I’ve no interest in training gentlemen who use their skill as an excuse to kill, unless they are pursuing honor. I take it that honor had nothing to do with what happened last night?”

“Master,” Carroll replied with a woeful smile, “isn’t honor a personal matter to decide?”

“You are going to ruin my reputation,” Kit said through his teeth. “I can only hope no one will die as a result of your rash behavior.”

Pierce put his hand to his heart in feigned remorse. “I give you my word that I will not take up a sword again in anger unless it is for honor’s sake.”

V
iolet and her aunt were viewing fashion plates together the next morning in the drawing room when Twyford announced that a gentleman visitor wished to be received. The caller had declined to give his card. From the twinkle in the butler’s eye, Violet knew that this person could not be a stranger.

“A stranger?” Aunt Francesca mused, looking remarkably well after a good night’s rest.

It was unthinkable that Twyford would allow a notorious figure, a fencing master with Kit’s history, into the house. Twyford would never risk upsetting the baroness with such a bold action. But then, Twyford had become bolder with age. He had escorted Violet only yesterday to a scandalous encounter.

Violet had taken advantage of her butler’s tenderness too many times to count. She rose from her chair and headed to the door, stepping on the plate that had slipped from her lap. She looked down at the picture of the bridal dress she had been admiring. She’d torn it with the heel of her shoe. It reminded her that she had bought only a pair of long white gloves for her trousseau. The lonely purchase didn’t say much for her enthusiasm. How would she ever be able to look at Godfrey again?

“Violet,” her aunt said in concern. “What is wrong with you today?”

“I . . .” She shook her head.

“Do you have something to tell me?”

“Yes, but . . . I don’t know how to start.”

“Well, then—”

“Madam,” Twyford called from the hall.

“Who is it, Twyford?” her aunt asked in disconcertment.

“The gentleman would like his identity to be a surprise.”

The baroness hesitated. She looked again at Violet, her face contemplative, and gave a shrug. “You had best not bring a scoundrel into this house, Twyford, or I shall put you out onto the streets to beg.”

“If it pleases your ladyship,” he said, and moments later he escorted the unidentified gentleman into the room.

Violet stared in silence at the man who approached her and bowed before she could steal a look at his face. He was husky, overdressed, and too dark to be mistaken for Kit. But as he straightened, he became familiar. A friend. She drew a breath.

One of her beloved friends. He wasn’t Kit, but he
was
second-best. She broke into a delighted smile and cried inelegantly, “
Eldie
! Oh, Eldie! Look at you! You’re so distinguished and lovely and—Do come closer. I’d no idea it was you. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Why haven’t you answered my last three letters?”

“Eldie?” her aunt said in a baffled undertone, and then he stepped closer to the window and the light glinted on his silver-rimmed spectacles. “Dear life, it is
you
, Eldbert Tomkinson. And what a pleasant surprise you are, indeed. Violet has mentioned many times that you distinguished yourself in the infantry. I cannot believe it was a decade ago that I watched your father riding you around the ring.”

Eldbert’s color mounted, as if he were embarrassed to death; Violet wondered how he had ever withstood the rigors of the British army. He said, “The memories of our past friendship in Monk’s Huntley sustained me during many a dark night.”

“How gratifying, Eldbert,” the baroness said, glancing at Twyford, who stood as if he could not be seen outside the door. “Tea and strawberry cheesecake, Twyford. Bring a little porter for our guest, too. Have you been back to Monk’s Huntley, Eldbert? Has it changed much since we have been gone?”

Eldbert lifted his broad shoulders, cutting such an impressive figure that Violet ached to dance in glee around the room. His appearance today had to be a good omen. “It is remarkably unchanged, Lady Ashfield. I was hoping, in fact, that we all might return for a Christmas reunion.”

“Christmas?” Violet had not thought past her end-of-summer wedding, and now that would not take place. She envisioned her old house, haunted by her uncle’s spirit and days that could never be recaptured. Would she and Kit be together this coming Christmas? Would her aunt understand and allow him into their lives? How could she ever choose? She dearly loved both of them.

“Eldbert.” She shook her head, restraining herself from embracing him.

She had no desire to sit sipping tea with him, acting as though the past had not happened, stiff tailed and clucking like pigeons in a park. But then, perhaps he would pretend to have no knowledge of their forbidden history. How dreadful to think he might even be ashamed of the escapades they had gone on with Kit. Could he have forgotten? He was an officer who had fought a war.

The quick smile he sent her when Aunt Francesca reached around for her lap robe indicated that he remembered. And that he and Violet still had secrets to share. She shook her head. “How good to see you again.”

He lifted his brow. “Is that all?”

“I have missed you—I have missed your brains and your instinct for getting me out of mischief,” she whispered.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I have missed your getting me into mischief. I am happy to say, though, that I’ve never made a blood pact with anyone else in my life.”

She grimaced at the reminder. “Neither have I. But those were good times.”

“Grand ones.”

“It is rude to whisper, Violet,” her aunt said, beckoning Eldbert to her chair. “Sit, the pair of you. Your father is still alive, Eldbert?”

He came toward her, Violet leading the way. “Yes, and he is well, thank you. But Lord Ashfield, madam, I—”

“He died almost two years ago.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t know. I have been away for such a long time.”

“How could you know? I have made Violet visit all the places of my youth. We have been traveling ever since we left Monk’s Huntley.”

The tea arrived, and Violet sat, curbing her impatience, as her aunt asked Eldbert endless questions about the village. It was her aunt’s way, she assumed, of recalling her own grand memories, and Violet thought it entirely innocent until unexpectedly Francesca asked Eldbert what he remembered about the churchyard below the old manor house.

Eldbert glanced at Violet, who slowly lowered her cup to the table. “The old churchyard, Lady Ashfield,” he said. “The ruins, you mean?”

“I wondered if it remained as desolate as ever,” she said. “Or if the parish had carried through on its threat to raze the ruins and erect a school upon the site.”

“No one is going to build upon it for as long as the rumors persist.”

“Rumors?”

“There has always been talk of treasures buried in the forsaken graves. The grounds will be sacked into eternity.”

Francesca stared at him, intrigued. “What sort of treasures do you mean?”

“Those of a reclusive earl who had amassed a fortune during the Restoration and swore he would take it with him when he died. His relations pillaged the crypts, but I believe they were looking in the wrong place, as he intended them to do.”

Francesca appeared to be fascinated. “What manner of fortune do you think one might find?”

“Assuming a person knew where to look,” Eldbert answered, “you could unearth several chalices embedded with rubies, and gold plates from Jacobean days. The countess owned a casket of jewels that allegedly disappeared upon her death.”

“Why were these valuables buried with the family?” inquired Francesca, her manner alert.

Violet stared at Eldbert, silently imploring him to stop before he revealed anything that could implicate either of them in their past misdeeds. She half rose to ring for fresh tea, but Aunt Francesca raised her hand, the motion forbidding Violet to interrupt.

“The earl’s family was stricken by the plague, as were a great many of the other persons buried improperly in the churchyard,” Eldbert said. “There was fear of contamination.”

Francesca looked at him in horror. “And you played in the place? I shudder to think of what might have happened to the three of you. Digging in graves, my soul.”

“I never dug in a grave,” Violet said before Eldbert could be led into revealing the existence of Kit and the tunnels by which he traveled.

Eldbert blinked behind his spectacles. “We explored,” he said carefully. “We followed the maps I had made, which followed the streams—”