“I have a fencing suit tailored to fit me. I shall change into it at the club. Once I’m safely inside.”
“You’ve thought of everything!” Mari said with pride.
“I hope so,” Callie said nervously. “Do you really think I can pass as a man?”
Mari clapped her hands twice in excitement, “Oh, yes! I’m your sister, and I was fooled!” She leaned forward. “Callie, let me come with you!”
Anne and Callie shared a nervous look. “What? No!” Callie looked at her sister in horror.
“I could steal some clothes from one of the footmen. We could go together!”
“Absolutely not! Think of your reputation!”
“That doesn’t seem to be stopping you!”
“Mari,” Callie said slowly, as though speaking to a child, “I’m on the shelf. You’re to marry a duke in a month. I don’t think the ton would take well to a ruined duchess.”
Mari tilted her head, considering Callie’s words for a moment before heaving a giant sigh. “Fine. But at least let me help you get to a carriage.”
Callie smiled. “That, sister, you can do.”
“Excellent.” Mari met Anne’s eyes. “You realize that if you aren’t back before dinner, we shall have to send Benedick to find you.”
Callie went pale at the thought. “You wouldn’t!”
“Indeed, we would,” Mari said, turning to the maid for confirmation. “Wouldn’t we, Anne?”
Anne nodded vehemently. “Of course! We couldn’t very well ignore your not returning. What if something were to happen to you?”
“What could happen to me at a fencing club?”
“You could be run through,” Mariana speculated.
Callie gave her sister an exasperated look. “I shall be fencing in a practice room. With a bag of sand.” Was it her? Or did Mariana look disappointed? “I shall be home by dinner.”
“If you aren’t back…” Mari started.
“I shall be.” Callie straightened her coat. “Now, if you’ll help me get out of this house, I have fencing to do.”
Mari clapped her hands again, eager for Callie’s adventure to begin. She leapt from her spot on the bed and clasped Callie to her. “I’m so proud of you, sister. I cannot wait for you to return with tales of the foil!” She stepped back and assumed the en garde position, then giggled. “Oh, Callie! To be you!” she said dreamily.
Callie shook her head at her sister’s response before accepting gloves and a cane from Anne. Yes, to be me. An aging spinster with a newfound penchant for the ruin of her reputation.
It did appear that Mariana no longer considered her passive, however.
That was something.
Thirteen
Callie took a deep breath, bolstering her courage as the carriage slowed to a stop in front of Benedick’s sporting club.
After waiting several long moments for the driver to open the door to the vehicle and help her out, then realizing that he would do no such thing for a man, she scrambled out of the hack, landing unceremoniously on the gravel roadway. Keeping her head down for fear of being discovered, Callie peeked at the gentlemen around her on the street. She recognized the Earl of Sunderland heading straight for her, and she snapped her head away, eyes closed, certain he would discover her. When he passed by, paying her no mind, she let out the long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
She approached the door to the club, remembering to brandish the cane as though it were an extension of her arm rather than a cumbersome thing to carry. The door opened, revealing a footman standing to the side of the entryway, the portrait of disinterest. The disguise was working!
Entering the foyer, she gave a quick prayer of thanks that it was empty, save the club steward, who approached her immediately. “Sir? May I assist you in some way?”
Now came the hardest part.
She cleared her throat, willing the deep voice she had practiced to come. “You may.” No going back now. “I am Sir Marcus Breton, of Borrowdale. Lately of Cambridge. I’m new to town and in search of a sporting club.”
“Indeed, sir.” The steward seemed to expect her to continue.
“I so enjoy the foil.” She blurted out, uncertain of what else she should say.
“We boast the finest fencing facility in town, sir.”
“I’ve heard as such from friends.” The steward’s gaze turned politely curious, and Callie realized she had to press on, “Like Allendale.”
Invoking Benedick’s name opened the gates. The steward dipped his head graciously, then said, “We, of course, welcome any friend of the earl. Would you care to visit a practice room and test out the facilities?”
Thank God. Callie pounced on the offer. “I should like that very much.”
The steward gave a little bow and, with the wave of a hand, guided her through a mahogany door to one side of the foyer. On the other side of the door was a long, narrow hallway with chambers on either side, each numbered. “These are the practice rooms,” the steward intoned, before turning a corner and pointing to a large door, “That is the club’s social room. Once you have donned your fencing attire, you may wait there for another member with whom to practice.”
Callie’s eyes widened at the thought of entering a room filled with men, any number of whom might recognize her. Quashing her alarm she attempted a calm reply, “And if I do not wish a partner? Have you any rooms that include a sandbag for practice?”
The steward cast a questioning look in her direction before saying, “Indeed, sir. You may use room number sixteen. Once you have completed your solo practice, should you decide you would like to parry with a partner, simply use the bellpull by the door, and we will be happy to find another athlete to join you.”
He paused outside another row of doors, opening one to reveal a small, private room. “I shall leave you here to outfit yourself in your fencing suit.” He indicated the small bag she held in her hand. “I see you did not bring your own foil; there are practice foils in each of the rooms.”
She knew she’d forgotten something. “Thank you.”
He dipped his head. “Enjoy your practice.”
She stood aside, waiting for him to pass before entering the dressing room and closing the door firmly. She released a long sigh. The walk to the dressing room had felt like a fencing match in itself.
Shoring up her confidence, Callie began to dress, opening the canvas bag that Anne had packed and removing the pieces of the fencing uniform. Once the suit was laid out, she went through the challenging process of changing from one set of clothes completely foreign to her into another outfit, equally bizarre.
Once stockings and special fencing breeches were on, she wiggled her way into her plastron, designed to provide added protection on her sword-arm side. Callie struggled to tie the bows of the one-armed shirt herself, but found that between the discomfort of the bindings on her breasts and her own lack of experience, she could not fasten the garment.
She stopped, leaning against the wall of the dressing room breathing heavily for a moment before realization dawned. She was only fencing in a practice room; she wouldn’t be facing an opponent. Why wear the unwieldy garment?
She cast the plastron aside, instead reaching for the tight canvas jacket that would cover all of her upper body. Callie looked askance at the jacket and the peculiar croissard that connected its front and back pieces—snugly between the legs. Taking a deep breath and ignoring the wave of embarrassment she felt at the idea of wearing such a revealing piece of clothing, she stepped through the strap and pulled the jacket on, buttoning it carefully up to the high collar.
She pulled on her mask next. Pulling the mesh hood over her head, she took care to ensure that every bit of her hair was tucked inside the bib of the helmet. She smiled within her dark, wired cocoon. She hadn’t put fencing on the list because it was a sport that lent itself to disguise, but she was thrilled that she could walk among the male members of the club completely covered, unafraid of discovery.
 
; Gloves were the final touch, covering the last, small areas of skin—one long, complete with gauntlet to prevent blades from entering her sleeve, the other smaller, but still ensuring that her pale, delicate hands were invisible.
“Excellent,” she whispered, the words echoing around her in the chamber of the fencing hood. With a deep breath and pounding heart, she exited the room and made her way back down the empty hallway to practice room number sixteen.
She pushed open the door to the room and had hurriedly entered before she realized that the sandbag at the side of the room was in use. Swaying back and forth, the bag blocked the fencer who had obviously just delivered a blow of considerable force to the hanging sack.
Catching her breath, Callie spun around to exit the room as quickly as possible, so as not to be discovered by the room’s occupant.
“I was wondering when they would find me a partner,” he said dryly.
She stilled at the words.
The fencer continued, “I see you are already masked and ready. Perfect.”
Callie turned slowly toward the sound, eyes squeezed tightly shut, willing her instincts to be wrong. Willing him not to be who she thought he would be. Forcing them to open, she cursed her luck.
Standing before her, wearing an identical uniform to hers, handsome as ever, was Ralston. Callie tried to revive the anger she had felt at their last meeting but found herself distracted by the white suit he wore—snug and revealing, showing off his remarkable body. He looked like an ancient Olympian, all lean, corded muscle and perfect physique. She felt heat consume her as she traced the straight lines of his legs and back to the curve of his rear.
She swallowed, pressing a gloved hand to her chest. What was she thinking? She’d never in her life marveled at a man’s rump!
She had to get out of this room.
She watched, paralyzed, as he moved to the edge of the room to don his own mask and adjust the gauntlet of his sword-arm glove. Facing her, he waved in the direction of the mat that marked the boundaries of a standard fencing match. “Shall we?”
She stared blankly at the mat, her mind crying, Flee!
Unfortunately, her feet refused to comply.
“Sir,” Ralston said, as though speaking to a child, “is there some problem?”
At his words, she shifted her gaze to him, unable to see his face or eyes through his wire mask. That truth reminded her that the same was true of him—he would not be able to identify her. Here’s your chance! To really fence!
She shook her head to clear the insane thought from her head. Ralston took the movement to have a different meaning. “Capital. Let’s get started, then.”
He marched to the far corner of the mat to wait for her as she moved to the rack of foils in the corner of the room and tested the weight of several of them, making a show of selecting one. She took the time to bolster her own nerves. He can’t see me. I’m just another man to him right now.
Of course, he was most definitely not another man to her…but she took courage in her invisibility, her mind racing to recall every bit of meager experience she’d had with fencing—watching Benedick show off as a youth, mostly.
This had been a terrible mistake.
She approached the practice area, facing Ralston as he assumed the classic fencing position, left arm up, right arm extended, the foil held perfectly steady, unmoving in his firm grip. His legs were bent, the muscles tense with coiled strength, left leg beautifully extended behind him, right leg bent in a perfect right angle. He nodded to her, and said, “En garde.”
Taking a deep breath, Callie mirrored his position, blood rushing in her ears. Drunken men dueled with swords. How hard could this really be?
One of those men is killed much of the time.
She pushed the thought aside, waiting for him to make the first move.
He did, lunging toward her, thrusting his foil toward her torso. Swallowing back a cry of alarm, Callie allowed her terror to take over, hacking at the air with her foil to block his blow. The sound of steel on steel rang loudly between them.
Ralston immediately retreated in the face of her obvious lack of skill. When he spoke, his words were dry with humor behind the dark, mesh mask.
“I see you are no swordsman.”
Callie cleared her throat, deepening her voice and speaking softly. “I am a beginner, my lord.”
“An understatement, I daresay.”
At the words, Callie assumed the initial position of sword-play once more. Ralston followed suit, saying, “When your opponent thrusts, try not to attack with all your force. Do not show how far you are able to go. Instead, lead up to a full-on battle.”
Callie nodded as Ralston came at her, more gently this time. He allowed her to parry several times before crowding her off the mat. Once both of her feet were on the wooden floor of the practice room, he released her from his charge, turning back to take his place once more on the mat and wait for her to join him. They repeated the exercise several times, Ralston coaching her on the basics of combat, each time bolstering her confidence enough for her to ward off his thrusts more firmly and with more conviction.
“Much better,” he said encouragingly, after the fourth go, and Callie felt a wave of warmth at his praise. “This time, you come at me.”
Attack Ralston? Callie shook her head at the idea. “Oh—I—” she hedged.
He laughed. “I assure you, young sir, I can take it.”
This entire exercise was more than she had bargained for. But she could not very well back out now, could she? She let out a long breath before taking up the now-familiar stance and lunging at him with a strong, “Ha!”
He deftly deflected her blade with a light force that threw her off, sending her to her knees. He gave an amused snort at her lack of grace, sending a wave of irritation through her. Once she was on the ground, he reached down to offer to help her back up. With one look at his gloved hand, she shook her head, refusing his aid, eager to attack him once more.
She tried again, this time getting several strong thrusts in before he went on the attack, and she found herself backed off the mat once more. Frustrated with his deft maneuvering—did the man have to do everything so well?—she lunged at him, whacking his blade to the side with her foil, sending it sliding off course. The movement ended in the sharp edge of his weapon sliding along the arm of her fencing jacket, slicing open the stiff cotton and grazing her upper arm.
She dropped her foil, grasping her arm, the sting of the wound sending her reeling backward, a bit off balance, only to land firmly, and painfully, on her backside. “Ow!” she exclaimed loudly, forgetting her disguise and turning her attention to the tear in her uniform, focused on her injury.
“What the devil?”
Callie registered the confusion in Ralston’s voice and looked up, alarmed, to find him heading for her, one hand pulling off his mask and throwing it to the edge of the room, the hard clash of metal on wood ringing ominously. She scooted backward on the mat, the use of only one hand making her rather clumsy, as he removed his gloves and tracked her from above, eyes narrowed.
In a desperate attempt to deflect him, she deepened her voice, and said, “It’s just a scratch, my lord. I—I shall be fine.”
Ralston’s brows snapped together at the words and he swore roundly. She could hear the recognition in his voice, could see it in the thunderous look he gave her. He was upon her now, towering over her. Leaning down, one strong hand reached for the cowl of her mask. Terrified of discovery, she attempted to stay his action. The movement was futile. With one fluid motion, he lifted the mask from her face, sending her hair tumbling around her shoulders.
His eyes widened in recognition and he dropped the mask to the floor. His blue eyes flashed darkly, almost navy with anger.
“I—” she began, uncertain.
“Do not speak.” The words were clipped, demanding obedience as he knelt next to her and took her arm in his hands. He inspected her wound gently, breathing harshly. She could
feel his hands, carefully testing the skin of her arm, trembling with barely contained fury. He tore at the arm of her jacket, the sound of rending fabric causing her to flinch. He then reached into his pocket and withdrew a perfectly folded linen handkerchief, which he used to clean, then bind, the wound. She watched as he worked, transfixed by his deft movements. She sucked in a breath of air when he tied the bandage off tightly, and he met her eyes, raising one eyebrow at her, daring her to complain at his ministrations.
The air between them thickened. She couldn’t suffer it. “I—”
“Why aren’t you wearing a plastron?” The question was deadly quiet.
Of all the things she had imagined he would say, this was not one of them. She looked to his face, so close to her own, and said, “My—my lord?”
“A plastron. The piece of the fencing uniform designed to protect one’s sword arm. From precisely this type of wound.” He spoke as though he were reading from a fencing rulebook.
“I know what a plastron is,” she grumbled.
“Oh? Then why aren’t you wearing one?” The question was edged with an emotion she could not place, but did not like.
“I…I did not think I needed one.”
“Of all the damn fool things!” He exploded. “You could have been killed!”
“It’s just a flesh wound!” she cried.
“What the hell would you know about flesh wounds? What if I had thrust at full force?”
“You were not supposed to be here!” The words escaped before she could stay them. Their gazes locked, blue against brown, and Ralston shook his head at her, as though he could not quite believe what he was seeing.
“I? I was not supposed to be here?” His voice shook. “The last I checked, this is my sporting club! A men’s sporting club! Where men fence! The last I checked, you were a woman! And women did not fence!”
“Those are all fair points,” she hedged.
“What the hell are you doing here? Where the hell are your wits?”
Callie sniffed primly, as though she weren’t flat on her bottom dressed in men’s clothing in the midst of a situation that, if she guessed correctly, would be her ruin. “I would prefer you not use such language with me.”