Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(10)

The brittleness in the air seemed to ease. Ravenel uncrossed his arms and reached back to rub the nape of his neck, a rueful smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Are we being sincere now? Then I beg your pardon for being a flippant ass.”

If the man were anyone other than a Ravenel, Ethan might have liked him.

Winterborne stood and crossed the room to the sideboard where the butler had left the silver tray. “You might consider selling the property to him,” he said to Ethan, refreshing his glass from the cognac decanter.

It was the perfect solution. Ethan would be able to dispose of the unwanted land and cut any possible ties to the Ravenel family. “I’ll sell it to you for one pound,” he told Ravenel promptly. “Have the papers drawn up, and I’ll sign them.”

Ravenel frowned. “Not for a pound. I’ll buy it at a reasonable price.”

After giving him a baleful glance, Ethan went to the window and stared out at the vast mosaic of smoke-blistered rooftops. London was readying for the night, adorning itself with strands of lights, humming in anticipation of sin and pleasure.

He had been born to this city, nursed on it, until its violent rhythms were woven through him as surely as the network of his own veins. His blood coursed with its sounds and sensations. He could go anywhere, into the vilest rookeries or most dangerous criminal dens, an infinity of dark and secret places, fearing nothing.

“I’ll be staying in London for the next month,” West Ravenel said. “Before I return to Hampshire, I’ll have a proposal drawn up for sale of the Norfolk property. If you like the terms, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands.” He pulled out a white calling card from a waistcoat pocket. “Let’s exchange cards: I’ll call on you when I’ve come up with some figures.”

“Winterborne can tell you how to send a message to me,” Ethan replied. “I don’t have a calling card.”

“Naturally,” Ravenel said darkly, still holding out the card. “Take mine anyway.” At Ethan’s silent refusal, he exclaimed, “Good God, are you always like this? Your company is remarkably tedious, and that’s coming from someone who spends most of his time around farm animals. Civilized men exchange cards after they meet. Take it.”

Deciding to humor him, Ethan tucked the white card, engraved with glossy black lettering, into the folding wallet he kept in an interior vest pocket. “I’ll see myself out,” he said. After retrieving his hat from a table, he settled it on his head and let his fingers graze the brim in a deferential gesture. It was his version of good-bye; he had the Irishman’s reluctance to say the word aloud.





Chapter 3




Emerging from the ladies’ dressing room at Baujart’s with her cane in hand, Garrett passed a series of private exercise and instruction rooms. She had changed into the standard lady’s fencing costume, a close-fitting jacket with a high neck, a white skirt hemmed just below the knees, thick white hose, and soft flat leather shoes.

Familiar sounds seeped through the closed doors: the clashing of foils, sabers, and canes, the bursts of footwork on oak flooring, the familiar commands of instructors. “Disengage! Straighten the arm. En guarde . . . longe . . . disengage . . .”

Monsieur Jean Baujart, the son of a famous fencing master, had taught the science of defense at French and Italian academies before opening his own fencing club and school in London. Over the past two decades, Baujart’s had acquired an unmatched reputation for excellence. His public exhibitions were always heavily attended, and his instruction rooms were constantly filled with students of all ages. Unlike most of his contemporaries, Monsieur Baujart not only allowed but also encouraged female students to attend his school.

For four years, Garrett had attended group classes and taken private lessons from Baujart and his two assistant prév?ts in the use of both foil and cane. Baujart insisted on a classic style of combat. Irregular movements and infringements of the rules were forbidden. If a fencer ducked, twisted, or ran back a few paces, he was gently mocked and corrected. One did not “hop about like a monkey” or “twist like an eel” at Baujart’s. Form was everything. The result was a finished, polished style that was greatly admired by other fencing schools.

As Garrett reached the instruction room, she hesitated with a slight frown as she heard sounds coming from within. Had the previous lesson run overtime? Carefully she inched the door open and peeked inside.

Her eyes widened as she saw the familiar form of Monsieur Baujart attacking an opponent in a sustained series of phrases d’armes.

Baujart, like the instructors at the school, dressed in an all-black fencing uniform, whereas club members and students wore the classic attire of unbroken white. Both men’s faces were concealed by French wire masks, their hands gloved, their chests protected by leather plastrons. The foils, capped with boutons for safety, flashed and scissored in a rapid exchange.

Even if Baujart hadn’t worn the black instructor’s costume, his flawless form would have made him immediately recognizable. Baujart was a superbly fit man of forty, an artist who had perfected his craft. Every thrust, parry, and riposte was precise.

His opponent, however, was fencing in a style unlike anything Garrett had seen before. Instead of allowing the match to settle into familiar rhythms, he attacked unexpectedly and retreated before Baujart could touch him. There was something catlike about his movements, a vicious grace that raised every hair on Garrett’s body.