Chapter Thirteen
“ Y ou need not feel compelled to rise with the sun. Ladies are supposed to sleep until noon.” Lynsley set aside the plate of rolls and refilled his coffee as Valencia entered the breakfast room the next morning.
“I am tired of sleeping. And shopping,” she said. “Lud, how do highborn ladies keep from expiring of boredom?”
“They feed on the gossip and cream cakes served up each day in the fancy drawing rooms of their friends,” he replied
“Pastries.” She gave a groan, and poured some tea for herself. “I swear, I shall soon be growing fat from all the rich food and lack of exercise.”
He eyed her willowy figure over the top of his newspaper. “It does not appear to me that you are in any danger of snapping your stays. Besides,” he added with a lift of his brow. “Frenchmen like their women voluptuous, so perhaps you ought to indulge in a few more custards.”
Her cheeks turned a bit pink. “I thought our plans did not yet call for serving me up on a silver platter. So if you don’t mind, I shall refrain from stuffing myself with croissants and crème caramels.”
Lynsley stilled his twitching lips. He had not meant to make light of the danger. It was just that he enjoyed provoking a flare of fire in her face. “Don’t worry, while you may present a feast for Rochambert’s eyes, I don’t intend to let you anywhere near his teeth,” he replied.
Her sigh swirled with the steam rising from her cup. “That is the trouble. I am unused to being swaddled in silks and satins and forced to act like a lady. I am much more comfortable when it comes to taking action.”
“You are doing your part, Valencia.” He sympathized with her simmering frustration. He, too, was feeling the strain of their charade. But the mission could not be rushed. One false move and a consummate professional like Rochambert would sense it.
And they wouldn’t get a second chance.
“We must be patient,” he went on, trying not to sound like a prig. “We must learn more about Rochambert’s habits and the lay of the land before we can think of making a move for the cipher.”
Valencia crumbled a bit of toast between her fingers. Judging by the pile on her plate, she hadn’t tasted a morsel of the baguette. “I understood your orders, sir,” she said, her voice brittle as the toasted crust. “I am not about to run off half-cocked.”
Was the past always to be a wedge between them?
For a time last night, there had seemed to be an understanding between them, a comfortable camaraderie that had banished the old conflicts. But whatever quicksilver spell had brought them together had dissolved in the blink of an eye.
Swallowing a sigh, he pushed back from the table. “Then I shall see you at luncheon.”
“Where are you off to at this early hour?” she asked eyeing his buckskin breeches and boots. “Have you no meetings at the ministry this morning?”
“The talks have been put off until the morrow,” replied Lynsley. “So I thought I would take a ride out through the Bois de Boulogne.”
He had, in fact, been visiting the vast stretch of woodland and bridle paths nearly every day at dawn since their arrival. It was always prudent to have an escape route planned, and he had also found an isolated spot where he could exercise without fear of prying eyes observing his every move.
She bit her lip, the warring of pride and longing clearly writ on her face.
Asking for a favor did not come easily to her, he thought. She would eat nails before she begged to come along.
He strolled to the door before turning to ask, “Would you care to accompany me?”
“A breath of fresh air would be welcome,” she replied, matching his nonchalant tone. However, she rose like a shot. “I shall just be a moment in dressing.”
“I will have Bailin saddle your filly.”
A half hour later, they passed through one of the ancient gates erected by King Henri III into the forestlands, followed at a discreet distance by his valet.
“A rather rough area, “ she remarked, seeing several ragged figures slink back into the trees.
“Like many enclaves of the ancien regime , the Bois has fallen on hard times,” said Lynsley. “However it has a long and storied history. In medieval times, it was the site of several monasteries, including the powerful Longchamp Abbey. Part of the forest was then sold to the Crown to create a royal hunting ground.” He gestured to a wide, straight path cutting through a rustic field. “During the time of Louis XIV, a series of walkways were made, and it became a very fashionable place for strolling and celebrations.”
She slanted a bemused look at him from beneath the curling ostrich plumes of her hat. Her stylish new riding clothes—a deep green fitted habit with military frogging and fringed epaulets, topped off by a jaunty little shako—suited her striking looks to perfection. With the breeze ruffling her curls and the sunlight sparkling in her eyes, she looked like a glorious goddess of the forests.
Diana, the Huntress.
There were certainly times when she was prickly as a quiver of arrows.
It was his job to see that the huntress did not become the hunted.
A light laugh floated through the air. “A history lesson?”
“Sorry. I did not mean to bore you with dusty details.”
“No, please go on. I like listening. You always know such fascinating things.” Again, an odd sort of expression flitted over her features. “Is there any person or place about which you can’t speak about intelligently?”
You. The word nearly slipped from his lips. In truth, she defied all attempts to define or describe with dispassionate logic. His powers of reason retreated when she was near, leaving him . . .
Confused, conflicted.
And so, as usual, he took refuge behind a shield of steely self-control.
“A great many I should think,” he replied lightly. “But the Bois is not one of them.”
Her mouth took on a mischievous cant. “Do proceed.”
Was she merely teasing him? Lynsley found he didn’t care. It was good to see her lighthearted and laughing like a young girl. Reining in his horse, he cut across the grass to one of the side paths, a narrow way lined on either side by a thick hedge of bushes.
“Henri IV had 15,000 blackberry bushes planted here, in hopes of raising silkworms,’ he continued. “A plan that did not quite hatch.”
“And so the place spun into decline?” she murmured.
He grinned. “Yes, during the Hundred Years War, it became the refuge of outlaws and cutthroats. Francis I, who built the Chateau de Madrid in 1526, restored its regal air.”
“And the Sun King?” she asked.
“Louis XIV added his own touches of splendor, but he also wished to cut down the forest in order to build up his navy,” he answered. “Luckily for England, that idea evaporated over time. However the Montgolfier brothers did launch their first hot air balloon from here.” Lynsley looked around at the deserted paths and overgrown glades. “Unfortunately war has once again reduced the Bois to a haven for robbers and thugs. Proper Parisians don’t often venture here.”
“Ah. So is that why you bring along your valet? In case you have need of someone to defend you from such ruffians.”
“A little respect for your elders,” he growled, exaggerating a grimace. But despite making light of it, the comment pricked a little at his pride. At barely forty he still considered himself to be in the prime of life. “I’ve not yet grown so decrepit that I can’t wield a weapon. I’ll have you know I can still thrash any of Merlins on the fencing field. Even Da Rimini admits that he is hard pressed to claim victory.”
“Best a Merlin?” Her chin took a challenging tilt. “It would be interesting to test that assumption. My skills have not grown so rusty over the years that I can’t still cut a creditable riposte.”
“I will take your word for it,” he said quickly, unwilling to have the air of easy camaraderie between them cut short by a crossing of verbal swords.
Valencia looked about to retort, then she, too, seemed to think better of it. Instead, she asked, “Why do you come here?”
“It seemed a logical place to look for a bolt hole, if ever we have to take flight. I’ve found several spots where we might take cover for a short time while deciding on a next move.”
She looked around with a well-trained eye. “I see.”
“And as I said, it’s not frequented by the haute monde , so it’s a perfect place to engage in vigorous exercise without drawing undue attention,” went on Lynsley. “I’ve found a small clearing and stone cottage that makes an excellent private training ground. Bailin keeps watch on the bridle path, to warn of anyone approaching.”
“Please don’t let me disrupt your routine.” Valencia tightened the reins to keep her mount from shying from the snap of a twig. “Perhaps I’ll have a look around on my own.
“I would rather you didn’t stray,” he replied, hoping she wouldn’t misinterpret his reasons.
The thud of hooves on the damp earth echoed his own mounting misgivings. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask her to come along. These intimate interludes seemed to ignite strange sparks between them, which all too often turned into a flare of fire. The morning was tranquil, a soft light dappling the budded branches of the trees and a gentle breeze stirring the meadow grasses. He did not wish to spoil the day with a fight.
“A good point. You are right to err on the side of caution,” she allowed after some hesitation. “Then I’ll just sit and watch, if you don’t mind.”
Valencia dismounted and took a seat on the ruins of a low wall that had once fenced in a small paddock area. The stone outbuilding facing her—a stable, she guessed—had long since lost its roof and doors, but the thick walls had withstood the ravages of time. Set between the two structures, a rectangular swath of dusty ground was well-shielded from the casual observer.
The marquess removed his coat and cravat, then methodically unfastened his shirt collar and rolled up his sleeves. Sunlight glinted off the golden hairs of his forearms, setting off the cording of sinew and muscle. Turning, he moved with a sure, silent step to the open archway where an iron cross bar was still set high in mortared stone.
Setting aside her shako, Valencia shaded her eyes, curious to observe what sort of training regime he had improvised. Whatever it was, the routine appeared effective.
Lynsley reached up and grabbed hold of bar, slowly pulling himself up until his chin touched the pitted metal. He held the position for a moment before dropping down, keeping his knees bent so his feet didn’t touch the ground.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
He repeated the exercise twenty five times before dropping back to earth.
No wonder his shoulders and arms were solid as steel, thought Valencia.
The marquess then proceeded through a series of exercises with two short iron rods. Lifting, spinning, swinging, he worked his biceps, his forearms and his wrists. A sequence of leg lunges came next, followed by several body stretches.
He turned, sweat glistening on his face, hair ruffling in the light breeze, His linen shirt was now damp and clinging to the contours of his torso.
Averting her eyes, Valencia was aware of a tingling sensation somewhere deep inside her that quickly spiraled out through her limbs. Lynsley was no longer looking like a perfectly polished patrician. He exuded a virile masculinity. An earthy, elemental attractiveness at odds with his carefully cultivated image as a paragon of propriety.
Again, she could not help from wondering why he wasn’t married. It was puzzling. Provoking.
Never had she met a man so shrouded in secrets.
“A warm day,” he remarked, uncorking a jug of water and taking a long swallow. “I trust you are not too uncomfortable?”
“Not at all,” she replied, leaning back into the shade. Had he spotted the telltale flush of color? She repressed the urge to fan her cheeks.
Lynsley appeared not to notice her agitation. He picked up a length of rolled canvas that lay alongside the hamper of food and drinks that his valet had transported from town.
The soft snick of steel sounded as the cloth fell away to reveal a set of fencing foils.
Her brows rose. “Two?”
“Bailin knows the basic moves. We sometimes drill together. Solitary practice is all very well, but there is nothing quite like crossing swords with a real opponent.”
“Quite right,” she murmured.
The marquess turned his back and began to wipe the grit from the grip of his sword.
Impelled by some mystical, Merlin force, Valencia suddenly rose and took up the other one.
Swoosh . Light as a feather in her hand, the sliver of steel cut through the air with a lethal whisper.
Lynsley looked around. “Valencia, I think?—”
His eyes widened as she started to undo the fastenings of her dress.
“Don’t look so shocked, Thomas,” she drawled. “I don’t intend to fight bare-chested, like the Amazons. I wore a shirt and breeches beneath these cursed flounces.”
“I should hope not,” he said dryly, quickly recovering his composure. “They were reputed to have chopped off one breast in order to wield a bow and arrow more efficiently. A noble sacrifice on their part, but it would be a pity to destroy the perfect symmetry of your form.”
Heat flushed her face as she kicked aside her skirts. “Though perhaps a flaunting of flesh would serve as a useful distraction. All is fair in love and war.”
He gave a flashing salute. “So it is.”
Forcing her eyes away from the tantalizing peek of tanned skin and tawny curls showing beneath his shirt, Valencia flexed her sword. Memories of her Merlin training took hold, and of their own accord, her feet slid and assumed the en garde stance.
“Come, I am ready for you to test my mettle,” she said.
Lynsley set a hand on his hip. “The days of handing out grades are long gone, Valencia. You have nothing to prove to me.”
“No? Perhaps not in the classroom, but surely you don’t imagine that I can let a taunt to the honor of my sister Merlins pass without putting up a fight?” she challenged. “Besides, aren’t you just a little curious as to how good a teacher Da Rimini really is?”
The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Put that way, it would be ungentlemanly of me to refuse.”
“And you are, of course, the consummate gentleman.”
His steel kissed up against hers. “One acquires the skills early on, seeing as the training starts at birth.”
“The lessons learned as a child are ingrained,” she agreed. Drawing her blade upward, she reversed her position of attack, forcing him back a step. “They come naturally, without thinking.”
“As opposed to ones we pick up later in life?”
“You would know better than I.”
The marquess countered her move with effortless ease, his boots dancing over the uneven ground as if it were polished parquet.
“After all,” she murmured, parrying his probing point. “You have far more experience in the real world.”
Lynsley spun away from her riposte with deceptive grace. “You aren’t a raw schoolgirl anymore, Valencia. I daresay you’ve seen more than your share of life’s sordid realities.”
She nearly missed the subtle flick of his wrist and the deadly quick thrust of his blade. Damn. Thank god her reflexes were still sharp. Darting back at the last instant, she managed to deflect the blow.
“I’m surprised that Da Rimini teaches a botta dritta as a defensive maneuver,” remarked Lynsley. His light linen shirt clung to the contours of his shoulders, the lean, lithe stretch of his swordplay accentuating his tapered waist and snug buckskins. The soft leather looked molded to his muscular thighs, showing every?—
No, she must keep her eyes on the blade of tempered steel.
“He didn’t,” she countered. “Rather, he taught us to improvise, to learn how to turn a weakness into a strength.”
“Then perhaps the wily old wolf is worth the obscene salary he demands of me.”
“That remains to be seen.” Valencia whirled in midstep and tried to duck under his guard. Her punta sopramano slid wide of its mark. But only barely.
Lynsley flashed a grin as he pivoted away. “I see I must stay on my toes if I am to escape from this match unscathed.”
Had the man any idea how attractive he was when he allowed himself more than a poker face? The hint of raw, animal emotion beneath the skin of refined reserve was devilishly distracting. An unfair advantage, she thought. He was wielding more than one weapon.
As the tempo picked up pace, they both fell silent, their swords cutting quicksilver slashes through the shimmering sunlight. Sweat glistened on their faces, and dampened their shirts.
Circling to her left, Valencia attacked with another unorthodox combination, but the marquess evaded her strikes with maddening ease. Intent on creating an opening, she let fly with a flurry of thrusts.
Over, under, over under . . .
Her leg buckled slightly as she widened her stance.
Lynsley stopped in his tracks and dropped his blade to offer a steadying hand.
Spinning out of reach, Valencia whipped up her weapon and pressed the blunted tip to his throat. “Don’t be such a damned gentleman, Thomas. Show no mercy—you can be sure that Rochambert won’t.”
“Very well.” His eyes darkened to a slate blue hue and took on a strange glint.
Dangerous? She wasn’t quite sure why the word came to mind.
“We will score the first round for you,” he went on. His sword cut a line in the dirt. “What say you to going two out of three?”
“Fair enough,” she agreed. Their gazes locked as they met in the center of the enclosure and crossed blades. Standing toe to toe, watching the throb of pulse on his sun-bronzed throat, Valencia was acutely aware that the heat prickling along her spine was not entirely due to physical exertion.
“ En garde.” From the ready position, Lynsley exploded in a whirl of lightning feints and slashes. She managed to beat off the first few attacks, but an angled thrust, swift and savage as the strike of a snake, knocked the sword from her grip.
He picked it up by the blade and offered her the hilt. “Or would you care to call it a draw?”
“Not a chance,” she replied, trying not to wince as she rubbed at her wrist. “But you are good.”
“So are you,” he said softly.
Valencia had received many compliments from men but this simple praise from Lynsley set her heart to fluttering against her ribcage. Like a wild bird seeking freedom. From what she did not quite dare to contemplate.
Masking her errant emotions with a shrug, she gave a flick of her swordpoint. “My footwork is not as good as it once was, but swimming helps keep my upper body strong and supple. That, and lifting beer barrels.” A wry twist tugged at her lips. “Not to speak of throwing drunkards out on their arses.”
The marquess repressed a laugh. “I don’t imagine that many make trouble for you.”
She grinned. “Not anymore.”
“I see that I shall have to take great pains not to land on my arse.” One by one, he wiped his hands on the backside of his breeches. “It would, you know, be very lowering to suffer such a grievous blow to my pride.”
Her mouth went a bit dry watching his palms slide over the skintight leather. Bloody hell. She should not be staring at his lordly posterior. No matter how magnificent the musculature.
His brow quirked. “Ready?”
“Whenever you are,” she said, fumbling for a moment to get a proper grip on the quillons of her sword.
Lynsley sketched a perfect arrebatar through the air before their blades kissed up against each other.
Valencia bit back a gasp, sure she could feel the heat of him sizzle along the steel. She slid sideways, keeping her steps slow and deliberate.
The marquess mirrored her moves.
The previous rounds had been marked by attacking athleticism. This time around, the match turned into a sinuous pas de deux . There was something supremely sensual about the dance of their blades, and the rhythm of their bodies moving in perfect harmony. As they reversed directions, his thigh grazed her. Perhaps it was merely a quirk of light, but she could have sworn he winked as he whirled by.
She nearly laughed aloud. Her heart was racing, her pulse was pounding. The great gulps of air bubbled through her like fine champagne. A challenge seemed to spark a fire in her blood. In her very being.
A spinning parry brought them close together. So close she could inhale the intimate scent of sandalwood and sweat. So close she could see the smooth-shaven texture of his jaw and light dusting of tawny strands at the V of his shirt. The rapidfire rise and fall of his chest.
Valencia hesitated for a fraction of a second, tempted to reach out and run her fingers beneath the light linen. The contrasting textures—damp skin, coarse curls, smooth muscle—was awfully alluring . . .
“Touché.”
She dropped her arm with a muttered oath.
Lynsley fixed her with a penetrating look before commenting, “You lost your focus for an instant.”
“As I said, I’m out of practice. The isle of Sark is not exactly teeming with skilled swordsmen.” Looking for the excuse to turn away from his scrutiny, Valencia went to towel off her face. “My timing is off.”
“You are still a formidable opponent.”
Ha. Not against him.
Heaving a harried sigh, Valencia pulled the ribbon from her hair and shook out the tight plait, letting the dampened curls spill over her shoulders. “The Academy did not train us to be timid little sparrows. My feathers may be a bit dented, but on occasion I can still fly.”
A sidelong look showed the marquess was watching her intently. His expression was inscrutable, as always. Yet strangely enough the smooth muscle of his jaw betrayed a tiny tic.
For some reason, she felt compelled to loosen the lacings of her shirt, letting it fall open to the swell of her bosom. Fanning her cheeks, she lifted her chin to catch the breeze. “Lud, it feels good to work up a sweat.”
Lynsley was still staring.
That he found the view of interest touched off an even more erratic beat of her heart. It always seemed that he looked at her and saw only a hoyden hellion rather than a female of any grace or charm.
Not that she could blame him. Compared to the belles of the Mayfair ballrooms . . .
His mouth slowly curled up at the corners. “A lady does not sweat, she only beads with moisture.”
Valencia cut a last flourish with her sword, then set a hand on her hip. “But we both know I’m no lady, Thomas.”
Lynsley didn’t respond, save to set his sword down on the stone wall. Turning, he took hold of her blade and slid his hand up to the hilt. She let her fingers fall away.
“Have you kept up your practice with a pistol?” he inquired.
It was strange how he always changed the subject when things got too personal.
“Yes, my aim is still bang on the mark,” she answered evenly, though she longed to shake him or slap him—anything to remove that look of cool composure from his face. “Running and riding present more of challenge these days. But I manage.”
“I imagine you do.” With painstaking precision, he began rewrapping the foils in the canvas.
Though he had moved only a few steps away, Valencia sensed him distancing himself to a remote retreat. Lord Lynsley’s Lair.
Wherever that may be.
She gritted her teeth on seeing the change. In the blink of an eye, the marquess had transformed from a sweating, virile, vibrant man back to the stone sphinx. The quizzing teacher, ever tolerant of an unruly student.
She felt like stamping her foot in frustration. Or aiming a hard kick at his arse.
But before her temper could get the better of her, Lynsley drew out a knife from the hamper. “I trust your skills are still sharp with this weapon,” he said. “In the confines of a city, we may be called on to use it.”
She nodded.
He tossed her the weapon. “I’ve blunted the blade, so let us run through a few of the basic drills. Practice makes perfect.”
After several attempts to get through his guard, Valencia stepped back and conceded defeat. “I thought I was good, but you are a master of hand-to hand combat.” Indeed, he had deflected her attacks with maddening ease. After wiping her brow, she passed the weapon back to him. “I’m curious—how many men have you killed?”
“More than one,” he replied tersely.
“Two? Three?” she prodded. “Were you attacked? Or did the mission demand that you dispatch the enemy?”
Shifting his hold on the hilt, he slowly spun the blade. “It’s not something I care to talk about.”
A part of her understood his reticence, yet a part of her rebelled at being shut out.
Her resentment must have shone on her face for he heaved a tight sigh. “Don’t take it personally, Valencia. It’s simply . . . “
“Simply that you prefer to keep everyone at arm’s length.”
“Call it what you will,” he said evenly. “Now if you will kindly step over here, I’ll show you a trick that may prove useful in a pinch.”
Valencia thought for an instant about challenging the order, but decided against it. She would only appear childish.
“It’s a desperate, dangerous move, shown to me by a pirate in Madagascar,” continued Lynsley, once she had taken up a position by his side. “It should only be used as a last resort.”
After he went through the moves in slow motion, she could see why. The sequence called for split second timing. One slip could be fatal.
“Show me again,” she said, determined to get it right.
“Spin. Tuck. Roll.” His words punctuated the second run-through. “Now you try.”
Her attempt went smoothly until the last little twist. “Hell,” she muttered rubbing at her bruised back. “If that had been for real, I would have ended up impaled on my own knife.”
“Aye, that’s the trick. But when done right, it will take an opponent completely by surprise.” Lynsley retrieved the weapon. “You didn’t do badly for a first try.”
“Where did I go wrong?” she demanded.
“Hold your hand like so.” His fingers closed around her wrist
“A tighter roll is key.”
She got to her feet. “Damn. Let me try again.”
Spin. Tuck. Roll. After several more attempts, she finally mastered the moves well enough to earn a nod of approval.
“Excellent,” murmured the marquess. “Though I hope you are never called upon to try it.” He checked his pocketwatch. “That’s enough for today. We had better be getting back.”
As if by unspoken agreement, they packed their gear and rode out of the Bois in silence. However, once the bridle paths gave way to the cobbled streets of the city, Valencia could not keep a rein on her tongue. Maybe it was the vigorous exercise, or maybe it was the recent rendezvous with Rochambert that her blood thrumming with impatience. Whatever the reason, she found herself pressing Lynsley about what progress he was making in their mission.
“Staying in practice is all very well,” she remarked. “But now that we have entrée into Rochambert’s mansion, surely we can start planning to make a move for the secret weapon and its formula?”
“I’ve not forgotten why we are here.” The last, lingering sense of camaraderie seemed to waft away in the breeze as he assumed a tone of formal command. “Or how much depends on our ability to get the job done. Like our drills, it’s a matter of circling, watching, probing. Only when I am sure of his most vulnerable spot will I chance moving in for the kill.”
“We know what his weakness is—it is women . . .” Valencia hitched a breath. “Sir.”
“It is one of them,” he amended. “Whether it proves to be his fatal flaw remains to be seen.”