As the tempo of the bout quickened, Kendra watched, entranced. She’d never been so aware of the beauty of male bodies. Fencing was lethal poetry in action that displayed fit limbs and powerful shoulders, swift turns and agile footwork. Though Simon did seem more practiced, Lucas had a longer reach and was just as fast.

She wished Suzanne was here to appreciate this magnificent display of masculine elegance. It was . . . stimulating, but also charming. Even a novice like her could see how they understood and anticipated each other’s movements, and how much pleasure they were taking in this friendly bout. Almost-brothers indeed!

The informal bout ended when Simon lunged forward and the blunted end of his sword touched over Lucas’s heart. “Bout over! You’re dead, cousin.”

Laughing, Lucas made a sweeping bow of concession. “I shall survive to fight another day. We’ll have to do this more often.”

As both men accepted towels and wiped their sweaty faces, Kendra clapped her hands. “Well done, sirs! It’s lovely to watch two skilled swordsmen who aren’t actually trying to kill each other.”

“Indeed it is,” said Henry Angelo. “Do you wish to lift a small sword yourself, Miss Douglas? I’ll show you myself to get a sense of your aptitude.”

“I did a bit of fencing as a young girl,” Kendra said. “But I have no real skill.”

“That is for me to determine! Let us withdraw to the teaching room and find you a blade.”

Kendra moved off with Angelo, feeling more alive than she had in a very long time. She was beginning to enjoy being a scandalous woman.

* * *

An officer friend of Simon’s claimed his attention, leaving Lucas free to amble around the academy. It had been years since his last visit, but it hadn’t changed much.

A bookshelf on one wall held volumes of the fencing instruction manuals written by various Angelos. The family had a long association with the army, where they were doing their best to raise the level of British swordsmanship to Continental standards.

Lucas was considering joining Simon when the door opened and five men with a family resemblance entered in a gust of wind and rain. Most were obviously sporting gentlemen like the others in attendance, but the group included a man in black who moved unsteadily on crutches.

One of the others, a burly fellow of military bearing, helped him inside, then asked, “Shall I take you to one of the chairs, Godfrey?”

“No, dammit, Patrick!” Godfrey snapped. A proud man, apparently, determined to make his way on his own. Lucas’s bonesetter instincts stirred and he wondered what had put Godfrey on those crutches. A permanent injury, or temporary? It was hard to judge the man’s age because his face was so distorted by lines of pain.