Guarded Heart (2 page)

“By whom, if I may ask?”

“Our mutual friend, Madame Herriot, if you must know. She might have suggested one or two others of her acquaintance, so she said, but they no longer keep their fencing salons and their wives might object to the late hours.”

Gavin thought she avoided his gaze as she turned her appraisal from her fan to the charming salon around them with its ombre-striped wallpaper, Louis Quinze furnishings upholstered in cream brocade, and its marble fireplace, and the chattering guests, ladies occupying the settees with their delicately colored skirts spread like flower petals around them and their male partners in convivial groups behind them. It could mean she was being less than truthful, but might also indicate she was not as oblivious to the unsuitable nature of her aim as she pretended. It was an instant before he could drag his attention from his own assessment of the lady and the shadows made by the silken fringe of her lashes in order to grasp what she had said. “Late hours?”

“You would have to come to me, of course, and calling too often during the day would not do.”

“Indeed,” he said in dry agreement, “though dropping in at midnight must be no less scandalous.”

“You would not be visiting me, of course, but Maurelle. She says such visits would be unexceptional, particularly if your friends are added to the company from time to time.”

“In other words, she has offered her house as a place of assignation.”

If he had thought to test her composure with that hint of the clandestine, he must have been disappointed. Closing her fan, she met his gaze without flinching. “As you say.”

What did it matter to him how it was arranged? She had every right to protect her good name, and he was quite aware that he was not socially acceptable in his present guise. Regardless, slow anger rose inside him.

He had not always been quite so beyond the pale. As the younger son of a marquis, second in line to the title behind his brother, he had moved among the cream of London society. His birthright has been accepted without question, his company with pleasure. All that prevented him from gaining the more exalted circles around the young queen and her Saxe-Coburg prince had been the double handicaps of a tendency to abandon decorum at odd moments and the whispers about his past. His descent from such a charmed circle had been his own choice, made on the day he left England's green shores, but that did not make the exile less galling.

“Who is this man you hate so much that you would take such risks?” he asked, his voice flat. “How did he wrong you?”

“That is my affair.” She lifted her chin with a quick movement that caused the gaslight from the nearby wall sconce to shimmer over her hair, highlight her cheekbones, pool in the delicate hollow of her throat.

“Still, it might be useful to know whether he is some bumbling fool or a swordsman of note. To meet the first might leave you some hope of victory. The other would be suicide.”

“My need is to be schooled for the meeting. The outcome need not concern you.”

He could think of many things in which he would like to school her during evening lessons held in private, none of which involved a sword. At the same time, he was disturbed by the fervor of the impulse. He was not prone to wayward fantasies. A man who could not control his imagination was a danger to himself on the dueling field.

“You are mistaken,” he answered. “I have the reputation of my atelier to consider. And I refuse to be responsible for the death of an innocent.”

She opened her lips to answer. Then she closed them again, compressing the soft curves in a tight line. Her hands clenched on her fan, and the tearing sound as its painted silk pulled away from the ebony sticks seemed loud in the quiet. Drawing a deep breath that lifted the gentle curves of her breasts a fraction from their silken prison, she looked down at the damage, then smoothed the tear with a trembling finger. “I see. You will not help me.”

“I regret most sincerely…” he began.

“Perhaps you can name another who might be suitable.”

Reluctance gripped Gavin. He could name a dozen others, though only one or two he might trust to impart the skill the lady required without taking advantage. The
maîtres d'armes
of the Passage de la Bourse were honorable in their fashion, but numbered few saints among them.

“On second thought, don't bother,” she said, tilting her chin. “Monsieur Novgorodcev will be all too happy to instruct me. I was persuaded you might have a different level of skill, perhaps more finesse compared to what he might have acquired during training at a military academy, but his will have to suffice.” Swinging away from him with her heavy gown rustling as it swirled over her petticoats, she began to walk away.

“Wait.” The request was dragged from him, graveling his voice with reluctance.

She paused, turned slowly with brows lifted above eyes as black as a winter storm yet burning with life and, perhaps, hope. “Monsieur?”

To agree was madness. He would regret it, without question. What drove him was not entirely his annoyance with the Russian or any doubt of her safety with him or any other sword master. The fact was that he was bored. He required stimulation, new interest, new purpose.

His male friends in the city had settled into marital bliss in the past year or two, and though they invited him to their homes, he was far too aware of being outside their family circles to be comfortable. The Brotherhood, that loose collection of swordsmen organized some four years earlier to offer protection to women and children who received none under the shaky legal system of a city divided into three separate municipalities, had dwindled to a mere shadow of its former self. The past activities of the original trio—Rio, the Conde de Lérida, the Irishman Caid O'Neill and Gavin's half brother Nicholas Pasquale, along with himself—had met with such success that few incidents now required their intervention. It seemed the challenge posed by Madame Faucher might be an outlet for his bottled energy.

Then there was the lingering contempt in the lady's eyes. Vanity was not, he felt sure, his most obvious sin, but he was used to at least a modicum of respect for his deadly skill if not for his breeding. To adjust her opinion seemed a worthy ambition. Above all, however, was his need to know why she was so desperate to be instructed in the art of swordplay, particularly by him.

“I will attend you here tomorrow evening, madame. If Maurelle, Madame Herriot, can arrange a fencing strip, I will supply the remaining equipment.”

Something bright and fiercely triumphant flashed in her eyes before she lowered her lashes to conceal it. “Excellent. I will await you, monsieur.”

She turned and moved away with languid grace. Gavin watched her go while the blood sang in his veins. It was not only admiration and anticipation that crowded his chest, however. Layered with them was an inexplicable and icy trickle of dread.

A
riadne put half the room and a large portion of Maurelle's guests between her and the English sword master before she turned her head to look back at him. He had not been at all as she expected. His manner was polished, and his person as well, creating an image of aesthetic refinement at odds with her view of his chosen profession. The fit of his blue frock coat and gray pantaloons was impeccable and his waistcoat of embroidered silk was notable without being ostentatious. His hair had the sheen of old gold coins. His brows, a shade or two darker than his hair, were thick without being heavy and his face was neatly shaven in its entirety, minus the whiskers or bits of side hair affected by most gentlemen these days. His boots had a glassy sheen, his buttons and fobs were plain yet well-polished. In short, he was burnished to such a gloss that it seemed a deliberate attempt to deflect unwanted attention or else a facade behind which he might hide his true nature.

Then there were his eyes, as blue as the seas of the Indies, vivid with intelligence and an intimation of mockery for everything and everyone around him, yet shadowed as if by hidden shoals. He had seen too much of what she thought and felt, she feared, though how that could be she could not imagine. An instant later, his face had turned impassive, closed to human emotion while remaining as compelling to look at as that of some powerful angel sent from heaven by God's displeasure. The memory of how he scrutinized her, as if able to plumb her every secret, chilled her so a shiver ran down her spine with a prickling of goose bumps, making her knees feel almost unhinged beneath her gown.

She had approached Gavin Blackford and emerged from the encounter with his promise for what she required. The die was cast.

“So,
ma chère,
the English sword master agreed?”

The question came in Maurelle's rather sultry voice as she rustled to a halt beside Ariadne. In an evening ensemble of pale gold taffeta with cream lace and a parure of citrines and diamonds, she wore her hair in braids placed to emphasize the prominent cheekbones that prevented her face from being entirely rounded. A full-blown camellia in style, like those of creamy white she wore in her hair, she was comfortable in her curvaceous embonpoint, and majestic with it. The lady was a widow and, as with Ariadne, comfortable with that circumstance as well.

Ariadne gave her a wan smile. “With some persuasion.”

“Amazing. I would have wagered anything you cared to name on his refusal.”

“I thought the same for a few moments.”

“What convinced him?”

Ariadne looked at her fan, folding it to conceal the damage she had inflicted. “I wish I knew.”

It was as well she had watched him from a distance to take his measure before asking that Maurelle present him, she was sure. Because of it, she had let him know more of her purpose than she had intended, perhaps more than was wise. Maurelle, and even Sasha, thought her whim was to play at fencing. Only she and Gavin Blackford knew her final purpose. And he did not know the whole of it.

“I should warn you, he will call tomorrow evening,” Ariadne continued after a moment.

“To begin, you mean? So soon?
Parbleu,
what an impression you must have made!”

“Meaning?”

“Not only is he most selective in his clients, but the waiting list is long for those eager to face him on the fencing strip.”

Ariadne allowed herself a cynical smile. “Perhaps it's the novelty.”

“Or he could anticipate a novel reward,” Maurelle said with an amused curl of her full lips.

“He will be disappointed.”

“Oh, I don't know. You are a widow and he is made to a marvel, yes? The hours these swordsmen spend on fencing strips make them sublime of form, with wide shoulders and firm thighs far beyond those of other gentlemen. And I'm sure he's the soul of discretion.”

“I…have no time for games of that nature.” Ariadne ignored as best she could the small, hot thrill that rippled through her at the thought of Gavin Blackford's expectations, the jangling of her nerve endings like a careless hand sweeping across harp strings. “Besides, it's you everyone will be talking about if it becomes known that he visits with any frequency.”

Maurelle tilted her head as the amusement faded from her eyes. “At first, possibly. But then a more likely explanation may occur to the gossips.” She paused. “Are you quite sure you know what you're doing,
chère?
It's one thing to take up a Bohemian attitude, but quite another to forfeit your good name for a caprice.”

The warning was gentle yet serious. Maurelle should understand the problem as well as anyone, Ariadne knew, since she had performed the difficult balancing act of living freely for years while maintaining her good repute. Married at a young age to man much her senior, she had embraced her eventual widowhood with gratitude and a vow to cling to it. Though careful never to transgress upon the conventions too far, she entertained a wide circle of friends, many of whom, like the
maîtres d'armes,
were forbidden entrance to the more conventional households of aristocratic New Orleans. Some whispered that she had at least once taken a sword master as her lover, but the arrangement had apparently not been allowed to disrupt her peace or her life.

It was in Paris that Ariadne and Maurelle had met three years before. Maurelle had been in the city on her yearly pilgrimage to visit relatives and replenish her armoire, while Ariadne had just begun to go about in society at the insistence of Jean Marc, her husband of only a year who had been ill even then with the consumption which killed him. Their paths had crossed at some soiree, and Maurelle had asked permission to call upon her.

During that afternoon visit, she had received from Maurelle the story of the house party at Maison Blanche, her country plantation where Ariadne's foster brother, Francis Dorelle, had been killed in a duel. It had been a tearful occasion, but the beginning of their companionship. That she and Maurelle were both from Louisiana, both of independent natures and both victims, in a sense, of arranged marriages to older men, made common ground between them. They had become fast friends, often providing necessary chaperonage for each other.

Even after Jean Marc died and Ariadne had retired from society in the manner required by her two years of mourning, Maurelle had visited with her in Paris, keeping her current with all the tittle-tattle of New Orleans—which lady had given birth to a child that looked nothing like her husband, which was known to be traveling in Europe at her husband's command, what gentleman was keeping the latest ballerina from the Theatre d'Orleans. They decided that, when the time was right—when Jean Marc's estate was settled and the mourning period over—Ariadne would come to Maurelle for a new beginning.

That prospect had kept Ariadne sane during her time in black bombazine. Paris had seemed dull and gray and her husband's family much the same, when they were not exuding disapproval. They were incensed that she had inherited the fortune Jean Marc had accumulated as primary stockholder in an international banking concern. She had influenced him unduly, they said, causing him to leave it away from his brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews who had more right to it. She was much too young and inexperienced to have sole management of such wealth. She should remain in Paris where she might benefit from the wise council of Jean Marc's brother, now head of the family, and, not incidentally, where they might make certain any future alliance she contemplated met with familial approval. What purpose could she have in going elsewhere? Her family in Louisiana, her parents and her brother, were no longer alive,
n'est pas?
She could have no call whatever to return to such a pestilential and uncivilized place.

They had been wrong on almost every count.

Now she said, with a wry smile, “My good name? Who is there to care? Well, other than you, my very dear Maurelle.”

“You,
chère,
as you will discover if it should be lost to you.”

It was good of Maurelle to be so concerned. Worry and guilt that she might be dragging her friend into something she would not like clouded Ariadne's mind. Maurelle had not wanted to present her to Gavin Blackford, knowing as she did that it had been his sword which had killed her foster brother. She had agreed only because she harbored some small hope that familiarity might lead to understanding.

“Shall I find another place for these lessons?” Ariadne asked. “I can always remove to a hotel or other lodging if it will make you more comfortable.”

“Don't be an imbecile.” Maurelle caught her close in a jasmine-scented hug. “The very idea, as if I'm not dying to see how you progress with Monsieur Blackford. Indeed, this promises to be the most exciting
saison de visites
in years.”

Ariadne returned her friend's embrace with gratitude, though she was not entirely satisfied. Indeed, she hoped the affair would not become more exciting than either of them could bear.