Lord of Fire (22 page)

Bardou just looked at him, his face brutal in the fleeting glow of a street lamp that the carriage passed.

There was another awkward pause. Rollo cleared his throat, getting the message clearly enough that he was not to ask too many questions. He liked it not. He forced himself to gather his nerve. “Mr. Bardou, when will I be allowed to know your plan exactly?”

Bardou considered his question, gazing out the window as they drove past Westminster Abbey. “Fifteen years of service,” he murmured, “and now I cannot go home. I would be tried and executed. I did nothing wrong. I served my country. Do you know what that is like, Mr. Greene? Defeat is a very bitter cup. These proud, arrogant English must taste it.”

“Er, yes.”
Well, that was neatly evaded,
he thought. He, Rollo, had no real ill feeling toward the English. He had been stationed in
London for two years, and though he was a patriot and was angry as any American about the blockade and the burning of
Washington
, he had developed an affection for the English people in spite of himself. His own ancestors, after all, had been hardworking Cornishmen. He liked their food, their women, and their ale.

Bardou took another sip of his wine. “Your first assignment will be to find me a manufacturer of explosives. You will say that you are an engineer with a rotted bridge that must be demolished before it can be built anew. You will be placing an order for saltpeter. I will tell you the quantity after I have seen the targets.”

“Oh, you have already chosen the targets?” he asked in surprise. “What are they?”

Bardou just smiled coldly at him.

 

CHAPTER
SEVEN

Alice was already awake, dressed, and eager to start the day when the maid arrived, right on schedule, but instead of bringing her breakfast tray, the plump servant bore the news that His Lordship had ordered Miss was not to be served anymore in her rooms.
Ah, so he has resorted to starving me out,
Alice thought with a low laugh. She could barely wait to see how shocked he would be by her obliging mood.

They went downstairs into the entrance hall, where the maid handed her over to the liveried hall porter posted by the door.

“I will take you to His Lordship, miss.” The manservant bowed to
Alice and opened the front door. “This way.”

“He’s outside?”

“His Lordship is training in his studio, as he does every morning,” he said politely. “Shall I fetch your wrap?”

“Is it a far walk?”

“No, miss.”

“Then lead on.”

With a nod, he escorted her outside. The morning was bright and chilly and full of promise. She rubbed her arms, a puff of steam misting from her lips when she spoke. “What sort of studio is it exactly?”

“An athletic studio, miss. My lord practices his swordsmanship there, as well as his boxing.”

“Boxing! My goodness, I am sure it is not proper for me to go there!” A young lady did not enter the very temple of masculine prowess. It was Sunday morning—she should have been going to church, not to a bachelor’s private boxing studio!

The footman slid her a glum look of sympathy. “Nevertheless, miss, it is where he has ordered your breakfast to be served.”

Indeed, he was once more throwing down the gauntlet, luring her like the mouse she was toward scandalous freedom with a bit of cheese. With a shrug of annoyance at herself, she acknowledged her curiosity to see a world that other young ladies would never glimpse and followed the footman without further comment. He led her across the graveled courtyard and along the drive that wound around the house. The gardeners were hard at work, pruning the sculpted bushes that adorned the house and trimming back the ivy that clung to the red brick walls. They tipped their hats to her as she followed the footman away from the house and down the sloping drive that curved through green meadows dotted with horses and acres of harvested alfalfa fields where towering golden hayricks stood like fortresses. Beyond the fields, the trees at the edge of the woods stood sunning their luxuriant autumn colors.

The earthy stable smells carried to her on the breeze as
Alice hurried after the footman, her anticipation building as they neared the impressive stable complex, built of the same red brick as the house. The main building had a small, elegant cupola gracing the roof; a few of Lucien’s pampered horses had stuck their fine heads out of their carved stall windows, as if to have a look at what was going on in the world this day. Chewing mouthfuls of hay with comical expressions of friendly equine curiosity, they watched
Alice pass.

She paused to admire the king of the horses when they came to the paddock and saw a groom exercising the magnificent black stallion on a lunge line. Rippling with velvety muscle, the black seemed to float with every dream-smooth stride. Awed by the animal’s noble grandeur, she reluctantly left her spot by the white-fenced paddock and followed the footman toward another square outbuilding of medium size, with high windows. Even before the servant opened the door to Lucien’s studio,
Alice heard the fierce, metallic clash of swords.

A foreign-accented male voice punctuated the morning stillness, firing out regular, sharp calls. The footman opened the door and held it for her.
Alice hesitated, but when she peeked around the door, her gaze fell at once upon the table laden with pastries and a gleaming silver tea service. Ah—the bait! Her sense of decorum wailed for her not to go in, but she was determined to overcome her timidity, which people like Caro mistook for pristine virtue. Lucien had been the first to see through her. Bracing herself,
Alice walked into the studio, trying to appear as nonchalant as though she were walking into a milliner’s shop.

The swarthy swordmaster and the five, aristocratic young rakes training with Lucien barely flicked a glance her way, as though they had been warned in advance that she would be joining them and that they were to ignore her. Nor did her entrance break Lucien’s deadly concentration. She caught a glimpse of his face and saw his fierce silver eyes, brilliant as diamonds afire, while the morning sunlight flashed on his sword.

Keeping well out of the way, she edged self-consciously around the perimeter of the studio to the table where her breakfast waited. An attendant pulled a chair over to the table for her while
Alice poured herself a cup of tea from the spigoted urn. She did her best to appear perfectly cool-nerved, as though butterflies were not dancing in her stomach. If only she could control her blushes! Spooning some sugar into her tea, she stilled the trembling of her hand by dint of will and picked up her saucer and teacup, turning to watch the gentlemen with a polite expression; but at the sight of Lucien, she sank down onto the wooden chair a moment later, feeling a trifle weak-kneed.

If this was the savagery he brought to his practice, she never wanted to see him fight in earnest,
she thought as the metallic staccato of clashing blades rang out through the studio. The swarthy Spanish fencing master stood off to the side, giving instructions and curt orders. Lucien’s angular face was fixed in deadly concentration as he danced through the positions of the master’s wheel in elegant violence, pushing himself to the limit. The five young men training with him were posted at regular spaces around the outer circle. Lucien kept each of them on the defensive, engaging each one smoothly, weaving back and forth between opponents with dazzling speed, seeming never to have his back turned to any of them.

He was dripping with sweat, his snug black breeches hugging every line of his athletic legs and disappearing into his smart black boots. He wore a protective leather vest over his loose white shirt. The straps molded over his powerful shoulders and cinched at the sides of his lean waist.
Alice didn’t realize she had been holding her breath, but she exhaled at last when the drill was done.

Lucien saluted his opponents carelessly and handed off his weapon, his chest heaving. The sword master congratulated him on an excellent performance.
Alice waited for him in anticipation, but instead of coming toward her, he walked over to a bench on the other side of the athletic studio, sat on the end of it, and picked up a large iron dumbbell, curling his right hand up again and again while he braced his elbow against his inner thigh.

Oh, my,
she thought in admiration. When he let the dumbbell clatter to the floor again, she watched him reach his arms over his head, stretching his shoulders with the luxurious ease of a great cat. After working his left arm in turn, he pressed up lightly from the bench and accepted a small towel from the waiting servant, blotting his face with it while he received a few instructional remarks from the sword master. He towered over the man by half a foot, she noticed.

Alice
waited with growing impatience, wondering if he meant to ignore her entirely. But why would he force her to join him here if he was still too angry to speak to her for her cold words yesterday? Realizing she was openly staring, she tore her gaze away and turned her attention to the five young men. They, too, were lifting weights and doing various exercises, though in much more leisurely fashion, joking with each other as they worked. She wondered who they were. A couple of them looked vaguely familiar; she wondered if she knew them from Town or if she had merely seen them in the Grotto. When three of them furtively glanced her way and lowered their voices, she realized they were discussing her. She quickly looked away, hoping in belated mortification that they did not mistake her curious glance at them for immodest gawking.

Just when she was beginning to despair that he was indifferent to her presence, Lucien nodded his thanks to the sword master and crossed the studio to her, patting his neck with the towel before tossing it over his shoulder.
Alice let her gaze travel over him as he swaggered toward her with a guarded look and lustrous fire in his eyes.

“Miss Montague, what an unexpected pleasure.” Another attendant handed him a water canteen as he passed the man.

“And a most impressive display,” she answered with an arch smile as he joined her.

“Thanks.” He pulled out the cork and took a swallow, tilting his head back. Even his throat gleamed with sweat, his Adam’s apple moving up and down rhythmically as he drank. She watched it in fascination until he finished and licked his wet lips.

“I would like,” he said, “for you to visit someone with me today.”

“Whom?”

“Wise old man,” he said with a faint twinkle in his silvery eyes. “I have another half hour before I’m through here. You will stay and watch so I can make sure you’re not getting into trouble. Agreed?”

Alice
said nothing, dismayed by the pleasure she took in his order. He untied the straps holding his protective leather vest in place and lifted it off over his head. She bit her lip and tried to look away as he handed off the vest to the attendant. The sight of his thin white shirt clinging to his sweat-dampened skin, the musky, overwhelmingly male scent of him stirred something primal in her blood. He cast her a wink and turned away, returning to his men for the next phase of their regimen.

The sword master was replaced with a squat, tough, grumpy-looking man who proved to be the boxing coach, a veteran pugilist.
Oh, dear,
she thought with a wince. Fencing practice was one matter, but she wasn’t sure she could bear to watch Lucien and his men bruising and beating and pounding each other senseless. Then Lucien peeled off his shirt and her mind went blank.

With an artist’s fascination and a woman’s desire, she stared, mesmerized by the play of bronzed muscle across his back. His arms were huge, his chest smooth, sculpted, gleaming. He began winding a length of leather around and around his knuckles to dull the impact of his fists.

It occurred to her that, for all her art lessons, she had never had the opportunity to sketch that most classical of subjects, the male nude. Before she had come to

Revell Court

, the very thought would have made her reach for her smelling salts, but ever since she had met Lucien Knight, anything seemed possible.

As their boxing drills started, she flinched at the violence, but it did little good to look away, for the sounds were inescapable and somehow worse—the hard thud of leather-wrapped knuckles connecting with flesh; the low, rough grunt of a man taking a blow to the belly; the Cockney accent of the old fighter ruthlessly urging the youngbloods on. Lucien flattened “West” with a neat clip in the chin. Though the lad got up grinning, she vowed she would never let Harry try his “morleys” in this sport when he grew up, no more than she would ever allow him to join the army.