One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,61
and since the revolution, Britain had been playing host to many displaced people from the nation across the Channel.
The war had not diminished English passion for all things French, so much so that certain tradesmen had been known to assume a French name or mimic a French accent to increase their business. The elegant art of fencing would surely not be immune to the whims of fashion. So, was Jacobs in fact English, and merely playing at being French to attract more customers?
Or was he a Frenchman trying to hide the fact?
Langley’s skills of perception had been honed from childhood, in the dank, crooked East End streets he’d called home. He had not needed years of army training to teach him to regard every person he met with suspicion. Suspicion came naturally to him.
“Stanhope,” he said with a bow, forcing himself to unbend, despite the distrust that prickled along his spine. Sometimes appearances were not deceiving. Jacobs was likely just some poor chap who earned his coin by teaching the sons of nobs to fence. Langley wasn’t here to stand in his way.
However, the fencing master’s presence was a useful reminder that Bartlett House was porous, hardly an impenetrable fortress, despite the men standing guard outside. Even within its walls, Langley must stay on alert and focused. Yesterday’s games, last night’s…amusements, were a distraction in which he could ill afford to indulge. Becoming Lady Kingston’s lover was not part of his mission.
And becoming something more than that was out of the question.
“I’m glad you’ve come, sir,” Philip enthused.
His elder brother sent him a sidelong glance. “Of course you are, Pip. How else is Mr. Stanhope to discover you’re a prodigy?” The label, it was easy to guess, had not come from young Kingston originally, and its application was clearly a bone of contention.
“We shall endeavor to provide you with something worth seeing, Mr. Stanhope,” Jacobs said, though the modesty of the words was undercut by the man’s rather pompous air. “Come, young sirs.”
Philip and Kingston returned to the far end of the room and stood two arms’-lengths apart, facing their audience of one, bodies straight, swords up, toes out. Then Jacobs shouted, “En garde!” The thin, flexible blades of their foils sang as the boys whipped them through the air, moving through a series of poses, pausing on each at the fencing master’s command.
Langley saw very little either to impress or dismay him. Philip, the more naturally athletic of the pair, held his sword with greater comfort and moved with greater assurance, though not necessarily demonstrating more true skill. Young Lord Kingston, on the other hand, showed no sign of realizing that his lightness could have its advantage. On the whole, it seemed to Langley that either the lessons could not have been going on very long, or the fencing master was overpaid for his efforts. Had an unsuspecting Lady Kingston been taken in by the man’s dramatic flair and subtle French air?
Eventually, Jacobs ordered the boys to face one another for a bout, “a little touch,” as Philip had promised in the schoolroom. Langley caught himself looking expectantly toward the doorway, awaiting the arrival of their mother. But the threshold remained empty. Reluctantly, he dragged his attention back to the match.
“Pret,” warned Jacobs, then “Allez!”
The foils clashed, the blades chattering against one another as both boys lunged, eager to gain the advantage of attack. What followed was a good deal of sword-waving and showy footwork, none of the deliberate, careful movements that might reveal an opponent’s weakness or create an opportunity to score. Parry met thrust by luck, rather than design. Neither boy seemed willing or able to defend.
After watching for a few minutes, Langley came to his feet and called, “Arrêt,” not disappointed by the performance—he had expected little, despite Philip’s braggadocio—but unsettled. “What,” he demanded of Jacobs, whose face had gone slack with surprise, “can you have been teaching them?”
“Ah, Mr. Stanhope,” he said, with a visible effort to collect himself, tugging his coat into place. “So you understand something of the subtle artistry of fencing, do you?”
“Something, yes. It would appear you have worked very little on defensive maneuvers.”
Jacobs stepped closer. “Indeed, sir, we have,” he insisted. “But they are only beginners.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Philip’s mouth pop open to protest the description. Kingston’s foil twitched, the movement echoed by a swift shake of his head to stop his brother from speaking.
“And of course,” the fencing master continued in a confidential