Page 47 of The Art of Theft
She leaped out of the way and held up a hand, her skin smarting where he’d struck her, however lightly.
Mrs. Watson was an excellent swordswoman. She was also a woman who hadn’t lived in dangerous surroundings or used her cane for anything except training and sport for many years. Lord Ingram, on the other hand, sometimes returned from trips abroad with injuries inconsistent with the known risks of archeology.
“I like what you did,” said Charlotte. “Teach me how to defend against it. Then teach me how to do it.”
“One moment,” he said.
He left the ballroom and returned with a stack of broadsheets, which he rolled into two solid cylinders, and secured them with twine. “Let’s hope these don’t come loose too easily.”
The newspaper sticks were softer, but that just meant he pulled back less on his strikes—and moved faster. His footwork was different from Mrs. Watson’s, and his aim was also different. Instead of disarming his opponent, he sought to inflict damage.
Clearly he hadn’t been fighting London footpads. And clearly he’d been facing multiple assailants, in the sort of melee that didn’t allow for the luxury of merely disarming one’s opponents, because they would simply pick up their weapons and attack again.
He taught her how to pivot after the initial parry, to avoid exposing her back to an assailant spinning around to whack at her further. Then he showed her what to do when he instead attacked her kneecaps.
“Vile,” she said. “Excellent.”
“Don’t be so open about your perverted tastes,” he murmured. “Now see how I move differently when I intend to strike low? I can’t lean back at the same time. I must lean in.”
“Can I use your own momentum against you here?” she asked. “By the way, my lord, not all of us are as good as you are at hiding perverted tastes.”
“You can try, but only if you don’t—”
She stepped back, but not before he hit her across the kneecaps.
“And I don’t have perverted tastes. I have varied tastes.”
She raised a brow. “Is that what they call it these days? Well then, I like how varied your tastes are.”
His gaze dropped to a quick sweep of her body. She exploited his momentary distraction with a strike across his chest, which earned her a series of ferocious jabs, forcing her backward, until her retreat was blocked by a pillar.
He pointed his newspaper stick at her. “You’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg with regard to my varied tastes, Holmes.”
She knocked his weapon aside with hers. “I won’t believe it until I see the rest of that iceberg in person.”
She pivoted, spun, and struck him from his back to the side of his head, much as he’d done to her on their very first pass.
He gave her a dirty look, unbuttoned his jacket, and tossed it aside. She did the same.
He picked up the cane he’d discarded earlier and tossed her hers. “This might hurt a little.”
She smiled. “Promises, promises.”
?It hurt more than a little to be hit left and right. But she also managed some choice strikes of her own.
An hour flew by. Or rather, the first forty-five minutes flew by. The last quarter hour crawled, sobbing a little, to the finish line. The ballroom, like all big, high-ceilinged spaces in winter, was chilly. Still, she perspired freely, her limbs as heavy as cannons and as mobile as clay.
When he at last allowed the session to end, she hobbled to the carafe of mineral water that she’d prepared ahead of time and drank a long draught.
He joined her at the console table and handed her jacket to her.
“Thank you,” she said, panting.
He was barely breathing faster.
At least the last time she had panted this hard he had been equally affected.
The console table was near a radiator, genteelly concealed behind a low screen—the house had been outfitted with central heating—so she didn’t need to put on the jacket yet.
