Daring Romance

Chapter 3

Emerging from the ladies' dressing room at Baujart's with her cane in hand, Garrett passed a series of private exercise and instruction rooms. She had changed into the standard lady's fencing costume, a close-fitting jacket with a high neck, a white skirt hemmed just below the knees, thick white hose, and soft flat leather shoes.

Familiar sounds seeped through the closed doors: the clashing of foils, sabers, and canes, the bursts of footwork on oak flooring, the familiar commands of instructors. "Disengage! Straighten the arm. En guarde . . . longe . . .disengage . . ."

Monsieur Jean Baujart, the son of a famous fencing master, had taught the science of defense at French and Italian academies before opening his own fencing club and school in London. Over the past two decades, Baujart's had acquired an unmatched reputation for excellence. His public exhibitions were always heavily attended, and his instruction rooms were constantly filled with students of all ages. Unlike most of his contemporaries, Monsieur Baujart not only allowed but also encouraged female students to attend his school.

For four years, Garrett had attended group classes and taken private lessons from Baujart and his two assistantprévôts in the use of both foil and cane. Baujart insisted on a classic style of combat. Irregular movements and infringements of the rules were forbidden. If a fencer ducked, twisted, or ran back a few paces, he was gently mocked and corrected. One did not "hop about like a monkey" or "twist like an eel" at Baujart's. Form was everything. The result was a finished, polished style that was greatly admired by other fencing schools.

As Garrett reached the instruction room, she hesitated with a slight frown as she heard sounds coming from within. Had the previous lesson run overtime? Carefully she inched the door open and peeked inside.

Her eyes widened as she saw the familiar form of Monsieur Baujart attacking an opponent in a sustained series ofphrases d'armes.

Baujart, like the instructors at the school, dressed in an all-black fencing uniform, whereas club members and students wore the classic attire of unbroken white. Both men's faces were concealed by French wire masks, their hands gloved, their chests protected by leather plastrons. The foils, capped with boutons for safety, flashed and scissored in a rapid exchange.

Even if Baujart hadn't worn the black instructor's costume, his flawless form would have made him immediately recognizable. Baujart was a superbly fit man of forty, an artist who had perfected his craft. Every thrust, parry, and riposte was precise.

His opponent, however, was fencing in a style unlike anything Garrett had seen before. Instead of allowing the match to settle into familiar rhythms, he attacked unexpectedly and retreated before Baujart could touch him. There was something catlike about his movements, a vicious grace that raised every hair on Garrett's body.

Fascinated, she let herself inside and closed the door.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," the man in white said without even looking at her. For some reason, a few of her heartbeats collided as she recognized Ethan Ransom's voice. After parrying a lunge, he dropped low and attacked beneath Baujart's blade.

"Arrêt," Baujart said sharply. "That wasn't a sanctioned hit."

The two men disengaged.

"Good afternoon," Garrett said cordially. "Have I arrived early for our session, Mr. Ransom?"

"No. Monsieur Baujart had reservations about allowing me to teach you until he judged my abilities for himself."

"It's worse than I feared," Baujart said darkly, his masked face turning toward Garrett. "This man is unqualified, Dr. Gibson. I cannot condone your association with him-he will ruin every method you have learned here."