“There are rules,” he intoned. “And a code of honor. Break either and the weapons will be revoked. Understood?”
Raven and Hawk nodded solemnly.
“The list is short. Swordplay is only permitted in the garden. No thrusting, and you may only hit with the flat of the blade. And never, ever lash out in a moment of anger, as you may cause serious injury.”
Well done, conceded Charlotte.
“Lastly, I leave it to Mrs. Sloane to decide whether any blood or bruises merit the weapons being taken away,” continued Wrexford. “Have I your promise to abide by what I’ve spelled out?”
“Aye, sir,” answered both boys.
“Then off you go, Weasels. And mind you, lopping off any tree limbs is also strictly forbidden.”
“Huzzah!” In a pelter of playful pushing and shoving, Raven and Hawk shouldered the weapons and staggered off.
Charlotte took some consolation in the fact that the swords were heavy enough that the boys were unlikely to wield them well enough to inflict lasting damage.
Wrexford eyed her warily, waiting for her to speak first.
Any anger she might have felt for his high-handed gift dissolved upon recalling how the boys had told her about aconversation they had had with the earl many months ago, one involving ancestral swords and his long-ago duels with a younger brother.
Raven and Hawk had been wide-eyed in wonder at such swashbuckling adventure.
That Wrexford had sensed their awe was all to his credit. More than that, it revealed a soft spot in his armor—one he took great pains to hide.
“I suppose,” she said slowly, “I should take heart from the fact that you somehow managed to survive such brother-on-brother battles.”
“There may be a black eye or two, but that does a lad no harm,” he replied. “Broken bones or bruises are badges of honor.”
“So I gather.” Charlotte sighed. “You seem to think such youthful testing of each other’s mettle forges a special bond of brotherhood.”
His expression turned unreadable. A Sphinx-like mask of impenetrable stone.
Was he thinking of his dead brother, slain on some bloody Peninsular battlefield? She could imagine the sense of loss must seep into the very marrow of one’s bones.
“Do you miss Thomas?” she asked abruptly.
He turned, the play of afternoon light and shadow skittering over the austere angles of his face. Perhaps it was merely a fluttering reflection in the windowpanes, but for an instant the chiseled arrogance seemed to give way to a ghosting of pain.
“Every day,” replied Wrexford. “He was a good man. A far better one than I.”
She had expected his usual sarcasm, not such naked honesty. “I’m so sorry.”
A careless shrug, and the moment was gone. “As Raven so wisely pointed out a while back, the Grim Reaper cares naught as to whether you are a lowly pauper or a highborn toff when he swings his scythe.”
Clang, clang—the ring of swords floated in from the garden, punctuated by peals of boyish laughter.
“They will sleep well in their new house,” he remarked.
A deliberate deflecting of tender sentiment. His cool smile seemed to challenge any further probing on the subject. Speaking of emotion wasn’t something either of them did well.
“If physical exhaustion helps to counter the excitement of having beds and room of their own, I shall be profoundly grateful,” answered Charlotte, following his lead. “Though I fear they . . .”
Theclang-clangof steel against steel echoed her own jumpy nerves.
“I fear they won’t be as happy as I wish for them to be,” she finished.
“Trust your instincts, Mrs. Sloane,” murmured the earl. “I do.” Without further ado, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “You’ve much on your mind. If you’ll allow me to explain the real reason for my visit, I shall then leave you in peace.”
