“I don’t always need to be challenged.” Especially not after performing all night.
He made a noncommittal noise before grabbing what he needed so they could retreat to her parlor for a greater expanse.
As they entered, she moved to the case on the far side, selecting her weapons from the collection that had once belonged to her grandfather, and his father before him, and his before, and so on. Gifts from the Medici family when the first Liras had been appointed to the Jewish courts in Leghorn. An august body rendered near powerless by changing regimes.
Isabelle gripped the shorter twin swords, preparing herself to strike, just how Pena had taught her. Leaning to her left, she lunged, parrying with her right blade. Quick as ever, the older man met the thrust, as well as the angle from the left, steel crossing steel. He pivoted and turned, so she could circle and ready for her next strike.
“I noticed you managed not to stab any of the Berab brothers,” Pena called as he planted his feet. “Your grandmother is pleased.”
“Our image is paramount. I’d never stab someone in front of those who hold our future in their hands, let alone current and potential clients. Unless it was for their benefit.” Isabelle raised her right blade and struck, just as he’d taught her. “Besides, I had other things on my mind.”
“Or people.” Steel clashed against steel and he spun from her hold, getting in his own knock to the middle of her left blade. “On your body.”
“‘Next to’ and ‘on’ are very different, and I promise you, only the latter occurred. Besides, it wasn’t as if he even touched bare flesh.” She righted herself, bringing up both hands to defend, sweat marring her brow. Two quick strikes and Pena whirled back once more, leaving her dizzy. How the man knew all the older Italian techniques was a mystery. French fencing was all the rage now, so much so that wealthy gentile women indulged. However, what Pena had taught her was far from the genteel show matches held in fashionable drawing rooms or the pantomimes of courtly sparring that were featured onstage.
“The one I saw.” The older man leaned an elbow against a wall, calm and collected as she retightened her grip.
Bastard.
Pivoting to hit low, she swung upward. “Roger Berab touched nothing.” A clank rang out as he deflected her, though she was ready this time, thrusting with her left blade. “Nor Louis.” She repressed a slight shudder. Not that she likedanyof the brothers, but as for the middle one, there was something about the way his eyes lingered on her breasts. It didn’t make her feel wanted and powerful like the few times she’d caught Aaron glancing there—no, Louis’s expression was almost . . . she wrinkled her nose, searching for the word. Perhapspossessive? Which made absolutely no sense. With a half step, she caught Pena’s second sword.
“You know I was not speaking of them.” With a shove, he pressed her back and off him.
“The duke was in good spirits,” she said, shifting the topic again, jabbing a little.
“He has no reason not to be.” Pena parried back. “We presented him and his allies with quite the entertainment.”
“Hopefully more than entertainment. Hopefully grounds for an investment in our inclusion when it comes time to vote.” Isabelle quickly countered his blade, only a touch winded.
“You’re quite on your game tonight. Impressive attempt at distracting me from the subject at hand. But we must return to it.” Pena slammed his steel into hers, raising an eyebrow. “Though I’m not your father, my eyes are still focused where his would’ve been. Grease paint and a costume arenotthe ‘proper attire’ the invitation intended.”
Isabelle swore under her breath but beat him back with a clang. “You’d still be the one doing the actual watching if he was alive. He’d be socializing. As for Mr. Ellenberg, yes, he’s not the husband I need, but that doesn’t mean I should be rude.” She gave a sharp left thrust and disarmed his dominant side, raising her other arm for the final blow. “Besides, he never touched me.”
“If you say so.” Pena’s back landed against the wall, and he held her gaze. “You were completely alone with him.” He dropped his remaining blade to the floor in surrender.
“None of the gentiles saw. I was careful about that. And he’s one of us.” She released hers as well and paced to the opposite end of the room as she worked to catch her breath. “Besides, do you not trust me to tell the truth?” Isabelle glanced over her shoulder as Pena bent down to palm his fallen swords.
“I have nothing against those among us who cannot learn nor lead, especially those who do contribute what they can. They are valuable in their own way. And you are right not to be unkind to him—you just don’t receive any benefit from developing any further acquaintance.” He flipped the weapons in his hand and turned sad eyes on her. “And I trust you to tell the most convenient truth for you.”
“Like father, like daughter,” she muttered, rubbing her lower back as memories returned, those of a man who never believed he could lose. Who bent all the rules, took all the risks, and reaped all the rewards. Until fate stepped in.
“Very much so.” Pena sighed, no doubt drawing on memories of the same time. The narrow escapes he’d made as her father gained and traded on information to build the business—actions that skirted the law but led to his larger-than-life reputation, a legend that only enhanced his appeal, even outside the community. “Though I hope you’re a bit cleverer.”
“I’m trying to be.” Isabelle laid her weapons on the reading table and stroked the twin jewels on the hilts of the swords.
Unlike her father, she was avoiding risks and seeking only to maintain, not build. Protecting the status he’d worked so hard to craft. The only life she knew how to live.
“By focusing on the business and the community’s wants and needs instead of your own happiness.” Pena moved around the table so they could be face to face.
“He focused plenty on his own happiness.” She let go of her weapons and pressed two fingers to her temples. His health was another story, but that was neither here nor there.
“You’re gambling with your own future because like him, you can’t help yourself.” Pena leaned forward, elbows on the table, worry etched into the ever-increasing lines on his face. “And worse, you’ve enlisted a stranger with his own agenda.” He clenched his fists. “Instead of asking for help from those who love you.”
“I still want your help, your advice.” She laid her palms flat. “But sometimes another perspective is needed, from one who isn’t so close, who isn’t so invested in the outcome.”
“We want you to be loved and happy. We know there are dangers, that it’s hard to trust someone, hard to let them in, but you don’t need to worry.” Pena took her hand in his, opening her fingers and squeezing, just like he’d done at her father’s funeral, and every moment before when she’d felt scared or alone. “We will always protect you.Iwill always protect you. No matter what.”
And he had. Like a second father. But now it was her turn. After all, it was her shoulders upon which the weight of the business—and her father’s legacy—now lay. This wasn’t about her physical safety; it was about the survival of everything she was. And she could not and would not falter.
