Page 6 of The Misfortune of Lady Lucianna

Luci had come to Bentley’s to work off her aggression and anger from the night before; instead, she felt as if she were matched with an amateur. After returning home, she’d hastily hurried to Ophelia’s townhouse and instructed her friend to write the Mayfair Confidential column about her father. Lady Ophelia had done her best to persuade Luci not to write such damning things about her own family—that it could ultimately harm her own reputation. Luci didn’t care. She was beyond giving a whit about her future prospects. Not to mention, she’d failed to make the acquaintance of a man worthy of her love, let alone her respect.

Lord Torrington, Lady Edith’s betrothed, was the exception, though she was loath to admit the fact aloud. The man had an overinflated, arrogant notion of his own self-worth as it was, and there was absolutely no way Luci would give the man more fodder with which to build himself on.

Regardless, it was her father whom Luci truly wanted at the tip of her foil.

Comical since fencing was the one thing her father had taught his eldest daughter. The only thing of worth the marquis had passed on to her as yet. The memories flooded her; not many fond ones surfaced, overshadowed by hours spent at the tip of her father’s foil as she learned harsh lesson after harsh lesson.

Never had her father taken compassion on her, even during her first years of learning.

Her opponent hadn’t made the decision to attack or force her to attack.

Taking one step forward, she thrust the tip of her foil in his direction—a challenge, of sorts.

Their masks made it impossible for her to tell what the man felt—either reluctance or renewed confidence. And, she knew, neither did he suspect his opponent was a woman. Which was for the best. Luci didn’t desire for anyone to go easy on her because she was female—they were all sportsmen at Bentley’s. Her tall stature and wide shoulders were only embellished by her outfitting.

Her opponent lowered his foil tip to the ground at his side, admitting defeat.

Bollocks.

It appeared she was not to gain the vigorous match she’d desired.

A part of her longed to place her tip at the man’s heart, forcing him to defend himself; however, unsportsmanlike conduct would have her membership revoked. It was something she’d never jeopardize.

Luci rolled her neck from side to side, dispelling the stiffness that came with hours on the strip. No doubt also partly due to her forgoing sleep the previous night to make certain the column reached the London Daily Gazette in time to be printed in this morning’s post.

No matter that Edith was distracted by Lord Torrington and their coming betrothal ball, and Ophelia would rather have her nose in a book, Lucianna was still determined to fulfill their promise from the night of Tilda’s death. She would expose any scoundrels for their misdeeds, and her own father was not beyond her vengeance. The man she longed to rip apart before all of society—Lord Abercorn—remained just out of reach. But she was certain he could not escape for long.

Her opponent bowed stiffly and departed the strip.

Luci was capable of biding her time. Abercorn would misstep eventually—she was certain of it—and Lucianna would be there to take him down. Permanently.

Turning, she surveyed the room for her next match partner; however, the pickings were slim this early in the day. Many men—the lords who could afford the dues at Bentley’s—were barely breaking their fast at this hour.

“Are you prepared to take on a skilled opponent, my lord?” A man stepped from the shadows created by the rack holding spare foils and other gear. He was tall, even by her standards, with massively broad shoulders. Thankfully, a man’s sheer size normally spoke of their less than agile abilities. His mask in place and his foil at the ready, he didn’t wait for her response but joined her on the strip. “En garde.”

His impertinent manners were overlooked when she noted his expert stance and strong hold.

This was the opponent she’d been waiting for—and his disregard for proper etiquette only fueled her ire.

Exhilaration hummed through her, but she focused her entire being on the match to come—the correct footwork, the perfect hold on her foil, and, lastly, the appropriate set of moves to gain the win.

Luci lowered her chin and immediately advanced, her need to take control of the match overpowering her common sense to bide her time and assess the fencer’s skill set.

He expertly parried her action.

She’d learned years before to always knot her waist-length hair tightly and securely under her mask—or face the consequences. Namely, male opponents treating her like a weak female as opposed to the accomplished sportswoman she was. Thirteen years of daily fencing lessons would turn any girl into a fierce competitor—either that, or break their spirit. Luci allowed no one and nothing to bring her down, especially not her father’s relentless need to best his children at the one sport he could muster any talent for.

Very advantageous for her father that business was not considered a sport.

Regrettably for Lord Camden, Luci, his eldest child, had mastered the art of fencing by the young age of fourteen.

After a year of lost matches, Luci’s father refused to spar with her and had instead purchased her membership at Bentley’s.

The buzz of her opponent’s foil sounded close to her ear as he advanced, forcing her to back step or risk injury. His skill was something she hadn’t witnessed at Bentley’s before, nor did she recognize the man’s voice.

She needs must keep her head on the match—not on her father’s scandalous activities or their rough past as father and daughter.

And most positively not on attempting to identify her opponent.