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 assistant prévôts 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 of phrases 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.”

“I hope so,” Ransom muttered.

Garrett pressed her lips together, struggling to hold back a grin. No one ever dared speak to Baujart with such insolence.

The sword master returned his attention to Ransom. “Allons,” he snapped. Another duel commenced, so lightning fast that the blades blurred.

Ransom twisted, parried an attack, and deliberately shoved his shoulder against Baujart to knock him off balance. After making a strike, he dropped to the floor in a roll, sprung to his feet, and jabbed Baujart a second time.

“Arrête!” Baujart shouted in fury. “Colliding with an opponent? Rolling across the floor? This is not a tavern brawl, you madman! What do you think you’re doing?”

Turning to face him with the foil lowered, Ransom said calmly, “Trying to win. Isn’t that the object?”

“The object is to fence, according to the Amateur League’s official code of rules!”

“And that’s how you’ve taught Dr. Gibson to fight,” Ransom said.

“Oui!”

“For what?” Ransom asked with blistering sarcasm. “To take part in a spontaneous fencing match that’s going to break out in some East End slum? She didn’t come here to learn how to fight gentlemen, Baujart. She needs to know how to defend herself against men like me.” Removing his mask, Ransom cleared away the locks of hair that hung in front of his eyes with a quick shake of his head, the short dark layers seeming to come alive before settling into place. He skewered the maître d’armes with a hard stare. “Dr. Gibson has no idea what to do if someone disarms her in the middle of those pretty moulinette cane twirls you’ve taught her. You’ve lived in Paris—you must know some savate. Or at least chausson. Why haven’t you shown her any of that?”

“Because it’s not correct,” Baujart retorted, ripping off his own mask to reveal a narrow, flushed face and black eyes slitted with fury.

“Correct for what?” For a moment, Ransom looked genuinely bewildered.

Monsieur Baujart gave him a scornful glance. “Only a peasant thinks the purpose of fencing is to stick someone with the pointy end of a sword. It’s a discipline. It’s visual poetry with rules.”

“God help me,” Ransom said, staring at him incredulously.

Garrett decided it was time for diplomacy. “Mr. Ransom, there’s no need to berate Monsieur Baujart. He’s instructed me to the best of his ability.”

“Have you?” Ransom asked the maître d’armes, his voice soft and savage. “Or have you given her lessons suited for a lady’s parlor exercise? Teach your other students how to be picturesque. But teach this one how to fight for her life. Because one day she might be doing just that, armed only with the skills she’s learned from you.” He gave the other man a withering glance. “I suppose when she’s lying on the street with her throat slit, at least she’ll be able to console herself that she didn’t score any illegal points.”

A long, long silence passed while Baujart’s vehement breathing slowed. His rage faded into an expression that Garrett had never seen from him before. “I understand,” he eventually said with difficulty. “I will make the necessary adjustments to her training.”

“You’ll include some savate?” Ransom pressed.

“I’ll bring in a special tutor if necessary.”

The men exchanged bows, and Garrett curtsied to her fencing master. It troubled her that Monsieur Baujart wasn’t quite able to meet her gaze. He departed with great dignity, closing the door behind him.

Left alone with Ethan Ransom, Garrett watched as he went to set the fencing foil and his other gear in the corner. “You were rather hard on poor Monsieur Baujart,” she said gently.

“Not hard enough,” Ransom said, switching to his Irish accent. “I should’ve spent fifteen minutes paintin’ hell to him.” He unstrapped the plastron and dropped it to the floor. “You’ve more of a practical need for self-defense than any student here. His arrogance—or laziness—has put you at risk.”