The Secrets of a Scoundrel by Gaelen Foley

little table to enjoy their late-morning snack.
    The lady knew how to live, he’d give her that.
    Afterwards, it was on to bladed weapons. Nick picked up a sword. He savored its well-balanced weight in his grasp, the pleasure of its slicing through the air as he whipped through a few speedy figure eights.
    He lowered the weapon as a grizzled older man approached; Lady Burke introduced him as a local fencing master she had summoned to put Nick through his paces.
    Nick shook hands with him, then switched to one of the blunted practice blades. As Lady Burke sat back and watched him brushing up his moves against the fencing master, Nick felt a little self-conscious under her scrutiny, as if he were some nervous adolescent trying to impress a girl.
    With some additional effort, he blocked her out of his mind and focused on the fight. The fencing master was good; Nick was better. Moves drilled into him since boyhood had long since turned into reflexes. It all came back to him quickly. When they paused for a break, he took a swallow of the now-cold cider, his muscles burning, his chest heaving—yet this was the best he had felt in a long time.
    He glanced over and saw and met Lady Burke’s gaze in wordless gratitude. She smiled knowingly. Then she called in the next expert to engage him, in fisticuffs this time.
    After a rigorous hour with the blades, another forty-five minutes with the pugilist was all he had left in him, especially after the brutal trainer landed several blows around Nick’s solar plexus, where his Regent-saving gunshot wound had only just settled into a healed-over scar.
    When the old injury grew sore, he took care to block his midsection better, but still, he didn’t see any point in pressing his luck unnecessarily. He appreciated the practice, but he wasn’t stupid. He finally called a halt.
    At least now he was aware of the weakness so that he could guard against it when the fight was for real.
    Lady Burke rose from the garden chair on which she had been sitting the whole time, watching patiently. She thanked, then dismissed the boxing trainer. Equally winded, the giant bald man bowed to her and to Nick, and took his leave.
    Still panting and streaming with sweat, Nick collapsed into the wrought-iron chair beside her.
    “Having fun?” she asked, eyeing him in amusement.
    “Is that why we’re doing this? For fun? And here I was starting to wonder if you were trying to kill me.”
    “Don’t be a baby. It’s good for you.”
    He laughed in exhaustion, dabbing his face with a hand towel. “God, you are your father’s daughter.” He helped himself to another swig of the leftover cold cider.
    She was watching him intently. “What was it like working with him?”
    Nick looked at her in surprise. “Well . . . he was tough.”
    “I know he was very hard on all of you.”
    He shook his head and took another drink as his heartbeat finally slowed back to normal. “We were grateful for it. Felt like torture at the time, but later on, it saved our lives. Actually, a little bird told me that your father gave you some training, too.”
    She smiled ruefully. “He wouldn’t let me join the Order like I wanted—”
    “What? You wanted to join?”
    “So what if I did?” she challenged him.
    “God,” was all he said.
    She snorted. “Humph. Well, he wouldn’t budge on that, but at least he agreed to teach me a few basic skills.”
    “Oh, really? Let’s see ’em.”
    She sent him a dubious glance. “I don’t have to prove myself to you,” she drawled.
    “Besides, if we’re headed into danger together, I want to know what you can do. Come. Show me.”
    “Very well.” Taking his offered hand, she allowed him to pull her up fondly out of her chair.
    Her touch, though brief, put his weary senses on high alert. She let go of his hand and went languidly to pick up one of the blunted practice swords, as well as a wooden knife for her left hand.
    Nick followed, but he only took a sword. He had to