Page 39 of Her Whole Heart
Although Darcy was expecting the attack, Fitz was dashedly quick, and while his third lunge was successful, Darcy was still grateful that he had asked Quincy to prepare him. His instructor stood at the edge of the floor now, having been engaged to keep the score and call out the points.
This was of no benefit to Darcy, who knew Quincy would be scrupulously fair.
Darcy was winning, but only by one, and Fitz seemed doggedly determined to triumph. At times he had a little trouble, though he reinedhimself in admirably when he began to slip. It must be difficult to move between the battlefield, where there were no rules, and here, where there were many. But even so, Fitz was an excellent fencer—Darcy felt no lasting sympathy for the man who was currently attempting to take him apart and claim victory.
Distance, Quincy had warned, would be his best ally. Darcy had dutifully practiced his double retreat perhaps a hundred times over the past few days, and though his legs ached, it now came as naturally as breathing. Fitz was shorter than he was, and Darcy took advantage of his longer legs to help him retreat beyond Fitz’s reach.
His cousin advanced boldly, the lines around his mouth a sign of his irritation. He performed a thrust in quinte that targeted Darcy’s flank, but Darcy held his foil in high carte with a low point and parried the thrust with the outside edge of his weapon. He used the opening this created to slide his own foil home. Fitz scowled.
“Point!” cried Quincy.
Darcy was ahead by two points now, only one away from taking the match.
They returned to their respective sides of the floor and saluted.
Fitz stood still for a moment to stare at Darcy, his gaze sharp, observant, and obviously meant to intimidate. It might have worked had Darcy not known his cousin as well as he did. He had once seen Fitz, deep in his cups, shimmy up a duke’s wrought iron fence like a sailor on a ratline, insisting that he intended to “have a word.” He had he not reached the duke, thank goodness, but he had caught the back of his breeches on the spiky ironwork and been left dangling with a rip in his clothing that left a certain part of his anatomy on vivid display. Fortunately, it had been a dark night.
Darcy’s vision narrowed on Fitz, and he smiled.
“What are you smiling about?” Fitz inquired, his voice cold.
“Duke of Saltford,” Darcy replied, hoping to discompose his cousin while he awaited the moment he should advance again.
Fitz made the decision for him, coming at him in a straight line with speed. This time, he executed the arrow perfectly, and though Darcy had backed up quickly, Fitz was faster.
“Point!” Quincy called, and Darcy could hear the man’s silent admonition against taunting a worthy opponent.
His cousin was grimly satisfied as they returned to their places and saluted again.
Darcy held his foil out straight and in line with his shoulder, the tip pointed down at Fitz’s waist. Right hip back as far as it could go, right knee bent, left leg straight. But he hesitated, and that was his undoing. Fitz moved from distance to half-thrust on the inside, towards Darcy’s face, and danced back. Darcy flinched, and Fitz moved back in with a full thrust to finish the job.
“Point!” called Quincy and raised a brow at Darcy.
Darcy bent over to catch his breath. Fitz had chased him from one end of the floor to the other for the entire match, and he was fatigued.
They were even. The next point would win, and Darcy knew he would not last if they engaged in a prolonged trading of feints and ripostes. He had to finish this, and now. It was a risk, but better to take the risk and lose than to wait to be worn down and suffer the same result.
They saluted.
Darcy moved forward immediately. Fitz hurriedly planted his left foot to create a wall, and Darcy stalked forward. Without pause, he sunk into a deep knee bend, held his arm out entirely straight, and leapt into the same flying lunge Fitz had been using on him over and over.
His arms were longer than his cousin’s. The button of his blade struck the frozen Fitz in his shoulder, and the match was over.
Darcy clapped his cousin on the back. “Thank you, Fitz,” he said, breathing hard. “I have learnt a new move and shall never take your challenge for granted again.”
Fitz frowned. “I am less unhappy that you have won this match than I am chagrined that your spies are better than mine. Who are they?”
He chuckled. “You will never know. Come, let us return to Darcy House and have a drink.”
“You owe me an entire bottle of that brandy you hoard as well as the names,” Fitz said begrudgingly. He took the towel Quincy handed him and swiped at his face. “Truly, Darcy, I may need to employ them in the service of the king.”
Darcy accepted both a towel and a slight smile from Quincy. “I have nothing to tell you, Fitz.”
Neither of them wished Fitz to know Quincy had been involved. Darcy had arranged to pay the promised bounty for a win in a day or two.
Fitz frowned. “Then you owe metwobottles.”
“An excellent match,” Quincy said as they left the floor. “Shall we see another soon?”
