“That’s a cheap shot, Val. And let’s be clear on one thing: as far as our father is concerned, I don’t exist. You are his heir; you even have a son to succeed you. I’m just supposed to lie back and do my duty to the family.”
“Devil take it, Anthony, if I could give you the title and all the responsibility that goes with it, I would.”
“Easy to say when it can’t ever happen.”
Val’s eyes flashed. “Now who’s being unfair? I didn’t make up these ridiculous rules about who can inherit what. When I say I’d give it all up for you, I mean it.”
Anthony raised his chin. “Don’t patronize me. I know what you and Father think of me.”
“And what is that?”
“That I’m useless, that I’m a child.”
Val sighed and sat back down. “No, Anthony, that’s what you think about yourself. Don’t try to pretend any differently.”
“I’m twenty-five, Val, I know what I am!”
“Do you really? And what is that?”
“The second son of the second wife of a marquis. A son who should stop complaining and do his duty.”
There was a long silence while Valentin stared at him. “You really have to stop feeling sorry for yourself, Anthony.”
“I do not feel sorry for myself.”
Val shrugged. “Then I suggest you make the best of the situation. Prove to me and our father that you are capable of running the estate. In fact, let me make the decision easier for you. I don’t want to see you back here for a month. That should give you enough time to investigate the Stratham estate books and come to a decision.”
Anthony struggled to contain his temper. “If our positions were reversed, is that what you would do, Val?”
“Of course not, but then I am a fool. I live to antagonize my father. You are not like me.” He held Anthony’s gaze. “I’ve watched too many people I care about try to ruin themselves. I’d rather not have to go through it again.”
“Father thinks I’m jealous of you.”
“Are you?”
“I . . . don’t know.” Anthony let out his breath. “How could I be when you have suffered so badly, and I . . .”
Val leaned back in his chair. “You’re not jealous, but I suspect you are angry with me.”
“Surely they are the same thing?”
“Not at all. You’re angry because I involved you with Aliabad.”
Anthony took a step back. “I’m not going to discuss him with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it happened in the past, and it has no bearing on our present disagreement.”
Val got up slowly, his eyes full of concern, yet Anthony still flinched away from him. “That is the most ridiculous thing you have said so far. What happened with Aliabad changed you.”
“I said I did not want to talk about it.”
“But you should.” Val slammed his hand down onto the desk. “Dammit, Anthony, I know how it feels to be forced . . . to be raped . . .”
Anthony turned toward the door as nausea overwhelmed him. “I refuse to discuss this.” He struggled to open the door and felt it shoved shut as Valentin reached him.
“Listen to me,” Val said urgently. “It was not your fault. What happened to you was my responsibility, and you have a perfect right to be angry with me because of it.”
Anthony closed his eyes, leaning his forehead into the harsh wood of the door. “Let me out, Val.”
His brother didn’t move so Anthony did. He managed to push past Val, open the door and escape into the morning.
An hour later, he found himself staring up at the facades of Angelo’s fencing academy and Jackson’s boxing salon, which were conveniently situated next door to each other on Bond Street. He flexed his fingers inside his gloves. Perhaps this was what he needed, the opportunity to pick a fight, to let the rage churning in his gut find a sanctioned “gentlemanly” outlet.
He relinquished the notion of boxing, having seen enough blood for one day, and entered Angelo’s. A portrait of the great Chevalier de Saint-George hung on the opposite wall and seemed to gaze down with a critical eye on the proceedings in the almost empty room below. Anthony nodded at a couple of acquaintances and caught the fencing master’s eye.
“Have you time to take me on this morning?”
“Always, sir.” Henry Angelo bowed with a flourish. “If you would only practice, you could become a master.”
Anthony barely raised a smile at that piece of outright flummery. He headed past the displays of foils and fencing shoes into the back of the house, where he deposited his coat, waistcoat and boots. It was early enough that the vast majority of his peers were still sleeping off the excesses of the night before. After an hour or two of mindless physical activity, he’d feel in a far better position to think about his next move. He walked back into the main salon and headed to the center of the room.
Angelo bowed low as Anthony stepped forward and the master presented Anthony with his favorite foil.
“En garde. Pret. Allez.”
Without thinking, Anthony settled into his fighting stance and crossed blades with the master. Luckily, fencing required his entire concentration, both in body and mind, in a lethal dance of attrition. It also sharpened his senses, made him calculate the risks, the parries, the potential blows.
After a long while, when his arm began to ache and his errors became more frequent, Angelo spoke again.
“Halte.”
Anthony disengaged his blade and bowed again, became aware of the spectators who had gathered around them. Angelo wiped his brow.
“That was excellent, my lord. If you practiced every day, you would be a worthy opponent.”
Anthony nodded. “Thank you.” He turned around and met the familiar derisive gaze of Lord Minshom.
“You are definitely improving, Sokorvsky.”
Anthony started to walk and kept moving, his eyes fixed at some point beyond Minshom. He made it to the deserted changing room, heard the door click shut behind him and spun around. Minshom leaned against the door, his foil dangling in his hand, his expression far too amiable.
“Angelo is right. You could be good at this if you tried. But then you never try, do you?”
Anthony ignored him and looked around for a cloth to wipe his face. He flinched as Minshom’s foil whipped past him, hooked into the white towel and whisked it away.
“I’m leaving, Minshom. Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?”
“Not really.” Minshom smiled, expertly flicked his wrist and drew his blade across Anthony’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. Stinging heat flowered over Anthony’s skin, and he tasted the warm coppery taint of his own blood.
“What the hell was that for?”
“To teach you to pay attention.”
Anthony set his jaw. “And what if I no longer want to pay attention to you? What if I have moved on?”
He winced as Minshom’s blade darted out again and sliced through his shirt, leaving a stark line of red on his chest.
“You haven’t moved on. I haven’t given you permission to.”
Anthony’s hand clenched on the handle of his blade. “Minshom, I’m not in a good mood this morning. I’m also quite sure that I don’t require your permission for anything.”
Minshom’s foil came up, but this time Anthony was ready. Metal rang together and their blades clashed. Too enraged to bother with the niceties of etiquette, Anthony shoved Minshom back against the wall and held him there with the weight of his body.
“I’m going to get changed, go home and have a bath. Now let me get on with it.”
Minshom met his gaze, leaned forward and licked at the blood on Anthony’s chin, then followed a slow salacious path along Anthony’s bloodied lower lip.
“Are you sure about that?”
Anthony dropped his foil and jerked his head away from Minshom. He froze as the other man ran his fingers down the wound in his chest. His blood was on Minshom’s fingers, in his mouth, on his tongue. He groaned as Minshom twisted his nipple and then sucked it into his mouth.