Cope took off his coat, but then got very obstinate about his waistcoat and claimed it was cold in the gallery.

“Are you cold, Eugenia?” Jem asked.

“Not at all, Papa,” she said promptly.

He turned to Cope.

“Her lips are bluish,” the man pointed out. “Probably she would turn herself into a block of ice for the pleasure of your company, but I am not so taken with it myself.”

Jem looked closer at his daughter and cursed. He flung open the door and bellowed for a footman to bring Eugenia’s pelisse, mittens, and hat. Of course, it was a trifle chilly in the gallery, but they were planning on exercise.

“Run around,” he barked at Eugenia. “Keep warm or it’s back to the nursery with you.”

Then he turned to Cope. “The key to fighting with a rapier is to twist your wrist. As you parry a blow, a twist of your wrist will send the rapier sliding past the opponent’s blade and into his body.”

He eyed Cope. “Widen your legs. And hold your rapier in your right hand. You’re going to have to rely on wit rather than strength.” He took him through the first three basic moves. Then:

“Let’s have a match,” he said. “Povy didn’t provide rapier caps, so try not to injure me.” He laughed.

Cope looked startled, but Jem was already circling him. He could feel frustration surging through his veins—the frustration that had been building since the moment he caught himself looking at Cope.

It wasn’t the man’s fault, by God. But the blood was beating through Jem’s body and he wanted to fight.

Eugenia clapped and cheered, and Cope started circling too. Jem could see the sudden wariness in his eyes. Suddenly he no longer looked like a child holding a rapier, but like an alert man, smelling danger.

Good.

It was all part of becoming a man, Jem told himself. Not that he planned to draw blood or anything.

“Now I’m going to parry,” he announced. “See how my left arm has tensed? You need to watch every motion of your opponent’s body because it will tell you what he’s about to do before he does it.” Slowly Jem started a sweeping attack, a demi-volte.

Rather surprisingly, Cope didn’t fall back, but swung his rapier up and actually managed to deflect the blow before his rapier spun out of his hand and fell to the ground.

Jem barked with laughter. “Not bad!”

Cope straightened from picking up his rapier. His color was high and his eyes looked furious. “You struck hard!” he accused.

“No point in babying you,” Jem said, grinning. He started to circle again. “Some day you might grow up and meet someone on a dueling field at dawn. I’ll do exactly the same approach again. Try parrying it on the horizontal, rather than the vertical.”

Cope backed up, his lips tightly pressed together. Already he looked less effeminate, Jem thought with satisfaction.

“All right,” he called. “Watch my left shoulder. You can actually judge the type of blow once you get more experienced. The moment my left shoulder tenses, you should be assessing what and where I’m planning to strike.” Again he launched into a swirling, driven demi-volte.

This time Cope managed to get his rapier horizontal rather than vertical, and he didn’t drop his blade, though the blow knocked his arm almost to the ground.

“Damn, but you’re weak,” Jem commented.

“That’s not a very nice comment, Papa,” Eugenia said.

He blinked and turned around. “Stay well away from the fight, poppet. I’m afraid that Mr. Cope’s blade might fly from his hand again.”

“She shouldn’t be here,” Cope said, catching his breath.

Jem narrowed his eyes. “I can watch out for my child.”

“You may be able to watch, but I can’t guarantee that I can hold onto my rapier, given the forcefulness with which you are conducting this…tutorial.”

Well, who would have thought? The little chicken was turning into a rooster. Jem turned to Eugenia, but she forestalled him.

“I’ll go behind the cabinet, Papa. I can see through, but a rapier could never reach me.” She ran behind a tall glass cabinet.

Jem tossed his blade slightly until he had the right grip. “Mr. Cope?”

“One more time,” Cope said rather grimly. “My shoulder won’t take much more of this.”

“We’ll play again tomorrow morning, and the next,” Jem said cheerfully. “In a week or two you’ll be on the attack yourself.” Then, seeing how low to the ground Cope held the blade, he added: “Perhaps.”

Cope’s jaw tightened and he raised the blade.

“Same again,” Jem said. “Watch my shoulder.”

This time, as he came in a swirling attack from above, Cope’s blade fell smoothly into the proper horizontal position, slid along his blade and damned if he didn’t pink him.

“Bloody hell!” Jem said, dropping his rapier.

Cope put down his own blade in a very unhurried manner. “How unfortunate,” he said, coming over and peering at the small trickle of blood coming from Jem’s arm. “Perhaps we should have waited for rapier caps.”

Jem growled.

Cope was grinning; he was definitely grinning. “A mere twist of the wrist, I think you described it.” Then he turned to Eugenia. “Shall we escort your father downstairs? He needs the attention of his valet.”

Eugenia was bending over Jem’s arm. “I think it’s quite all right, Papa. Look, it’s already stopped bleeding. You must be careful, though, Mr. Cope. My father is not as young as you are.”

Wonderful. Now Jem felt prehistoric.

He stode to the door, Eugenia skipping before him. “I’ll go back upstairs now, Papa,” she said, trotting away.

“I’ll visit before supper,” he called after her.

“Oh, Lord Strange,” Cope said from behind him. “If you will allow me, I am the bearer of a letter for you.”

“What?”

Cope handed over a folded piece of foolscap. Jem opened it and then waved it in the air to dispense with the burst of perfume. “My God, it’s a poem. Anonymous too. Who gave it to you?”

“I couldn’t say,” Cope replied.

He had laughing eyes. For a moment, Jem found himself grinning in response, before he pulled himself together and turned back to the letter.

He read it out loud:

“The dark is my delight,

So ’tis the nightingale’s.”

He turned the page over. “That’s it? Two lines?”

He caught himself, about to ask Cope if he wrote it. He? If Cope wrote such a thing he wanted nothing to do with it. Besides, obviously Cope didn’t write it. The paper was drenched in perfume, and Cope actually had a clean smell, a bit like soap.

He was so angry at himself for knowing what Cope smelled like that he stalked out of the room without another word.

Chapter Fourteen

Friendship in an Unexpected Place

“S o have you been regaled by dancing girls yet?” Villiers was reclining in bed, looking as haggard as it was possible for someone so beautiful to look.

Harriet sat down. “It’s been a grave disappointment, but no one performed at breakfast. How are you feeling?”