The Scandalous Lady Sandford (Lost Ladies of London 3)

An unusual mix of pride and anger filled his chest. He wanted to worship Lillian’s strength and courage, wanted to take her by the arms and demand to know what the bloody hell she thought she was doing.

The clash of metal and another loud jeer drew his attention. “Please tell me the men aren’t fighting. I know they suffer from bouts of boredom when not at sea but there are better ways to spend their time.”

Isaac bit his bottom lip and struggled to hold Fabian’s gaze. “They’re fighting, my lord, with swords, but—”

“Swords!” Heaven help him. “And Mackenzie allowed such antics with my wife in residence?”

“Well …” A weird groan escaped Isaac’s lips. “Well … you see, Lady Ravenscroft is a competitor.”

Had Isaac punched Fabian on the nose, he would not have been more stunned. “Excuse me?”

Isaac shrank back. “There’s a competition to test parrying skills. So far, Lady Ravenscroft has beaten every man who’s stood against her.”

Fear gripped him this time. One wrong swipe and the damn woman would be married and buried all in the same week.

Without further ado, he strode into the bailey and joined the crowd of men gathered around in a circle.

“Och, how I wish I had taken bets,” Mackenzie cried. “I would be a rich man now that’s for sure.”

Fabian kept his head bowed as he joined the excited throng. Everyone was too busy watching his wife cross swords with Skinny Malinky to notice him.

“Remember, the winner of this bout is declared the champion.” Mackenzie gave a hearty chuckle. “Sorry, Malinky, but you’ll need your wits about you if you plan on beating her ladyship.”

“Make no allowances for me.” Lillian’s sweet voice pierced the air.

Fabian’s gaze drifted to his wife’s flushed cheeks and beaming smile. His stomach lurched. The muscles in his abdomen grew tight, and he doubted he had ever seen a more welcoming sight.

Only when both opponents stepped back and raised their swords, did Fabian notice that his wife wore a gentleman’s shirt, breeches and a pair of scuffed boots. Based on her unconventional a

ttire, he’d expected to see her hair hanging loosely about her shoulders, but it was swept up into a chignon that worked in opposition to the rest of her attire.

Skinny struck out with his sword, the clang of metal drawing a gasp from the crowd. Fabian bit back a curse. To cry out would startle his wife and he could not take the risk of her making a mistake.

Lillian used a basic parry to defend the attack, a more complex “parry of four” to defend the blow to her right side. Impressive. Skinny dealt with her counterattack with skill and precision. The man’s long legs made him light and nimble on his feet. Lillian was able to ward off the next strike and returned with three consecutive blows that left Skinny stumbling.

Pride replaced Fabian’s apprehension. Lillian demonstrated remarkable swordsmanship. He watched in awe as she performed a move akin to a pirouette, twirling around until she ended up behind Skinny, the point of her rapier digging into his back.

Everyone cheered.

“The lady ain’t no siren,” one of his men muttered. “She’s a warrior if ever I’ve seen one.”

Mackenzie stepped forward, his chest puffed and his face aglow. “I’m sure you will all agree. Lady Ravenscroft is the winner of this competition.”

The smile on Lillian’s face warmed Fabian’s heart. She deserved all the good things life had to offer: friendship, passion, love—and he would be the one to give them to her. After his trip to London, that bastard Cornell knew Fabian would bury him in a shallow grave as fodder for the body snatchers, should he do anything to harm the wife of the Raven.

“Indeed,” Mackenzie continued, “our lady has beaten every man here.”

“Not every man,” Fabian shouted, weaving through the spectators. He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to one of his men. “I believe I am yet to compete.”

Gasps and excited whispers filled the air.

Lillian sucked in a breath. Her eyes widened though not from shock. Warmth radiated from those glistening gems. She looked ready to race into his arms, but she straightened her shoulders and a coy smile played on her lips.

“Are you sure you want your men to witness your defeat, my lord?”

Some of his men chuckled only to paste a serious expression when he glared into the crowd. “I mastered the art of swordsmanship while you were sewing with your threads.”

She clenched her jaw and raised her chin. “I received expert tutorage from the Italian master Alvaro Romano.”