To his surprise, Lord Monteith suddenly squared his shoulders and sat board straight, his mouth drawing into a thin line. “You say I have courage, Signore. I will tell you that I am willing to do anything. You spoke of unusual techniques. You must teach me. I will learn. I must.”
The young gentleman didn’t take his words as a frivolous joke, Signore Bertioli thought. He paused and cocked his thin, intense face to one side. “You press yourself, young sir, far beyond the limits of most of the young gentlemen who come to me. It is certainly not to prepare yourself for war. You English, after all, have finally dispatched that pig Corsican to his island hell. And even if it were for war, young sir, the art of the foil becomes outmoded, just as the bow and arrow. Were I not in England, my lord, I would think that you prepare to execute a vendetta.”
“Vendetta, Signore?”
“A vendetta is a sworn act of revenge. In my country a vendetta can carry from father to son for many generations. Many times the cause for revenge is lost over the years. Yet the desire for revenge upon one’s enemies remains, as if it were born into the soul itself.”
“I like your word vendetta. Yes, it is perfect.”
“If you carry such an idea for revenge, my lord, I would suggest the pistol. You have a keen eye, and to kill a man with the little ball requires no more strength than your cows or girls have.”
“You must know, Signore, that in England, in a duel of honor, the one who wishes the revenge cannot select the weapon. I am an excellent shot, Signore, but it is not enough. You must teach me so that my vendetta isn’t simply an empty wish.”
Signore Bertioli gazed down into the young set face. But a boy the lord was, a mere boy, with smooth cheeks and many years of life before him. He felt sudden fear for Lord Monteith. If he was truly in earnest about a duel of honor, Signore Bertioli seriously doubted his ability to endure in the face of a more powerfully built and skilled opponent. He said quietly, “Yes, I will teach you. We will contrive. If you are rested, my lord, there is much more for you to learn today.”
“Thank you, Signore,” Hetty said simply, and rose with new energy to her feet. “Yes, I am rested.”
“En garde, then, young sir.” Signore Bertioli slashed his foil through the silent air, its gleaming steel soon connecting with Lord Harry’s blade.
At each clash, the impact sent quivers of pain up Hetty’s arm. She gritted her teeth, silently repeating her catechism of hate against the Marquess of Oberlon, to keep her mind from the pain. I shall send you to hell, your grace, just as you sent Damien to his death. As your blood flows from your body, I shall tell you who I am and why you are dying. I’ll stand over you and laugh when you draw your last breath.
Chapter Five
“I say, Lord Harry, you’re not looking at all the thing tonight. Some bleater insult the cut of your trousers?” Scuddy leaned his yellow and green striped elbows on the card table to look more closely into his friend’s exhausted face.
Hetty’s arm was so sore that Pottson had had to take great care when assisting her into her coat. “No, it was Signore Bertioli. He’s a stern taskmaster, Scuddy, as I’ve often told you. He very nearly unmanned me today with the pace he set. I’ve taken lessons with him for nearly as long a time as I’ve known the both of you, yet I still stagger out of his apartment like a drunken loon.”
“Any hope for you, Lord Harry?” Sir Harry asked with a wide grin. “Surely there’s hope. You’re endowed with superior physical stamina, just look at the size of your muscles, pathetic little mounds of nothing, but hey, you’re a smart fellow, for what that’s worth.”
“You mean,” Hetty said, “that God couldn’t make me both strong and smart so he gave me the smart only?”
“That’s it, only I said it in a more clever way. Now, as I was saying, I’m just really guessing about your muscles since you insist on wearing your bloody clothes so damned loose. Tell us, are your muscles superior? Or just your brain?”