Chapter Three

"Ye call that an attack?" Cam scoffed affably at his opponent, whose lunge had been easy to knock aside.

The arrogantly infuriating Baron Buthert scowled behind his wire mask, and darted forward once more, this attack causing Cam to step back as he parried.

"I call that a feint," growled Buthert. "This is an attack."

Cam was grinning as he met each of his opponent's moves with his own, his focus on the tip of Buthert's foil, knowing that—since this match wasn't official, and wasn't being scored—it was up to him to record the hits against him.

Luckily, he was a better fencer than this blowhard.

He'd met Buthert once or twice on the strip here at the London Fencing Club, and each time, Cam had been unimpressed. The baron—what was his name? Something regal. Not regal regal, like Reginald, but regal as in named-after-one-of-those-useless-English-kings. George? Edward? Whatever his name was, Buthert fenced like a man who'd learned it at school because that was considered the thing to do.

In other words, not nearly as good as Cam, who'd become very, very good at working out his irritation and insignificance here against men who thought themselves far superior.

"Damn!" Buthert fell back, breathing heavily, after Cam's foil swept through his defenses and bent against the man's canvas-covered chest. "A point."

Good-naturedly, Cam saluted. "Again?"

"Of course, again," growled Buthert, settling into the en garde position. "It was a lucky blow!"

Cam hid his grin as he easily blocked his tiring opponent's lunges. A lucky blow? Buthert was one of those lordlings who thought themselves so much better than men like Cam, just because of blood. They often failed to remember that Cam shared the same blood they did; only his parents hadn't been married.

Aye, he was a bastard, which allowed entitled men like Buthert to sneer down their noses at him. But Cam's father was a powerful Highland laird, and his mother the daughter of an earl, even if he had been born out of wedlock. He'd been afforded all the best when it came to education.

As long as ye played the part they expected from ye.

Grimly, he knocked aside that thought as easily as he knocked aside Buthert's blows. Neither of his families had wanted him, but they'd supported him financially at least. And he'd built himself a new family at school; brothers, fellow bastards who were now his closest friends.

Besides, he was far from destitute. His investments had more than paid off, which allowed him the chance to visit the club twice weekly and keep his skills honed. And while his stepfather might want nothing to do with him, the MacKays liked him well enough.

Too bad they lived so far from civilization.

Blast! While he'd been distracted, Buthert had managed to land a blow, and now crowed mockingly about it as he returned to his place.

Cam was perfectly happy to be seen as the affable layabout charmer the rest of Society had deemed him; the rake, the playboy. Whatever his personal feelings about Buthert, it was infinitely easier to salute him obligingly and call out, "A point!"

"My lord," the toad corrected.

Cam pretended not to understand as he settled into guard position. "Hmm?" His back hand rose elegantly.

"A point, my lord," Buthert elaborated, as if Cam were an idiot.

"What's that, Buthert?" Cam asked as he launched a sudden attack. "I couldnae quite hear ye. The mask, ye ken."

And then both men were silent, save for the grunts as they blocked and lunged. Buthert was tiring, and Cam decided to finish the match.

With a flurry of movements, foils clanged noisily together, the sound a sort of music. Buthert fell back, panting.

"Good Lord, you barbarian! Are you trying to kill me?"

Easily, Cam shrugged. "Shelbourne and Northwich were both otherwise engaged today, and I needed a good workout."

"Northwich has never been beaten," Buthert blustered, as he stepped back, his blade raised to indicate a break.

Happy to oblige him, Cam saluted as well. "Aye, at blades or rock throwing or the long jump, or whatever barbaric pastimes an athlete like him gets up to. Thank fook he's married now and has found other ways to deplete his energy."

"I cannot believe you expect me to speculate on the man's energy." Buthert sounded vaguely disgusted as he pulled his mask from his face and shook his head as he tucked his foil under his arm. Lips curled, he stepped off the fencing strip and headed toward the sidelines, where a servant waited with beverages.

Cam tucked his foil under the arm holding his mask, and ran his gloved hand through his hair as he followed. The London Fencing Club was considered the city's premiere sporting establishment, but Cam was only interested in the fencing strips. On days like today—when he was feeling antsy and full of coiled energy—he could always find a match.

In fact, the little concierge had brightened when he saw Cam enter, and had tittered happily. "I have a new opponent for you, Mr. MacKay! Soon!"

Cam had nodded his approval, and gone to find a match while he waited for the mystery opponent. Buthert had barely been a warm-up.

Now, Cam placed his sword and mask on the table, and carefully pulled his right glove from his hand. He'd had the thing specially made, at great expense. It matched his jacket, of course.

"Red," Buthert said with a disparaging sigh as he lifted his water. Apparently he was bored, to still be standing here conversing with Cam. "You always do care to make a scene, but red leather?"

"Excuse me, this is scarlet," Cam corrected haughtily, peering down at himself as he slapped his glove against his opposite palm, then reached for his own refreshment. The staff here knew his preference for sweets, and had mixed juice and water for him. "And ye cannae expect me to be seen in public looking anything less than remarkable."

Although the new trend was for jackets and trousers to be all white or black—or sometimes even a combination—Cam was never one for dullness when scarlet was an option.

Buthert, however, wasn't impressed. "It's practically choking you. How can you breathe in that thing?"

Touching the high collar, Cam felt one side of his lips tug upward. "Easily. And I need to protect my throat, aye? Ye think I'm likely to do it with that pedestrian nonsense the rest of ye use?" He nodded mockingly at the other man's standard canvas jacket. "Ye're no' even wearing a belt."

"That's because I expect you to be able to find my midline without the need for visual aids." Buthert cocked an eyebrow at Cam's wide black belt, which indicated the line below which an opponent's hits didn't score.

Cam flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders. "Aye, but ye're less experienced than I, so I had to give ye a target."

Buthert's nostrils flared at the lighthearted insult, and his knuckles tightened around his glass. Frankly, Cam was surprised the man was still standing here, and hadn't made an effort to retreat to an easier match, or the lockers.

"Should we find ye a training master's plastron?" he sneered. "Perhaps Master Beltrande has a spare one for you. One with a big red heart painted over the chest, so I know where to aim?"

Instead of rising to the bait, Cam affected innocence. "Och, aye? Do ye think ye might need a target so large? Few of yer hits actually resulted in points, ye ken."

Buthert scowled "That's because your jacket blinded me. It's garish."

How like the man to make excuses. "It's stylish," Cam defended.

The dark-haired lord curled his lips as he looked Cam up and down. "And you're not wearing shoes."

Nodding, Cam handed the empty glass to a servant and began to pull his glove back on. "Because it wasn't a real match. I prefer to fight barefoot; it improves my balance."

"You look like an idiot," Buthert grumbled.

Cam couldn't help it; he burst into chuckles at the other man's pouting. "Ye're just indignant ye were beaten so soundly by a man without shoes."

The other man opened his mouth—likely to fire an insult back, but they were interrupted by the concierge, who bustled up with a beaming grin.

"The Chinaman has agreed to spar with you, Mr. MacKay. I told of your prowess, and he'll meet you on strip number three in five minutes."

Before Cam could do more than nod in agreement, the little man bustled off again. Buthert watched him go, and harumphed under his breath.

"Prowess? And why in damnation would a Chinaman be allowed into my club?"

Shrugging, Cam reached for his mask, brushing off the other man's ignorance. "He must be a member, to spar here. But it is odd, I'll grant that. Ye understand I'm curious, and must leave ye."

Buthert waved magnanimously, as if a king granting a favor. Cam hid his grimace as he pulled his mask down over his face, saying a silent prayer the other man would find someone else to bother and wouldn't stand here to watch Cam's match with the Chinaman.

Whoever he was.

He padded barefoot to the six-foot-wide fencing strip, then bounced a few times and rolled his shoulders to prepare himself. Anyone who knew him as the languid, flirtatious beast who prowled the ballroom floors, secure in his welcome as the illegitimate son of a Highland laird and the Baroness Codpeas, would hardly recognize him here. When it came to fencing, he was focused and sure of his ability.

But there was something…off today. Something had been off for the last few days, and Cam didn't like it. He felt hollow, unfulfilled, and although the bouts with Buthert had helped, Cam still felt jittery, deep in his chest.

Unfulfilled, eh?

Aye, it had started the night of his last assignation. The woman who'd come to his hotel room to lose her virginity on her own terms, and had come apart with his tongue on her. She'd done exactly what she hadn't known she'd needed; she'd taken control of her own carnal appetite, and made it work for her.

God Almighty, just the memory of her pinching her own nipples as she slid that bone-white dildo in and out of her black curls… Well, the middle of the London Fencing Club was no place for a cockstand, he had to remind himself.

Besides, it would completely ruin the line of these trousers.

He rolled his shoulders again, and forced a few sharp breaths in and out before holding one for the count of five, and exhaling even more slowly. It was an old trick Jean Beltrande had taught him, as Cam's mother had hired the fencing master to tutor her sons.

She might have been seduced by the charming and gregarious Argus MacKay in her youth, but as the daughter of a sought-after earl, she'd still managed a marriage with some benefits…including further children, and fencing masters.

Unsurprisingly, thinking of Beltrande and his mother had done wonders for Cam's inconvenient cockstand.

Huzzah! Now he wouldn't need to worry about crushing the poor bastard between his thighs as he sparred.

Speaking of which…

The concierge bobbed his little head like a chicken as he escorted Cam's new opponent toward the strip. Unusually, the other man already had his wire mesh mask firmly in place, so it was impossible to get a look at him. He was slightly built, and taller than the concierge but shorter than Cam, and carried himself with a swagger which suggested he was bluffing.

He wore no gloves, and Cam's gaze lingered in interest on the man's lithe hand, which already gripped the handle of his foil.

Well, if he wanted to risk his knuckles and trust only in the sword's guard, then it was up to him. Cam allowed every man some peculiarities. Gloveless opponent versus shoeless opponent.

At least the Chinaman was wearing soft leather indoor shoes—the toe of the right foot extended almost a full inch, for balance, the way Stroke's did. And he wore a high-collared white canvas, the same as Stroke, which buttoned up the left side. This, as well as the shoe on his leading foot, told Cam his opponent was right-handed.

With the man's mask fully in place, Cam didn't bother lifting his for the traditional greeting. Instead, he nodded affably as he swung his sword back and forth to limber his right arm.

"Chinaman, eh? Are ye any good with that foil?"

Instead of replying the smaller man dropped his chin in an arrogant nod, which made Cam smile behind his mask.

"We shall see, laddie."

His opponent offered a silent salute, then dropped easily to an en garde position, his back hand held outward, not in the French style, but with a flair all his own.

Oh, this would be fun.

His challenger was the first to lunge into a lightning-fast attack which might've startled another man. Cam suspected the Chinaman was used to being smaller than his opponents, and was using that to his advantage.

Or rather, would try to use that to his advantage, because although he was bigger, Cam was just as light on his feet as the other man.

The pair of them danced back and forth, feinting and thrusting and parrying, each trying to get a feel of the other man's style. And Cam was, in spite of himself, impressed.

It had been a while since he'd sparred with Northwich, or any other fencer this nimble and skilled. The Chinaman had a style Cam couldn't quite recognize; it was obvious he hadn't learned from Master Beltrande, or any other French tutor.

But interestingly, the differences in the other man's style made Cam feel…well, not exactly at ease, but more relaxed. The jittery feeling he'd been experiencing over the last days slowly dissipated, and his lips curled upward. He didn't have time for introspection, but it was impossible to deny that for the first time since he'd woken to find his new Treasure gone, he felt calmer.

Likely because ye're matched with a man who kens what he's doing, eh?

Fencing with the Chinaman was more fun than sparring with Stroke.

Cam always felt most free when he could allow his mind to wander, only part of it focused on the next attack, the next block, while allowing his arms and hips and feet to do the real work. The ability didn't diminish today; he scored the first point, his opponent the second, and the third was Cam's again.

In fact, although their styles were very different, they were well-matched, trading points evenly. Once, after losing a hit to the smaller man, Cam retreated and saluted with a wry grin. "Ye are good. Are ye really Chinese?"

This time, the smaller man's en garde faltered. "Are you Scottish?" he finally growled in a gravelly sort of tone. It was clear he was trying to disguise his voice, and Cam assumed it was because he was younger than the average member of the club. A lad would do his best to appear older, would he not?

Cam gave a mocking salute. "I am." The Scot, they called him around London.

Or rather, it was what the ladies called him. A very certain kind of lady.

A lady like yer Treasure, aye?

He hadn't meant to fall asleep holding her. It had been a first for him, honestly. He routinely met ladies at The Savoy, seducing them with careful touches, champagne, and things to nibble on: oysters, artichokes, chocolate, bare skin. The oysters usually worked wonders.

But his Treasure had been…different. He'd known from the moment he'd seen her that it would be a special evening, and it was. God Almighty, he would've given his eye teeth to have been inside her when she burst into pleasure, but he had made a vow long ago, and held true to it.

But seeing her bring herself to completion, and knowing it was what she'd needed…? There'd been something almost reverent to it. Mythical, religious, spiritual.

And not just because he'd orgasmed at the same time.

Although that had helped, certainly.

She'd fallen asleep in his arms. He shouldn't have liked that as much as he had, and Cam had found his own eyes closing as well.

Whereas normally, his well-sated clients left him with kisses and fond farewells and plans for future assignations, this time, he'd…tucked himself into the bed, holding her. And they'd slept.

When he'd woken, he'd been surprised by quite a few things:

The fact he'd slept better than he had in a long while.

The fact he was fully dressed, when he preferred to sleep in the nude.

The fact he was still in a hotel room.

The fact the uneaten oysters he'd had delivered the night before were becoming a bit aromatic.

The fact she was gone.

He'd found a wallet, containing his usual fee, sitting beside the dildo she'd used the night before. Both were placed beside his copy of A Harlot's Guide on the chair where she'd hooked one leg over the arm so he could see her core as she'd fooked herself, prominently reflected in that beautiful, damnable mirror.

Cam had taken the long route home, and dropped the entire wallet in the collection box in front of the Holy Sisters of Perpetual Snarks' Saving Grace and the Rest of Them as Well charity orphanage.

He didn't know who she was, he didn't know if he'd ever see her again. What they'd shared that night had been because she was about to belong to another man. But even if she'd never know of his charity, there was no way he would take money for what they'd shared.

Hell, he'd likely pay for the opportunity to see her again.

The Chinaman's foil bent almost double against scarlet canvas as the smaller man lunged past Cam's guard and stabbed him in the chest.

"Fook me!" Cam blurted, stumbling backward, an incredulous laugh escaping his lips. "That one ought to count double!"

From his place by the refreshments, Buthert called out mockingly, "You were distracted!"

Cam watched his opponent's head turn briefly toward the spoiled arse, then the impassive mask dipped once in acknowledgement of Buthert's assessment, and Cam had to smile again.

"I cannae fight both ye and distraction at once." He lifted his weapon to guard again. "So I will focus more closely on you, sir."

The smaller man nodded once more.

Talkative fellow, eh?

It was Cam's turn to attack, and his opponent turned aside his lunge. Again they fell into an easy back-and-forth, the clang of the foils as they beat against each other almost musical. Points were traded, quips were made—entirely by Cam, of course—and their breathing grew heavier.

Reveling in the stretch and pull of his muscles, Cam found himself smiling, even as sweat tangled the curls at his forehead. He hadn't had a workout like this in a while, and his opponent was still going.

However, it was becoming obvious the smaller man's strength was flagging.

When Cam scored his fourth point in a row—a hit his opponent should've easily been able to parry, had the man been fresh and attentive, Cam held up a gloved hand. "Had enough?"

His only answer was a sharp shake of the other man's head, as he settled once more into guard position. Cam, who admired tenacity, shrugged and chuckled.

He could feel the other man watching for an opening, his movements more conservative than even minutes before. Preserving his strength, possibly?

Even as Cam had the thought, his opponent burst into a flurry of lunges, which completely caught him off guard. Cam was able to parry the first wild swing, but the second caught him low on his side; a hit.

Scowling, he stepped back, nodding in acknowledgment and blinking away sweat. "Good thing this match isn't being scored, aye? That was an illegal swing."

His opponent didn't respond, other than to raise his foil once more.

His foil…aye, that was the issue; the man had put aside the steady lunge, thrust of the foil and had used more of a backsword's swing. "Would ye like to switch weapons?" he asked in a mocking tone of voice. "I'm certain the club has backswords we might use."

The smaller man shuffled back a half step, then forward again, in what might have been hesitation. He shook his head mutely.

Cam was sweaty and his good humor was fast evaporating. He lifted his foil, gave the barest minimum of salute, and attacked. His opponent parried twice, three times, then went on the attack himself.

Again, his lunge was a feint, a disguise for what turned into a wild swing more at home to a backsword or sabre than a foil. But Cam knocked away the attack, now that he knew what to look for.

"Yer switch might work for others, lad, but I've studied the claidheamh," he growled.

Without stopping to acknowledge his words, the smaller man swung to the left, then down. Cam raised his foil to parry…and his opponent switched styles as easily as breathing, turning his swing into a thrust and slipping easily past Cam's guard.

His foil jabbed against Cam's chest, surprising another burst of laughter from Cam.

"Och, well done, laddie." Cam laughed, reaching for his mask. "I concede."

He pulled the heavy wire mesh from his face and shook out his sweaty curls, still smiling. He turned to invite his opponent to join in for some cold, watered juice.

But when he did, the smaller man stumbled backward, his mask still hiding his features, in what seemed like surprise.

"Are ye aright?" Cam called, but the other man just shook his head frantically, his foil dangling forgotten from his hand.

Behind him, there was the sound of a throat clearing. Keeping half his attention on the body language of his opponent, Cam shifted to see one of the club's servants holding a silver salver with a letter atop it. Addressed to him.

Frowning, Cam tucked his foil under his arm and reached for the letter. "From my father?"

The servant maintained a blank expression. "Indeed, sir. Your butler thought it might be important, and had it sent here."

Lips curled ruefully, Cam shrugged. He'd been known to ignore his father's letters—usually nagging him about taking on more responsibility—for days if possible, and his butler knew him well enough to send it here, where Cam couldn't ignore it.

Humming thoughtfully, Cam stepped toward the refreshments, only to remember his recent bout. He glanced over his shoulder to invite his opponent to join him once more, and realized the man had disappeared.

Curious.

Cam made a note to ask the concierge for "the Chinaman's" name, so he might set up future matches, but most of his attention was on the letter in his hand. When he reached the table, it was to discover Buthert still there.

Damnation.

Still, Cam nodded politely and dropped his mask and foil on the table, before reaching for a glass of cold juice.

Buthert kept his tone neutral—although it was possible to hear the curiosity there—when he said, "That was quite the match. And ended by a mysterious letter. Are you going to open it?"

Finishing the last of the juice, Cam rolled the cold glass across his forehead. "It could be a private matter."

The other man snorted derisively. "I saw the postmark upon it. I am assuming your father is writing to scold you for spending his money on membership to such an elite club." Buthert pretended to study his fingernails. "And frankly, I would like that very much."

Instead of being offended, or threatening to hit the other man, Cam found himself amused at Buthert's so thinly disguised curiosity. Likely the lord was just bored, and wanted to know what kind of letter was important enough to interrupt a man's sport.

Well, since Cam himself was curious, he might as well learn the answer. With a shrug, he slit open the envelope and skimmed the letter.

"Well, what does it say?" Buthert asked impatiently.

Cam cleared this throat before reading aloud, "Greetings, son, weather is fine, yer sisters are loud, et cetera, et cetera."

"That's it? How boring."

Cam was barely paying attention. Because it wasn't like his father to send such an innocuous letter, especially one his butler thought it imperative Cam read.

His stomach feeling achingly hollow, Cam scanned his father's handwriting, the news and complaints as predictable as always. Which didn't explain why his hands had begun to shake.

He found what he was dreading in the fourth paragraph.

Now, for some words on marriage by proxy, Cameron.

You and I both ken you will not be my heir. Your younger brother will be the next Laird MacKay, and an earl to boot! But that does not mean you have nothing. There is so much potential in you, son. You have used it to woo and charm your way into Society's graces, which impresses me. But you ken I will not be completely impressed until you have made something of yourself. Something useful.

And grandbairns will not hurt, either.

To both of these ends, it is my pleasure to inform you of your recent marriage. I stood in for you, and your stepmother stood in for your new wife. She is a wonderful lass—your wife, not my Mary, whom you cannot have, being she is married to me and the mother of your brother and sisters. But your wife is my wife's niece, and her father left me in charge of her funds until she comes of age. She's a smart lass, good head for business, which should be the kick in the arse you need.

Jade is her name. Jade MacKay, now, and I'm proud to claim her as a daughter-in-law as well as a niece.

Congratulations on your marriage, son! I will meet you at The Cottage on the 18th of this month to pour a drink in your honor.

Or to listen to you moan and complain about what is already done, more likely.

Make me proud, lad!

Your Loving Father, et cetera and whatnot,

Laird Argus MacKay

Cam suspected more than just his hands were shaking as he crumpled the letter in his fist. Marriage by proxy?

Marriage in general?

Fooking married?

"So…" Buthert began breezily, clearly trying to portray the answer didn't matter one whit to him. "Anything interesting?"

"What day is it?" Cam knew his whisper was harsh, as he stared at the nonchalant letter which was going to ruin his life. Wasn't it already the fifteenth?

Buthert frowned "The fifteenth. Why?"

Instead of answering, Cam took a big gulp from another glass. Married? Perhaps the surprise was what caused him to ask, "Do ye ken anything about marriage by proxy?"

"Is that not what occurs when someone stands in for another at his wedding?" Buthert chortled, cruel mirth suddenly spilling across his face. "Do not say you have been married by proxy? Oh, this is delightful!" He went so far as to clap his hands together as he chuckled. "The Scottish bastard, caught in the marriage trap!"

Angry at himself for allowing this sniveling, spoiled lordling to know his troubles, Cam growled, "This cannae be legal." Part of him wanted to rip up the letter, but then he wouldn't have anything to wave in Da's face when the man arrived at The Cottage. "No' even in Scotland."

But Buthert was still chuckling. "Scotland is barbaric, indeed. The marriage rules are quite backward, as I recall."

Backward? Bah.

Cam gathered up his mask and foil, his leather gloves tightening around the blade, the recent exercise forgotten. "You can damned well wager I'll be finding out all I can before I submit to this. And if I am married—to some cousin I've never met—I'll be sure to fight it!"

"Aye, that's the spirit." Buthert was clearly gleeful at Cam's misfortune, judging from his mocking tone. "Remember, no matter how the marriage took place, consummation is the key."

Horrified at the idea, Cam turned, wide-eyed. The dark-haired man was smirking when he explained, "Once your marriage is consummated, it cannot be annulled. And I, personally, am delighted to discover a rake such as you, placed in a situation where he would not want to charm his way under a lady's skirt."

Annulment.

Surprisingly, the reminder helped calm Cam, helped him ignore Buthert's mocking.

An annulment, aye. He would cling to that. No matter what nonsense Da had pulled, an annulment was still possible. All Cam had to do was keep his hands off his new "wife", until he could get the whole damned thing worked out.

But first, he was going to meet his father and find out just what in the hell the old man thought he was doing. Three days was more than enough time to pack and catch a train to the Lowlands, where Da would meet him at the small estate he'd gifted Cam years ago.

"Aye," he growled, his gaze already focused on the future and getting out of this mess. "I suspect it'll no' be a problem to keep my hands off whatever harpy my father's deemed capable of taking me in hand."

No consummating. Simple.