Master Angelo was a fierce opponent, but this was a match Adelson intended to win.
“No, no, no. You overestimate yourself. The weight is different, the grip is different, the—”
Adelson gave a firm tug on the hilt of the sabre, finally extracting it from Angelo’s ironclad grasp. “Yet I am very much the same, sir, which would suggest that my practice with the foil will lend itself readily, regardless of the weapon in hand.”
Angelo remained dissatisfied, muttering about “hubris” and “amateurs” while Adelson weighed the sabre in his hand. It was not so different. Surely one could manage.
He settled into a readied posture, one foot in front of the other and idly testing the swish of the sword. He grinned behind his mask as his opponent appeared opposite.
“Lord Halifax! Let us hope you are better at fencing than cards.”
It was said without malice, but nevertheless earned a disapproving look from Master Angelo who called them to attention with a firm, “En garde!”
Despite the pomp and circumstance involved in fencing, Lord Halifax looked at home with a blade in his hand in a way he didn’t with a silver dinner knife.
“Prêts!”
There was a certain intensity to him that always seemed at odds with his stuttering and good-natured ribbing.
“Allez!”
Oh, they were in the middle of a match, weren’t they?
Adelson stumbled into motion a beat behind, eyes darting over Lord Ackerley’s torso for an opening. There was a narrow opportunity just underneath his left arm. Adelson lunged for it.
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