His most experienced pupils recognized the look on his face and wisely did not utter a word. Ironically the only student who failed to respect his mood was Godfrey, who was not included in today’s demonstrations. Kit was leaning up against the willow tree, watching Pierce Carroll, garbed in Gypsy Rom attire, throwing knives at a target on the lawn. It was a chillingly good performance. He felt a glimmer of suspicion. Who had taught Pierce to throw? To fence? Untrained talent was all well and good. But Kit hadn’t witnessed such intensity since he had studied under his father’s guidance. In fact, Pierce threw a blade with such precision that for several moments Kit forgot his foul mood, until Sir Godfrey walked up to remind him of it. Kit tried to ignore him, but Godfrey refused to read his cue. “May I have a moment with you in private, Master Fenton?” He scowled. He thought he saw Violet sitting at one of the breakfast tables. And then he thought about lifting her hair from her neck and how badly he wanted to kiss that vulnerable curve where her shoulder lay bare, from there all the way to her breasts.
