A Rogue of One's Own

by Evie Dunmore

  But why? A two-pronged attack, perhaps, a tactic of carrot and stick to confuse her?

  He had succeeded at confusing her.

  She was tempted to ignore it. Unfortunately, she would have to address the matter—did not bear contemplating how Tristan had extracted the money, and the suffrage chapter could not afford to make personal enemies out of the upper-class males at Oxford. She made a note in her diary to resolve the situation after the house party.

  Chapter 15

  Lucie had been twelve the last time her family had paid a visit to Montgomery, so the landscape now slipping past the carriage window was unfamiliar. She had memories of Claremont, a sprawling gray limestone palace dominating the view of the green hills of Wiltshire. The entrance hall had been three stories high beneath a domed glass ceiling.

  “It should not be difficult,” she said out loud. “I present myself in fashionable clothes. I shan’t mention a word about women’s suffrage, diseases, or politics. I shall make conversation with the most staid of society matrons we can lure into being seen with me. I will dance a waltz.”

  On the bench opposite, Hattie sat up straighter. “A waltz? That is a new addition to the list.”

  It was. It had just popped out of her mouth. Perhaps because she was preternaturally aware of a crimson ball gown taking up half of her luggage trousseau.

  Hattie surveyed her—again—and made a happy noise. “You shall have no problems at all with the first point on your list—you look most elegant. I know, I must stop saying it.” Every time she did say it, she pressed her hands over her heart and her brown eyes grew dewy. Hattie really took pleasure in other people looking their best—especially when they had followed her fashion advice.

  Lucie smoothed her hand over the dove gray skirt of the carriage dress. The scent of fine new wool wafted around her when she moved. The new gowns were very flattering, modern, and sleek. Also quite constraining, as the sleekness was achieved by making them a snugly fitted one-piece. All her old dresses were three-pieces. By the time she had to present herself to the baying crowds, she would hopefully be used to the limited movement of her arms. Then again, none of her fashion choices would adequately counter Tristan’s most recent move.

  The news that he was the author of A Pocketful of Poems had hit the papers on Tuesday. Wednesday morning, she had received a shrill cable from Lady Athena, who was standing in as secretary at London Print: what was to be done with all the mail? The office was being flooded with letters, half of them heavily scented. Ballentine cards were pouring in, demanding to be signed and returned. Lucie had traveled to London and had had to give her fiercest scowl to escape a gang of journalists lurking by the side entrance of the publisher. By Thursday afternoon, it had been clear that they needed to issue a new edition of Tristan’s poetry as fast as possible. And Tristan? He’d shone with his absence. After sending runners to the four winds to find him, she had discovered a note on his office desk: Editing the war diaries—you can thank me for the increase in sales later.

  A small growl escaped her throat, and, at Hattie’s alarmed expression, she added: “Him.”

  Hattie bit her bottom lip. “Ah,” she said. “Him.”

  And Hattie didn’t know half of it. She’d never bother her friends by repeating his lewd proposal.

  “I maintain that the publicity for London Print is a good thing.” Catriona had been silent throughout the ride, sitting next to Lucie and reading. She was still looking down at the tome on her lap.

  “Is it really?” Lucie asked. “Have the company value and number of book orders soared overnight? Yes. Has Lord Ballentine just become more powerful? Again, yes.”

  Silence filled the carriage, leaving each of them to brood.

  Hattie was never able to brood for long. “Have you read it yet?”

  “His poetry? No.”

  Hattie was studying her with the intent expression she wore when she stood in front of a painting, mentally dissecting the composition. “May I ask why?”

  Lucie gave a shrug. “It’s romantic poetry.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Most gentlemen write poetry to their sweethearts, I believe?”

  “I certainly hope they would.”

  “And how many gentlemen take a mistress soon after the honeymoon?”

  Hattie’s tawny brows pulled together in a frown. “A few, I suppose.”

  “More than a few. And I imagine I should feel doubly fooled as a wife when he is out frolicking with another while I am at home with a pile of paper declaring his undying adoration. It’s all lies.”

  Hattie’s sweet face fell. “I feel this may be a little cynical.”

  “I like to call it realistic.”

  Hattie’s jaw set mulishly. “Even if romantic sentiments cool over time, the poems could well have been true in the moment.”

  Lucie shrugged. “I suppose I don’t rate truths that last only for a moment. Truth should be more durable. If you must put something in writing and make it rhyme, let it be timeless. In fact, consigning fleeting emotional outbursts to the bin instead of using them to lure an unsuspecting lady would be the true mark of chivalry.”

  Hattie blinked as if she had splashed water at her face. “Heavens. It’s just poetry.”

  Catriona slowly raised her gaze off her page and stared. “Just poetry?”

  Hattie threw up her hands and raised her gaze to the carriage roof. “Shall we make a wager? This house party is going to be scandalous—again—because it happens whenever we make an appearance together.”

  A pang of alarm made Lucie point a warning finger. “Harriet Greenfield, do not jinx this house party.”

  “Yes, don’t,” Catriona said. “Annabelle would be exceedingly cross.”

  “I can hardly control my intuition, can I?”

  “Please try, will you?” Lucie said.

  When their carriage pulled into the vast quadrangle of Claremont Palace, Lucie was amazed. A building last seen in childhood normally appeared smaller upon a revisit. Not so with Claremont. It was still a palace the size of a small city, its long row of pillars fronting the main house looming like sentinels.

  A queue of elegant carriages snaked around the quad, most of them carrying people she hadn’t dined with in a decade. Most of these people considered her a traitor.

  Her stomach tightened uncomfortably. As adept as she had become at balancing on the edges of respectability and genteel rules day in and day out, the thought of having to dust off this particular rule book made her bristle with apprehension.

  * * *

  The duke was personally receiving his guests by the main entrance, the stillness of his lean figure rivaling that of his gray pillars. He was a cold man and he looked it—pale skin, wintry eyes, Nordic blond hair. A stern mouth. His scandal had not humbled him. The mere sight of so much stuffiness would have tempted the old Lucie to ruffle a feather or two.

  The feeling was clearly mutual. The duke was vaguely emotive when welcoming Catriona and Hattie—was that the hint of a smile hovering over his lips as he greeted them? But when it was her turn, a glacier would have been more expressive than Montgomery’s face.

  “Lady Lucinda. Welcome to Claremont.” His voice was glacial, too, cool and smooth, without inflection.

  She curtsied. “I thank you kindly for the invitation, Your Grace.”

  Granted, the man had an impressive way of looking straight into people with his cold gaze, inducing guilty urges to confess to something, anything. She attempted a docile expression. It failed to fool him, for he inclined his blond head and said: “I understand the duchess is very fond of you.”

  This could be taken as a compliment. Or a warning, that a friendship was at stake if she mis-stepped. She would go with the warning. Not long ago, the duke had been one of her most powerful opponents on the political parquet, and compliments would not be on
offer for a while.

  “Lucie!” Annabelle appeared by Montgomery’s side, her face brightened by a wide smile. “How wonderful to have you. I shall have to steal her,” she said, peering up at the duke as she reached for Lucie’s hands.

  Montgomery’s austere features transformed into a startlingly warm and handsome countenance as he looked at his beaming wife. “Steal away,” he murmured, his voice dipping low. The intimacy in the glance they shared was so palpable, Lucie felt a blush blooming just witnessing it.

  Annabelle looped an arm through hers and pulled her into the domed Great Hall, where Catriona and Hattie were already waiting, relieved of their traveling coats and bonnets by attentive maids.

  “I’m glad you came,” Annabelle said and took Catriona’s hand without letting go of Lucie. “Lucie, I adore your dress. I trust your journey was comfortable? Truly, an adorable dress.”

  Lucie slowed. “Are you all right?”

  Her friend looked impeccable in an emerald gown with gossamer sleeves, her mahogany hair a gleaming coil over her left shoulder. But her cheeks had high color and her back was too rigid, even for a duchess.

  “I am just glad you are here.” Annabelle’s smile remained fixed on her face as her green gaze flitted between the various guests coming toward them. “I can feel them waiting with bated breath for me to commit a major faux pas.”

  Lucie had never seen Annabelle quite so nervous before, and they had shared various adventures.

  She gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “You are doing very well. And no one in attendance wants to get on the wrong side of your husband.”

  “Well, we already had the first incident—Lady Hampshire’s cat has escaped. If you spot a ginger Maine Coon the size of a small tiger, please report it immediately.”

  “Oh no,” said Hattie, “what happened?”

  “Apparently, a footman put down the cat crate too hard and the door sprang open. The cat made a dash for it. Her ladyship is beside herself and demands the footman’s head, and half the staff is presently chasing the animal instead of helping to accommodate guests.”

  Lucie made a face. The marchioness was a vocal opponent of the suffragist cause and women in general. Society humored her, and so she continued to successfully bully newspapers and journals into publishing unpardonable falsehoods on the inferiority of female brains and disposition. Frankly, Lucie would leg it, too, if she were a Maine Coon in Lady Hampshire’s possession.

  They were shown their rooms and given some time to change out of their travel gowns, then Annabelle returned to take them to a vast, richly decorated reception room. It was already populated with guests who were standing in small circles, sipping drinks and chatting in low voices. A string quartet played a subtle tune in the far corner.

  The shift in attention toward them when they entered, the slight pause in conversation, was not subtle.

  “I must leave you and tend to the other guests,” Annabelle murmured as she steered them toward Hattie’s parents and her brother, who had already arrived from London and were assembled near an imposing Greek marble. “Please make yourselves at home. I shall see you before dinner.”

  Lucie stood back as Hattie was absorbed by her family’s warm welcome. Mrs. Greenfield had the same wine red hair as Hattie. Her father, the mighty Julien Greenfield, looked like everyone’s jolly uncle who told the scandalous jokes at dinner: short, rotund, his cheeks ruddy from a lifetime of enjoying wine and food. A mustache resembling walrus tusks framed his mouth and chin. Word had it that he was utterly ruthless.

  He squinted at Lucie over Hattie’s head, not unfriendly.

  He doesn’t belong here, either, Lucie thought. He came from banking stock, his family’s fortune and influence based on a century of unapologetic grafting. Nothing about him recommended him to the class of people currently surrounding them but his ability to give them substantial financial credit.

  An unpleasant sensation tickled the back of her neck. Someone was watching her. She tilted her head and glanced surreptitiously back over her shoulder.

  Cecily. Barely two yards behind her stood her cousin, observing her with innocent eyes. Her gown was white and blue like the summer sky; she was an angel on her cloud.

  Lucie turned to face her, and Cecily’s gaze promptly darted away. She was escorted by a young man who all but hovered over her. He was handsome, and . . . familiar. Light blond hair, gray eyes not unlike her own.

  Her heart gave a little leap.

  “Tommy,” she blurted.

  Her brother was a far cry from the fifteen-year-old youth she remembered. He had grown quite tall, and precisely sculpted sideburns framed his long face. He was staring as if she were an apparition.

  He cleared his throat. “It is Thomas now,” he said.

  “Oh. Of course. Thomas.”

  He did not offer his hand, nor a bow. He also could not give her the cut direct in a room where both of them were guests.

  He grabbed Cecily by the upper arm. “Do you remember your cousin Cecily?”

  Cecily’s eyes widened in pained surprise. Tommy—Thomas—had to have quite a grip on her. She recovered quickly. “Cousin Lucie,” she said demurely.

  “Cousin Cecily. A pleasure to see you again so soon. I trust your journey here was uneventful?”

  “Quite,” Tommy said. He had gathered his wits; his face had shuttered. A disapproving flush reddened his cheeks. He looked a lot like Mother this way.

  Speaking of Mother, she was not far behind. Her stiff back was visible behind her brother’s shoulder, and she appeared to be in deep conversation with Lady Hampshire.

  She obviously knew Lucie was here. She had always had eyes in the back of her head, catching Lucie in the act, and even facing the other way, awareness rippled between them. Everyone else in the room was probably aware of it, too. Their estrangement was a secret, but then again, it was not. Intrigue already swirled like toxic fog, and her skin prickled as covert glances raked over her. Normally, this would have sparked belligerence in her, the kind that was required to take on opponents larger, stronger, and meaner than herself. But here in this opulent reception room, faced with strategically turned backs of people who once must have loved her, and she them, her throat became worryingly tight.

  She plastered on a smile. “Splendid,” she said to Tommy. “I hope you have a splendid stay. I think you can safely release Cecily now.”

  His gaze flitted to his right hand, which was still clamped around Cecily’s arm.

  His hasty apology faded into the chatter of the crowd behind her as Lucie started toward the ornate wing doors.

  * * *

  She was unsurprised to find herself in front of Montgomery’s stables. She had noted the arched entrance to the stable court with longing when they had sat waiting in the carriage, admiring the fine horses that had been paraded past the vehicle’s window.

  She entered through a side door. A high, airy ceiling and white-washed walls greeted her, and she breathed deep, savoring the sweet smell of hay and well-tended horses. A smile stole over her face. She had spent a few wonderful, carefree summers in the stables as a girl.

  At the sound of her footsteps down the aisle, half a dozen curious horses stuck their heads over their doors and watched her, all ears standing to attention.

  Her own ears pricked.

  Somewhere, a man was cursing away.

  “Bloody creature. I’ll give you to Cook when I catch you. He’ll make a dozen pies out of yer furry arse.”

  Well, that was unpleasant.

  “And I’ll have yer bleedin’ tail made into a duster, you ’ear me?”

  She turned into the next aisle on quiet feet. To her right, a low wall separated a large alcove filled with tack from the aisle, and in the alcove stood a young man, hands on his hips, and he was threatening the rafter above.

  Or rather, the large ginger cat
hunching on the wooden beam.

  Lady Hampshire’s Maine Coon.

  A ladder was already in place.

  “Yer posh-faced, flea-riddled—”

  “Why don’t you go up and retrieve her?” Lucie said coolly. “She’ll hardly descend the ladder on her own.”

  Not with him standing there, bellowing to have the poor thing skinned and cooked.

  The man’s head jerked toward her.

  A young groom-gardener, she assumed. His cap was bunched in his left fist, and his red hair stuck up as if he had pulled it in exasperation.

  “Milady.” A fierce blush turned his face the same color as his locks. “My apologies. The . . . cat . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She entered the alcove, and the groom eyed her approach warily. “I tried, milady.” He held up his right hand. Four ruby-red streaks furrowed across the back. “It doesn’t want to be retrieved.”

  High above their heads, the cat gave a drawn-out yowl.

  “She does,” Lucie said. “Can’t you hear how she’s crying? She is scared.”

  “Bit me, too.” He held out his other hand. Two angry-looking puncture marks marred the fleshy bit between his thumb and index finger.

  She gave him a stern look. “Are you telling me a big lad like you can’t retrieve a small kitten?”

  His gaze began flitting between her dark face and the vocal cat.

  Clearly he found his options equally dreadful, so he stood frozen and mute on the spot.

  She sighed. “Why don’t you go and fetch some help.”

  He moved immediately. “At once, milady.”

  Off he went in his big boots. She imagined them stomping after the cat, giving her a proper scare.

  She tilted back her head. “They will save you in a moment,” she told the cat.

  It gave her a baleful stare.

  “You really should not have climbed to heights you can’t come down from again on your own. Believe me, I know.”