A Rogue of One's Own

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?”