A Rogue of One's Own

And a distressed duchess meant a displeased duke. A powerful, displeased duke, whose reach extended all the way to India.

Mr. Barnes produced a large handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at his forehead. “I shall present your, erm, arguments to the board,” he said. “I’m confident it will adequately clarify all their questions.”

“You do just that.”

“I suggest we meet again at the beginning of next week.”

“I shall see you Tuesday next, then, Mr. Barnes.”

* * *

Oxford’s spires and blue lead roofs were blurring into the fading sky when she exited the train station. The university’s golden sandstone structures were still aglow with the warmth of the sun after it had set. Normally, the sight of the ancient city soothed whatever mood she brought back from London. The founding academic walls and halls had not changed much since the last crusade and were wound through the town center as indelibly as the slew of inane scholarly traditions was shot through Oxford’s social fabric. There was a comforting permanency to it, the very reason why she had set up home here ten years ago. Of course, there were other reasons that had made the town an obvious choice: it was considerably more economical than London, and, while located blissfully far from the prying eyes of society, still close enough to Westminster by train. Sometimes, she was struck by fleeting regrets that the women’s colleges had opened only as recently as last year, when she had been too old and certainly too notorious to enroll, but back in her day, she had at least succeeded in paying acclaimed university tutors for some private lessons to improve her algebra and Latin. But, above all, she had chosen Oxford because it was assuredly untouched by time. A simple walk through town had put things into perspective, akin to the vastness of the ocean: what was a girl’s banishment from home in the face of these walls guarding seven hundred years of the finest human knowledge? Less than a mile east of her house on Norham Gardens, geniuses like Newton and Locke and Bentham had once been at work. On the rare occasions she felt whimsical, she imagined the long-gone brilliant minds surrounding her like grandfatherly ghosts, murmuring encouragement, because they, too, had once dedicated themselves to causes others had deemed nonsensical.

Tonight, the city failed to lift her spirits. A dark emotion was still crawling beneath her skin by the time she had arrived at her doorstep, and her legs were still itching for exhaustion. At this hour, she could hardly pay a social call to her friends, though Catriona was probably still at work on an ancient script in her father’s apartment in St. John’s. . . . She unlocked the front door instead. Lamenting about the spineless Barnes would not ease her restlessness. Now, a good long ride took care of twitchy limbs. But she hadn’t seen her horse in the decade since she had left Wycliffe Hall and for all she knew the stallion was long dead. She wandered through her dimly lit corridor, wondering whether she should stop using her title. She had been a lady in name only for a while.

She nodded at Aunt Honoria there in her portrait on the wall when she crossed the reception room, then paused in the doorway to the drawing room. Her lips curved in a wry smile. No, this was not the residence of a noblewoman. The battered table at the center of the room was surrounded by mismatched chairs and covered in strategic maps, empty teacups, and a half-prepared suffragist newsletter. The sewing machine against the wall on the left was mainly employed for making banners and sashes. There was a dead plant the size of a man in the right-hand corner. Not a single invitation by a respectable family graced the mantelpiece above the fireplace; instead, the wall around it was plastered in yellowing newspaper clippings and the banner she had embroidered with her favorite quote by Mary Wollstonecraft: I do not wish women to have power over men, but over themselves.

Worst of all, this room had, on occasion, harbored prostitutes from the Oxford brothel, who had heard of her through word-of-mouth and sought assistance, and sometimes it received mortified, unmarried women with questions about contraceptive methods. She kept a box with contraceptives hidden in the innocent-looking cherrywood cabinet. Not even her friends knew about this box or those visits, for while saving fallen women was currently very fashionable under Gladstone’s government, she was not saving anyone; she assisted her visitors in the ways they saw fit, which was nothing short of scandalous. Yes, most ladies worth their salt would beat a hasty retreat from her home.

Small paws drummed on the floorboards as a streak of black shot toward her. Boudicca scrabbled up the outside of her skirt and settled heavily on her left shoulder.

“Good evening, puss.” The sleek fur was comfortingly soft and warm against Lucie’s cheek.

Boudicca bumped her nose against her forehead.

“Did you have a fine day?” Lucie cooed.

Another bump. She reached up and ran her hand over the cat from ears to rump. Satisfied, Boudicca plunged back to the floor and strutted to her corner by the fireplace, her tail with the distinct white tip straight up like an exclamation mark.

Lucie slid her satchel off her shoulder with a groan. She still had work to do, and she had to eat, for her stomach was distracting her with angry growls after a day without lunch or tea.

Mrs. Heath, long accustomed to her poor eating habits, had left a pot with cold stew on the kitchen stove. Today’s newspaper sat waiting on the table next to a clean bowl.

She read while she ate, tutting at the politics headlines. In the matrimonial advertisement section, a farmer with two hundred pounds a year was looking for a woman in her forties who would care for his pigs and five children, in this order. She tutted at this especially. By the time she returned to her desk in the drawing room, fed and informed, night had fallen beyond the closed curtains of the bay windows.

Tonight, her highest stack of unfinished correspondence loomed in the women’s education corner of her desk. She had just put pen to paper when the sound of laughter reached her. She glanced up with a frown. The high-pitched giggle belonged to Mabel, Lady Henley, a widow, fellow suffragist, and tenant of the adjacent half of her rented terrace house. This arrangement suited them well, as it gave a nod to the rule that no unmarried younger woman should live on her own. But it sounded quite as though Lady Henley was in front of her window, and knowing her there was only one reason why she would be tittering like a maiden. Sure enough, there followed the low, seductive hum of a male baritone.

Her pen scratched onward. More laughter. Her neighbor’s shenanigans should not concern her. If brazen enough, a widow could discreetly take liberties no unwed woman would dare, and from what she had had to overhear through the shared walls of their house, Lady Henley dared it once in a while. Risky. Foolish, even. It could reflect badly on Lucie, too. But then, most men installed mistresses in plush apartments and took their pleasure whenever the mood struck, and everyone blithely pretended the practice did not exist. . . .

An excited feminine squeak rang through the closed curtains.

Lucie put down her pen. Widow or not, no woman was beyond scandal. And while Lady Henley was not enrolled at the university, she mingled with female Oxford students through the suffrage chapter, and thus, anything besmirching her reputation would also besmirch the women at Oxford, when they must comport themselves beyond reproach.

She rounded her desk and yanked back the curtains. Heads jerked toward her, and she leveled a cool stare.

Oh. By Hades, no.

The light from her room revealed, unsurprisingly, an excited Lady Henley. But the man . . . there was only one man in England with such masterfully high-cut cheekbones.

Without thinking, she pushed up the window.

“You,” she ground out.

Chapter 3

Tristan, Lord Ballentine. Scoundrel, seducer, bane of her youth.

His cravat loosened, his hair ruffled as if attacked by amorous fingers, he looked every bit the man he was. Her heart gave an agitated thud. What was he doing at her doorstep?

His own emotions, if he felt any, did not show. He contemplated her with his usual bored indifference before the corner of his mouth turned up and he dipped his head. “The Lady Lucie. What a pleasant surprise.”

“What. Are you doing here,” she said flatly.

His teeth flashed. “Making merry conversation until a sourpuss opened a window.”

She had not seen him in a year. He had returned from the war in Afghanistan six months ago; the newspapers had broadcast far and wide that he had been awarded the Victoria Cross for outstanding bravery on the battlefield. More interestingly, he had been given a seat in the House of Lords by appointment.

He was still a rogue. She knew he had bothered Annabelle at Montgomery’s New Year’s Eve ball. Now he was flaunting his seductive prowess in front of her window.

“I gather you two are acquainted?” Lady Henley slunk into the path of their locked gazes.

Lucie blinked at her. She had forgotten her ladyship was present.

“Lord Ballentine is an old friend of my brother’s,” she said.

“Oh. Lovely.”

Lady Henley was pining for the man—before his very eyes. Of course, he would be used to it. From debutante to matron, women had made a sport of being at least a little bit in love with Lord Ballentine. One half adored him for his rare masculine beauty, his silky auburn hair and perfect jawline and indecently soft mouth. The other half was drawn to the promise of depravity lurking beneath his even features: the dissolute edge to these soft lips and the knowing glint in his eyes that whispered Tell me your desires, your darkest ones, and none of it shall shock me. There was a black magic about a beautiful man who was easily intrigued and impossible to shake. Lady Henley now appeared drunk on this sinister brand of charm and was tumbling toward Tristan’s maw like a fly into a carnivorous plant.