A Rogue of One's Own

Her suggestion was met with silence.

“You look like Lucie,” Hattie said, her eyes suspicious slits. “But you do not sound like her.”

Lucie gave her a speaking glance. “I’m not incapable of changing tactics.”

“I do like the sound of it,” Annabelle said. “But what precisely is the plan? We cannot just abandon our report.”

“No,” she said quickly, resentment hollowing her stomach at the very thought. “No. We will publish our report. Each of us must try and look for a solution, preferably before the vote on the amendment in autumn. In the meantime, we must put these periodicals to a good use. For example, I should like to add a new section. We print the less harrowing letters, altered and shortened, from the pool of letters we have collected, and we shall have them answered on the page by a lady of good standing.” Her gaze landed on Lady Salisbury. “It would resemble a dialogue rather than a lecture or provocation. It would still bring delicate matters into respectable drawing rooms.”

Catriona was nodding along, which was a good sign because she was usually the first to see a problem. “I like it,” she said. “This format already exists in science journals: readers send in questions and the answers are printed for everyone to see.” She hesitated. “It’s on matters of science only, of course, not of a private nature.”

“But women’s matters are of a private nature,” Annabelle said. “It is why we feel alone with them.”

“I like the idea, too,” Hattie said. “It reminds me of the question-and-answer section in my subscription periodical for girls, which is very popular.”

“What questions do they print?”

“Oh, nothing political. Queries regarding recommendations on novels; experiences with dieting pills; how to pronounce certain words and the meaning of foreign-language terms. . . .”

“Dieting pills,” Lucie said. “Rather sinister, if you ask me.”

Lady Salisbury cleared her throat. “Have I understood you correctly—you suggest I counsel women in a magazine column with camouflaged suffrage messages?”

“Not just a column—at least two pages. And we can write the answers if you don’t wish to ponder them—but we do require a well-respected name on those pages.”

Hattie rubbed her hands. “It’s cunning.”

“The idea has merit,” Lady Salisbury agreed. “I shall give it due consideration.”

“We could undermine the fashion section, too,” Hattie suggested, her cheeks flushing with excitement. “There’s the new Rational Dress Society and I think quite a few ladies would be open to new, more accommodating designs.”

Lucie gave her an appreciative nod. “That is exactly the sort of thing I had in mind.”

“How about the story on the last page,” Catriona said. “We could feature only heroines who aspire to be free and equal.”

“Or the ones who are terribly wronged by society,” Hattie said, “so the reader wants to begin a revolution on her behalf!”

A smile tugged at Lucie’s mouth. For the first time since Tristan had invaded London Print, she was excited at the prospect of having a publishing house at her disposal, half of it anyway.

“Presently, we just have to all agree on the new direction,” she said. “Pandemonium by stealth.”

“It is an excellent direction,” Annabelle said.

“Hear, hear,” said Lady Salisbury.

“But how shall we get these reformed periodicals past Lord Ballentine?” Catriona asked. “Nothing would stop him from vetoing these changes, either.”

“I’m quite put out,” Lady Salisbury said indignantly. “Lord Ballentine is a resplendent specimen of a man, but how very rude of him to ruin our plans at the very last minute.”

“Indeed,” Lucie said darkly. “Leave him to me. If he hinders us purely out of spite, when our changes might well prove popular with readers, I shall just have to spite him back.”

“That sounds awfully juvenile,” Lady Salisbury remarked.

“Oh, it is,” Lucie said. Then she groaned and buried her face in her hands. “It will take years before our manipulations show any effect—how am I going to stand the wait?”

“By keeping your eyes on our victory,” came Annabelle’s voice.

“A long queue of women on Parliament Square, ready to cast their first vote,” Catriona added.

“Lady Lucinda, first female member of the House of Lords,” Hattie said. “I’m demanding the exclusive right to paint your portrait for Westminster.”

Lucie looked up. “I’ll try not to be insufferable until we launch the revised issue.”

“We shall hold you accountable,” Hattie assured her. “You are doing very well so far.” Turning to Lady Salisbury, she added: “Lady Lucinda is in the process of improving her reputation.”

Lady Salisbury’s brows rose high. “Ah. I have noted that you look very fashionable.” She appraised Lucie’s mauve walking dress with a sweeping glance.

“It is not just my wardrobe,” Lucie said. “Reacquainting myself with certain factions of society is next on our list.” She glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. “I should not miss the main breakfast time.”

Lady Salisbury tutted. “Why did you not tell me that you were ready for such a thing?” She reached for her cane and heaved herself to her feet. “Come. I shall make introductions for you.”

Lady Salisbury’s idea of making introductions was to herd them out onto the sunlit lawn of Claremont’s English Garden after breakfast. Gauzy white canopies and wicker chair arrangements invited meandering guests to gather and chat and have a cup of tea al fresco. A croquet game had been set up in the middle distance near a copse of trees, and the players’ squeals of amusement reached their small group with the breeze.

Lady Salisbury walked ahead with Catriona, who was a lady herself, while banker’s daughter Hattie and black sheep Lucie were to inconspicuously trail behind at a small distance. And then the countess surprised Lucie by approaching Lady Wycliffe of all people, who, with Cecily in tow, was making conversation with two elderly matrons. Lucie and Hattie were half past the small group when Lady Salisbury’s head whipped round.

“Ah, Lady Lucinda,” she exclaimed, as if surprised to see her. “Why, what a lovely dress, what an unusual color. Come closer, let my old eyes see.”

Right. Lady Salisbury was taking a great gamble, sticking her nose into the politics of an estranged family. Of course, it would work very much in her favor if she were to be seen conversing with her mother. . . . The countess closely admired perfectly regular shades of mauve. “Isn’t it lovely?” she asked with such enthusiasm that Lady Wycliffe was compelled to feign a double take at the dress and admit that yes, it was lovely indeed.

A polite exchange on fashion ensued among the older women, when from the corner of her eye, Lucie saw Lady Hampshire approach, gesticulating and in deep conversation with a white-haired, bearded gentleman.

The marchioness’s eyes promptly lit on Lucie’s mother. “Lady Wycliffe,” she exclaimed. “I have been looking for you—we were just discussing Professor Marlow’s latest research on hysteria.”

“I say,” her mother said faintly. “How intriguing.”

“Very much so,” Lady Hampshire said. “Professor Marlow shall head the Royal Society in no time, mark me.” The ladies shuffled backward as she determinedly maneuvered the man into their circle. “The duke extended an invitation to the professor upon my personal request, and I declare there is something greatly philosophical about a man who places knowledge above etiquette when required. Now, do you recall the article I am drafting on the unruly wombs of spinsters—”

Professor Marlow cleared his throat, his expression grave. “Considering the presence of innocent ears, may I suggest we close this delicate subject for the time being?”

Lady Hampshire stiffened, then assessed Cecily and Hattie with a dour glance.

“We were just sharing stories about cats,” Lady Salisbury said cheerfully, when there had been no such sharing. But Lady Hampshire’s imperious visage brightened at once. “Well, you would,” she said. “Like myself, Lady Wycliffe is an expert on the subject and one of the few with foresight on the matter of housecats. When the rest of society still considered these elegant creatures lowly mousers, we remembered how the ancient Egyptians revered them as gods, did we not?”

“Indeed we did,” Lucie’s mother said.

Lucie vaguely remembered her mother’s cats: pampered, ill-tempered beasts that had roamed freely in her chambers and that had been transported to obscure cat fairs in plush crates. She had always suspected her mother had done it to annoy Wycliffe, who had never ceased to comment on the inanity of keeping kitchen animals upstairs.

“The Egyptians mummified them,” Lady Hampshire said. “I have had the fortune of obtaining one such cat mummy from Dr. Carson—I presume you have heard of him?”

“I’m afraid not,” Lady Wycliffe said, looking repulsed.