A Rogue of One's Own

She glanced up at his handsome face, and her arms slid around his back. “Kiss me.”

There was a hesitation in him, as if he were about to press for answers, but then a thought visibly crossed his mind that sobered him, and just before his lashes lowered, she wondered whether she had seen guilt in his eyes.

* * *

A few days later, she was at her desk, trying to comprehend a pesky legal text on divorce laws she had diligently avoided for days, when Annabelle called on her unannounced.

Annabelle’s serious expression made it clear before greetings were exchanged that this was not simply an impromptu social visit. Lucie asked Mrs. Heath to please prepare some tea and serve it in the drawing room.

“We have a suspect in the pamphlet case,” Annabelle said as she sat down at the untidy table.

It took Lucie by surprise how surprised she was—not about the potential suspect, but how much the dreadful day at Claremont had already faded from her memory. The past weeks had been a blur.

“I’m all ears.”

Mrs. Heath bustled in and placed a tea tray onto the table, and Annabelle waited until she had left.

“We suspect it was your cousin Cecily.”

This did have her sit up straight. “Are you certain?”

Annabelle nodded. “A lady whose description matches her very well indeed was seen entering your room the night of the ball and left again shortly after. We only obtained this information now because the footman who saw her—without thinking any ill of it—had gone on leave the next morning.”

Lucie was quiet for a long moment. “This creates more questions than it answers,” she finally said. “What could possibly be her motive?”

“I don’t know but I asked Montgomery not to take any further steps without having consulted you first. It’s your family, after all.”

“I appreciate it,” Lucie said, “though I’m uncertain what to do. Based on the evidence you have, I think my parents would be inclined to dismiss it, or worse, they will suspect I was trying to blame Cecily and use your influence over Montgomery to do it.”

Annabelle nodded. “Which is exactly what I feared.”

Cecily. Who would have thought such lovely blue eyes hid such deviance. She has always been two-faced, remember?

“I suggest we do nothing about it, for the time being,” she said.

“I am sorry I had to be the bearer of such unsettling news.”

“I’m very glad you told me.”

She decided there and then that she, too, had something to tell. She rose and walked to her desk to pick up Annabelle’s invitation she had written early this morning.

“It’s an invitation for a celebratory lunch hosted by the Investment Consortium.”

“Lovely.” Annabelle turned the envelope over in her hand. “Any particular occasion?”

Lucie’s pulse began to flutter. “Yes.”

Annabelle glanced up warily.

“We are again the majority shareowners of London Print.”

Solicitor Beedle had put it down on paper yesterday, and both she and Tristan had signed on the dotted line. Tristan had been quiet afterward, and she had not felt nearly the elation she thought she would.

Annabelle put the invitation on the table. “Somehow, I feel reluctant to ask how exactly you achieved this.”

“I suppose I crossed the Rubicon.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Oh Lord. It is Lord Ballentine, is it not?”

Lucie gave a tiny nod.

“Oh my.”

For a terrible second, she wondered whether she had been wrong to strain their friendship with such a secret, whether she had been reckless and selfish to unburden herself.

But it was not just a guilty conscience that had just shoved the words out of her mouth. There was an urge to share with the world that Tristan was her lover; she had to frequently rein in the impulse of wanting to shout it from Oxford’s spired rooftops.

Annabelle’s hand moved toward hers. “Are you . . . all right?” Her green eyes were filled with deep concern.

“Oh. Oh yes. It was Lord Ballentine’s idea. But entirely my choice.” And she kept choosing him, night after night. As much as someone partial to opium chose to visit the den every day. . . .

Annabelle must have guessed as much, for her expression changed from worried to apprehensive. “Is he good to you?”

Was he good to her?

She knew she felt light, and dare she say it, happy in his arms. He made her laugh. After the disappointing dearth of strawberry tarts during their outing, he had brought her a whole basketful last night.

“I see,” Annabelle said, and Lucie realized she had been sitting in her chair with a wide smile on her face.

“What have you told the consortium?” Annabelle asked. “How this, erm, change has come about?”

“Half a truth,” she admitted. “I told them the daily close intercourse between Lord Ballentine and me at London Print convinced him of my competencies and goodwill, and that he would regain a more leisurely life, yet still reap all of the benefits if he sold us his shares.”

“Daily close intercourse,” Annabelle said wryly. “Very well. And Lucie.”

“Yes?”

“When you wish to talk, do not hesitate to call on me.”

When, not if. But of course, Annabelle was right.

“Now,” she said brightly. “Have you any news on the pamphlets for the St. Giles Fair? I found out yesterday that we must give them to production before the end of the week.”

* * *

She was lazing in the creaky bed in Adelaide Street a few days later, while Tristan was in the backyard to fetch fresh water from the pump, and she was studying her task list before her mind’s eye.

She still owed Millicent Fawcett an answer on the latest amendment proposal for the Contagious Diseases Act.

She needed to prepare the July newsletter.

The first batch of new magazine content had to be readied for production.

She still had made no progress on Lady Harberton’s blasted bicycle campaign.

And she had not yet sent Lord Melvin the summary on the last suffrage society activities.

Melvin. Melvin . . .

“Oh blast—”

The pre-amendment appointment on the Property Act with Melvin was today.

She had forgotten the appointment.

She leapt out of bed. Her gaze bounced around the room, locating scattered clothing.

She rushed to pick up a stocking.

There was a train at eleven o’clock, going straight to Paddington. She’d need to be very, very lucky though to hail a hackney right away. . . . She dressed with flying fingers, pantaloons, chemise, the right stocking, underskirt. Tapes and bows were slipping from her grasp; her adroitness had vanished together with her sense of duty.

It was how Tristan found her, spinning around her own axis and chasing the hidden clasps on the back of her skirt. A pitcher in hand, he eyed her frantic dance with growing bemusement. “I leave a sleepy vixen and come back to a whirling dervish,” he said. “What happened?”

“I must go to London—I should be in London as we speak.”

She also had to reconsider her priorities. She had been negligent. She had not been home in days.

Tristan put the pitcher down on the table. “London—whatever for?”

“A meeting. At noon. Help me, please.”

He helped her into her walking dress. “At noon?” he said. “You will not make it.”

“I must,” she bit out and buttoned up the bodice.

“But—”

A button snagged and was unmoored, was left dangling by a thread. “Drat.”

“Lucie.”

She felt him touch the crown of her head, and her instinct was to jerk away.

But she could not blame him for this; this was of her own making. Granted, he had hardly insisted she go home and fulfill her duties, but why would he, if he could have her under him and flat on her back instead?

She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “We cannot continue, not like this.”

He stood oddly frozen.

The corresponding twist in her chest nearly made her heart stop. One night. One night had turned into a juggernaut crashing through her life, making her forget her appointments.

Tristan still had not moved. “Are you ending the liaison?”

“I . . .” She shook her head. “It cannot continue like this.”

His rigid stance softened by an increment. “It is the lady’s prerogative to end a liaison. And normally, I would not ask for an explanation. However, given the astonishing speed at which you have turned from looking well-pleased to half-crazed, etiquette can go hang. What is it, Lucie?”

She spread her fingers with great annoyance. Where to begin with the list she had just tallied up in her head? “I have responsibilities,” she said. “I have a lot of responsibilities.”

“This has always been the case. It doesn’t explain the hasty flight now.”

He stood, gaze steely now, and waited. But if she were to decide to run from the room, back into her meaningful routine, he would not hinder her. Unfortunately, running from the room would not just restore her old life, would it.

“I missed an appointment with Lord Melvin,” she said acerbically. “Because I was in bed with you.”

His eyes flashed. “Melvin.”