A Rogue of One's Own

“You are brimful of fantastic ideas this morning,” he said, and kissed her mouth. A touching of tongues, and the contact became voluptuous and needy. Too needy. He had created a monster.

She drew back, breathing hard. “I had another grand idea. The St. Giles Fair begins on Monday.”

“Yes?” Perhaps it was her imagination, but the glow in his eyes appeared to have dimmed.

“I thought, perhaps we could have another outing.”

“To the fair . . . together?” There was an affected lightness in his tone, and she felt heavy with disappointment. He was not keen on the idea of going to the fair together.

He took her hand. “To hell with the absolute discretion about which you were so adamant, then?”

No, of course not. But in the milling crowds of the fair, their proximity could have appeared accidental. Or perhaps she had been telling herself so against better judgment. Her daydreams had been precarious for a while, revolving around outings with Tristan, on horseback, or in a closed carriage, headed to unknown destinations. She’d had warm visions of them smiling at each other over a sun-dappled breakfast table at a quaint seaside hotel, away from paperwork and paragraphs. Most unsettling were her fantasies of him sprawled in a wing chair, absorbed in his writing, his fingers absently scratching behind Boudicca’s ears. . . .

She sighed ruefully. “You are right. It was just an idea.”

His smile was vague. “It was a good idea,” he said, and pressed a kiss into her palm. “We must go. Some other time.”

Chapter 31

He would have taken great pleasure in attending the St. Giles Fair with Lucie. He would have won her a trinket at the shooting range, delighted in watching her devour chunks of hand-spun sugar floss, and made salacious comments about her riding a mechanical horse.

As it happened, it was Monday evening, the air smelled sweetly of candied fruit, and he was at the fair—but in the company of Lady Cecily, who clung to his arm with the tenacity of a barnacle. A fair had been the least intimate venue for an unacceptably short-notice outing he had been able to think of. Circus music blared from the street organs and clanking, steam-powered horse carousels; revelers moved about shoulder to shoulder. On the other hand, it also required cunning maneuvers to hold a long enough conversation with Lady Wycliffe to ferret out possible information about his mother. And it was a guess at best—just because the ladies had, until recently, exchanged letters and discussed betrothals, it did not mean any confidential clues about the situation at Ashdown had been shared. Either way, Lady Wycliffe appeared grimly determined to trail behind with her footman rather than engage, in any case.

“Oh, look.” Cecily paused, and pointed. A little distance ahead, on a pedestal looming above the bobbing sea of hats and caps, a man was being readied to take flight, his harness attached to a thick wire running over their heads between two poles.

“Keep walking, Cecily,” came Lady Wycliffe’s low voice from behind. “Keep close to Lord Ballentine. There are scores of thieves present.”

Impossibly, Cecily’s grip on his arm tightened, her upturned face shadowed with worry beneath her elaborate hat.

Annoyance made his tone notably cool. “They are but the working classes enjoying an evening of revelry,” he said. “Most are not intent on stealing genteel maidens tonight.”

Thus reassured, she smiled. “Even if they tried, you would not let them, would you?”

“Aaaaaah!” The man on the pedestal had taken the plunge and was flying over their heads, both hands on his cap. Somewhere, a monkey shrieked, presumably one of those mangy creatures sitting atop a street organ in a little uniform. The only thing missing was a mad hatter popping up.

Cecily tugged at him. “May we go a little closer to the pedestal? I would like to see them jump.”

He agreed because he had spotted the sign for a refreshment booth near the queue for the flight along the wire. He would demand his conversation with Lady Wycliffe over a lemonade.

Of course, they stopped dozens of yards away from the booth, because Cecily became fascinated by the shooting range, where a handful of chaps were manfully firing at tin cans. The proprietor was hollering at male passersby in a broad Irish accent, challenging them to try and win their sweethearts a trophy—bunches of dreary-looking wax flowers, by the looks of it.

Cecily put her free hand on top of his forearm. “Why are the rifles so quiet?”

“Because they are air rifles. Have you not been to a fair before?”

She shook her head. “Oh, I would so adore having such a bouquet.” Her eyes grew larger. “It would forever remind me of our first visit to a fair.”

Before he could rebuff her request, Lady Wycliffe was by his side. “Go ahead and enjoy yourselves,” she said firmly. “I shall be watching from the lemonade booth, I’m terribly parched. Matthew?”

The footman cast a last, longing glance at the range. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tristan watched her stiff back disappear into the fray with rapidly dwindling patience. But he should get nothing but monosyllables from the woman if he displeased her now.

“One round,” he said to the Irish man.

“Yes, guv, great choice, guv.” The man snatched the coins off the counter and turned to select a rifle off the wall.

Tristan shrugged out of his coat. As he made to place it on the counter, Cecily opened her arms with a solicitous smile, leaving him little choice but to hand her the garment.

Resigned, he hoisted the rifle up against his shoulder. A shudder ran down his back as his body recognized the long-practiced motion. And then he froze.

He felt her presence before he saw her. Felt her gaze burning a hole into his profile.

He could tell her slight form from the corner of his eye.

Lucie.

A sinking feeling gripped his innards.

She was still as a statue in the merry crowd, in her light blue dress. She had worn it during their outing on the Cherwell.

It had been a distinct possibility, her coming to the fair without him.

Stay where you are, his mind implored her. Having the two women in close proximity spelled disaster, he knew it in his gut.

She came directly toward him.

He lowered the rifle and turned to face her.

She was clutching a wad of pamphlets against her chest with a frozen fist. Her expression was frosty, too.

Grand, just grand.

She halted just out of his reach, her gray gaze sweeping over him in cool assessment.

“Lord Ballentine. What a coincidence to see you here.” She nodded at Cecily. “And cousin Cecily. Another coincidence.” She looked back at him, her eyebrows cynical arches.

Despite the absence of his coat, hot sweat broke over his back.

She was hurt. He had hurt her.

Cecily felt the disturbance in the air; she was leaning into the shelter of his body, pressing her whole length up against his side.

Worse and worse.

“Ho,” cried the proprietor of the shooting booth. “Behold. A suffragist.”

He must have noticed Lucie’s pamphlets. Or the pin on the lapel of her jacket.

“I say, a suffragist at McMahon’s shooting booth!”

Heads turned into their direction.

“Get a hold of yourself, man,” said Tristan, his voice a growl.

“Of course, guv.” The man bowed, and then he said to Lucie: “I reckon your aim is as sharp as your tongue, isn’t it, miss? Here.” He picked up a rifle and raised it over his head. “Here’s your chance to prove it!” He was still excited and verging on yelling again, and a semicircle of curious faces began to form around them.

Lucie stared at the man.

“Come, miss, one round, on the house.” McMahon, evidently tired of his life, placed the rifle before Lucie onto the counter.

She didn’t spare the gun a glance. “Astonishing,” she said, all her vowels sharpened to cut glass, “that you assume I was inclined to prove anything to anyone.”

She looked back at Tristan, and the urge to pull her into his arms and hold tight was visceral. Pale and haughty, she was ethereal, easily dissolved into thin air by a breeze, and they were on the cusp of a storm.

“My lady,” he said softly, and, because it was impossible to say anything: “Is the politicking going . . . well?”

She bared her small teeth at him. “Incredibly well,” she said brightly. “How about you, my lord—are you enjoying the fair?”

“Oh yes,” Cecily cut in, her voice sweet and glossy like a candied apple. “I’ve been feeling perfectly inspired—the vibrant colors, and the merry music, oh, and the levity of the crowd. Oh, my Lord Ballentine, what do you think of a themed ball to announce the betrothal?”

His heart stopped.

“We are engaged to be married, you see,” Cecily told Lucie. “And I feel themed parties are going to become all the rage in London.”

He looked down at Cecily with nightmarelike slowness, and she glanced back up at him.

The soft curve of her chin jutted mulishly. Her blue eyes were clear. He could see right down to the layer of steel at the bottom. He hadn’t noticed it until now. Had overlooked it at his own peril. This woman was not a lamb at all.

Bloody hell.

A pang of dread hit his gut before he looked back at Lucie, the kind that had hit when he had been new to war, right before facing a tableau of carnage to search for vital signs.