A Rogue of One's Own

She wanted to clap a hand over Lady Salisbury’s moving lips, to stem the flow of poison pouring into the room.

All of this was a lie.

And no one knew but him and her.

Unless he had already told the truth, and she was now a social pariah.

“Are you not well?” Lady Salisbury’s expression was genuinely concerned. “Deuce. I should not have broken the news so indelicately.”

She shook her head. “Some fresh air is all I need.”

Her stomach was churning with nausea.

When a gentleman compromised an innocent lady, he married her. When the rumors were already out in force, he hardly had a choice—if he refused, he signed the lady’s social death warrant. And thus his own.

She hurried from the room, murmuring apologies, staunchly avoiding prying stares and glances. She had to speak to Tristan.

Oxford slipped by in a blur of noise and movements. Carriages rattling past. Passersby and students in black-and-white subfuscs dodging her with tuts and mutters. The Norman tower in Market Street loomed gray and crooked like a giant tombstone. At the clanging of the bells of St. Mary’s, she tried to collect herself, knowing she was near Logic Lane.

She repeatedly jabbed her finger at the doorbell at number three.

After a long minute, the door swung back to reveal Avi, his dark eyes narrow with distrust.

Her heart sank. “Good morning, Avi.”

“His lordship is not—”

“Please.” She flattened her hand against the door. “I have important news for him.”

Silence.

“Avi, the sooner he knows, the better.”

Avi’s face hardened as he deliberated. “Very well,” he finally muttered, and stepped back. “Perhaps milady would leave him a card or a note . . .”

She pushed past him and made for the stairs.

He was not here—the whole place felt forsaken. She circled around the landing, into his bedchamber, where the bed was neatly made and the divan was yawningly empty, save a book lying facedown. A fuzzy layer of dust covered his desk and the shelves. He had not been home much. He had spent the past few weeks in London, or with her.

She raced down the stairs again, into the drawing room. Nothing, not even cold ash on the grate.

“Milady—”

She spun round and pinned the valet with a glare. “Is his disappearance related to an incident with Lady Cecily?”

His brows rose. “I can’t possibly tell, milady.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

His lips pressed together.

Lord, grant her patience. “Do you like his lordship?” she tried.

Avi tilted his head. “Milord is, in his own way, a good master. But now I learn he may have compromised a young lady.”

He looked genuinely distressed. He did not want Tristan to be guilty, she surmised.

“I have reason to believe he did not compromise the lady,” she said.

Avi stilled. “He did not? Well, I am pleased. I found myself surprised his lordship would do such a thing.”

“I am here to help,” she said, which was a lie—she had come for help herself.

“May I bring milady tea?” Avi regarded her warmly now. “A sherry, perhaps?”

“Please just tell me what you know.”

“Very well. They came here to wait for him—had I known, I would not have let them in. But I did, and so he went with them.”

A terrible suspicion raised the hair on her nape. “Who were they?”

“The Earl of Wycliffe, and his entourage.” He pursed his lips. “Unsavory fellows.”

“Indeed,” she said darkly.

“Very bad.”

“What did they say? What did they want?”

“They said his lordship and the lady had been seen leaving the fair together, and she came back alone at night, wearing his coat. Lord Ballentine could not provide an alibi. Milady?”

She had sat down hard on a chair.

“No alibi,” she repeated. “He did not tell them where he was last night?”

Avi shook his head, and she could tell that his nimble mind was working out its own story about the situation. “They went to Wycliffe Hall,” he supplied. “Signing marriage contract papers, I believe.”

“No.” She shot to her feet. “He can’t just marry someone based on an accusation. This is not the Middle Ages.”

“But the lady’s reputation would be all but destroyed if word got out. As would his, if he didn’t confirm the betrothal.”

“There is no betrothal,” she snapped.

Avi bobbled his head. “There was an understanding, albeit an informal one.”

He was right. She began to pace around the room. He had not provided an alibi. He was protecting her, and it unleashed a storm of hot emotions in her chest.

“I understand society may secretly adore a rogue,” Avi said. “But they will cut one who turns against one of their innocents.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “They will.”

“And he cannot afford a soiled reputation, quite literally, can he now.”

She paused the to-ing and fro-ing. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps milady is aware that Lord Ballentine took a loan from a bad man?”

“Goodness, yes. Mr. Blackstone.”

Avi gave her a grave look. “If he became known for ruining a debutante or breaching an engagement promise, who will buy his books? How could the ladies still find his romantic poetry appealing? And then how will he pay back the loan?”

With every question, she felt dizzier.

“The Prince of Wales will withdraw his endorsement for the other books.” She met Avi’s eyes. “One does not default on a Blackstone loan, I suppose.”

“I suppose not,” Avi said politely.

“I imagine doing so would entail more than a crippling interest rate.”

“I imagine so, milady.”

She sank back onto the chair. “It’s worse,” she said. “We had to purchase capacity from another publishing house. The production has begun, but customers will return their orders. And we had considerable costs for the refurbishment . . .” She caught herself. Avi’s eyes had become huge, and she had no business distressing the man further.

She took a deep breath. “When did they leave?”

Avi’s gaze shifted to the clock on the mantelpiece. “Around half an hour ago, milady.”

Her pace slowed when she was back on High Street, because her legs were shaking. She paused next to a carved blue pillar of the Oxford Marmalade Shop. Behind the window, jam jars were artfully arranged in a pyramid.

Perhaps Tristan had named her as his alibi by now. Perhaps he would honorably take their secret to his grave. She couldn’t tell which terrified her more. Terrified. She was that.

Because wedged between a marmalade pyramid and groups of students hasting past, she had a decision to make, and quick. On the other side of the street, the long arm of the clock on St. Mary’s tower stood at nearly a quarter to twelve. The next train bound toward Wycliffe Hall left shortly past noon. Two minutes. She had two minutes to decide whether to board that train.

She couldn’t breathe.

Tristan would know exactly what was at stake for him. He did not want Cecily but marrying her was now his most convenient option both socially and financially. Even if he opted to prove his innocence by throwing her, Lucie, to the wolves, they might well compel him to marry Cecily anyway, for her innocent reputation would require protection now while presumably no one cared about protecting Lucie’s blackened one.

Tristan was not going to name her. It was in his blood to shield someone who could no longer defend himself and he bore the scars to prove it. He would never pull the trigger on a defenseless woman.

So she could just go back home. She could carry on with the life she had built. The day Tristan would have made another woman his countess had long been looming.

Or she could turn left toward Oxford Rawley Station and take a train.

The arm of the clock moved.

A cold calm came over her. Her heart knew before her mind dared putting it into words.

She could not go home. Not just because the vision of Tristan in Cecily’s arms made her sick. Day after day, she rose in the morning to do battle for more freedom and choice. Could she still do so, proudly, knowing she had been silent when Tristan’s freedom and choice were falling victim to a great injustice? Hardly. It would eat away at her, like rot ate away at a badly done fundament.

But the Cause. If word got out, she might never be able to return to it. . . .

The heavy toll of the church bell announced it was a quarter to noon.

She glanced up at the tower.

Apparently, there was a part of her still separate from her work. She had lived and breathed the Cause for so long, she had assumed her principles and the movement were one and the same. It was not so.

The curious thing about causes is that they usually continue well without you. The question is whether you can continue well without them.

“Well, damn you, Melvin,” she whispered.

She picked up her skirts and ran for a hackney.

Chapter 34

The town center around Newbury Station was mercifully unchanged since she had last passed through ten years ago. As she dashed from the main entrance, the redbrick façade of the coaching inn was already in view on the other side of the market square. She would never catch up with Wycliffe and Tristan, but she would well try.