A Rogue of One's Own

The inn owner himself staffed the counter; it had to be him because he was reading the Pall Mall Gazette while on duty and did not deign to glance up when she swept through the door. Behind him in the left corner sat an older woman in a wicker chair, wrapped in a shawl and knitting.

“I need to hire a horse,” she said to the Pall Mall Gazette, still trying to catch her breath.

The man’s head appeared; he was squinting at her over the rim of the paper. “Where you going, milady?”

“Wycliffe Hall.”

He nodded. “The stagecoach passing near Wycliffe Hall leaves in half an hour. It’s three pence a ticket.”

“Is there a horse for hire?”

Wycliffe Hall lay three miles south of Newbury straight across the fields. It was twice as far in a stagecoach.

The man was eyeing her skeptically. “A horse?”

“A horse,” she confirmed. Her mouth was dry. Electricity crackled through her limbs. The long hand of the clock on the wall behind the man told her she was losing precious minutes—Tristan could be signing his marriage contract as they spoke.

The man turned to the woman knitting in the wicker chair. “Beth. Is there a horse?”

The woman glanced up, and contemplated. “Aye,” she finally said. “The pony. But there is no sidesaddle.”

The inn owner looked at Lucie and shrugged. “Afraid we don’t have sidesaddles, milady. Are you taking the three-pence ticket?”

“No,” she said. “I’m taking a regular saddle.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Ha ha,” he then said. “A wee jest.”

“I’m not jesting.” Her dangerously calm tone should have warned him.

“Here, milady. It’s a three-pence ticket, I’m afraid.”

“I need the horse, with the regular saddle.”

The man shook his head. “For yourself, milady? It’s not safe.”

And his newspaper made to rise.

Lucie’s right hand slid into her skirt pocket.

The metallic click had the man looking up with a frown. Finding himself face-to-face with a derringer, he froze, his mouth slack with shocked surprise.

“I’m taking the horse,” Lucie said. “With the regular saddle.”

The man’s hands were slowly rising over his head, his newspaper fluttering to the ground.

“Good Lord, man, this is not a robbery,” Lucie said, exasperated. “Here is a shilling for the horse, and three pence for your shawl.” She waved the pistol at the equally frozen woman as she slid the money across the counter with her left hand.

“See, none of this nonsense would be necessary if only women were allowed to wear trousers,” she said not ten minutes later to the young woman, likely the innkeeper’s daughter, who was holding a saddled and bridled New Forest pony in the stable aisle. The girl only stared as Lucie proceeded to roll up her fashionable narrow skirt and underskirt until it was a fabric sausage round her thighs and her legs were on display. When she had swung up into the saddle, she draped the swathes of fabric of the shawl around her to preserve some modesty. Her ankles and at least an inch of each her calves were still revealed, and she felt terribly naked the moment she rode from the stable.

They crossed the market square in a quick trot, drawing scandalized double takes from passersby. An eternity through cobblestoned streets followed until she reached the outskirts of town, where a mix of green and fallow fields stretched into the distance all the way to Wycliffe Hall. She maneuvered the pony off the road and loosened the reins. For all she knew, she was already too late.

* * *

Tristan had expected to find his father waiting in Wycliffe’s library. Rochester stood in front of the desk, rigid as a fence post, next to a pinched-looking Tommy Tedbury and a man he recognized as Rochester’s solicitor. Interestingly, Lady Wycliffe was also present, a little way apart, standing near the fireplace. The most important player in this quagmire, however, was missing.

He gave Rochester a hard look. “Where is she?”

“If you are referring to Lady Cecily, she is indisposed,” the earl said coldly.

“Is she now,” he said, his voice edged with such menace, Lady Wycliffe touched her throat.

“There’s no need to expose the young woman to further distress,” said Rochester. “You have done quite enough.”

“Are you behind this?” The possibility had occurred to him on the long, silent train ride to Newbury.

“No.” Rochester gave him a thin smile. “This is your reckoning. This is paying the piper for your sins.”

Behind Tristan, Wycliffe cleared his throat. “I admit I am puzzled that marriage to a lady like my ward is presented as a punishment.” He assumed position next to Rochester and Tommy Tedbury to create a united front. “It is a grand bargain for you, Ballentine, all things considered. I am therefore also puzzled why you would lead us all on such a chase—first you delay signing the papers, then you ruin the girl, now you refuse to do the right thing, when in truth it is all very simple.”

“Simple,” Tristan said, “and yet you came to fetch me with your lawyer in tow.”

Wycliffe shrugged. “The betrothal is a necessity now and no papers have been signed yet.”

Tristan turned to Beedle, who looked uncomfortable in the face of being outnumbered so vastly. “Beedle. I don’t enjoy the coercion. What does the law say?”

Beedle shifted from one foot to the other. “An alibi for last night would help, my lord. It would not solve the lady’s trouble with her reputation now, but it would restore your character in the eyes of the family and society.”

Too bad, that. He had, of course, contemplated telling Wycliffe that he was sleeping with his daughter. Then the earl would think twice about who should marry whom.

While on the train, as the hazy beauty of the English countryside in summer was slipping by, every option for his life had passed before his mind’s eye. And every option had run into a cold, black dead-end, for none of them led to Lucie. Lucie. His prickly fairy, his love. His body ached with the urge to go to her, even if it meant he had to walk a thousand miles. Now, on the brink of losing her, he faced the truth: he would marry her today. Not to save him from an existence with Cecily, or from the ruthless maneuvers required to avert such a thing; not for London Print; nor because their match was a good alliance between two earldoms. He would marry her because she was the constant, she was the light. If he gave her name away now, he could have her. She would hate him. But she would be his, and the dark, selfish part of him had murmured very seductively that it would be worth it. Shortly before the train had reached Newbury, he had known he’d never do it, and that he would rather be shot again than clip her wings. Icy fury had filled the emptiness inside his chest instead.

“An alibi,” Wycliffe said impatiently. “Even if there were an alibi, the only correct course of action in this situation is to extend the protection of your name to my ward.”

“He will,” Rochester said. “He knows they would both be ruined otherwise.”

Tristan gave him a caustic smile. “For the sake of truth and justice: has she actually claimed I took her into the punt house?”

Rochester made a face.

Wycliffe shrugged. “There was hardly a need for her to detail indignities. What matters is that circumstances are clear, and that she has been seen.”

Hasty footsteps sounded in the hallway outside.

Behind him, the door flew open.

Everyone facing the door drew back, wearing expressions of disbelief. Which told him exactly who had made an appearance.

He turned slowly, trying to calm the sudden gallop of his heart.

Lucie’s cheeks were flushed an angry red, her hair was flying loose around her face. She was a woman out to avenge.

Alas, as she strode into the room, her small chin raised with determination, he knew she was here to avenge—him.

He launched himself into her path. “Lucie, don’t—”

She ignored him and squared up to Lord Wycliffe. “Lord Ballentine is innocent,” she said. “I am his alibi. He spent the whole night with me.”

Chapter 35

A deafening silence filled the library. The silence after an explosion, Lucie thought absently. Everyone looked as bloodless as if after a peppering by shrapnel. Time must have slowed to a crawl, too, for she had a long minute to take in the room. Tommy, her mother, men with notebooks who looked like lawyers, were all here, standing stiff like life-sized tin soldiers. There was Rochester, next to Wycliffe’s wing chair, which was in the same place as years ago. There was the chesterfield behind which she had spent so many mornings, hiding, reading, playing chess, and it looked much less imposing than she remembered it. It was, in fact, just a regular sofa. And the ceiling appeared lower, the books lining the shelves were covered in dust. The carpet was worn even beyond the acceptable standards of a country home. This was where it all had started?

Facing her father left her astonishingly cold, too. Like his library, he was older and smaller than she recalled, the lines bracketing his mouth deep grooves now. He looked a little comical in his wide-eyed, frozen surprise. This was the man she had half-feared, half-resented, growing up?

Rochester stepped forward, and the present came rushing back at her. Tristan’s father was still tall and imposing, and his green eyes were hostile. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.