A Rogue of One's Own

Boudicca’s white-tipped tail gave an unimpressed flick.

“Ungrateful mog. I could have left you in that basket. I could have put you back onto the street, easily.”

You are bluffing, said Boudicca’s green stare. You were as lost as I was and in dire need of company.

Possibly. Ten years ago, she had hurried out the door one morning and had nearly tripped over the tall wicker basket on the steps. The basket had contained a handful of mewing black fluff. That fluff had proceeded to ferociously attack Lucie’s prodding finger, and she had decided to keep it. She had only just settled on Norham Gardens after her banishment from Wycliffe Hall, and well yes, she had been feeling terribly lonely. No one had ever come to make a claim on her new friend.

The clock in the reception room chimed seven thirty, and the tea still had not fully revived her. It was a bad day to be tired, considering the number of appointments in her diary: First, Lady Salisbury at the Randolph Hotel, where she would admit to a negligible delay in the purchasing of London Print. Then, a second breakfast with Annabelle, Hattie, and Catriona, also at the Randolph, where she would tell her friends that they might be in trouble.

And at half past ten, Lord Obnoxious occupied a slot.

Her stomach gave a little twist. Her fractured night was in part caused by their latest encounter. She had tossed and turned in her bed, unable to shake the sense of unease about their meeting. For old times’ sake, he had said. The audacity. Their only history was one of antagonism. Even those days were long gone; they belonged to a different life of which nothing was left but oddly, occasionally, Ballentine himself. There were chance encounters at functions in London, and then there were the headlines and rumors which somehow always found a way to her. She’d rather not see him at all. But if he had even remotely nefarious plans regarding women and the publishing industry, she had to know.

Below the table, Boudicca yodeled bitterly, as though she had not been fed in days.

“Tyrant,” said Lucie, and scraped the rest of the fish from her own plate into the bowl.

* * *

Lady Salisbury had taken a room at the Randolph under the name of “Mrs. Miller,” which was ludicrous because the countess was so obviously an aristocrat in both manners and looks, no one would mistake her for a Mrs. Anything. But Lady Salisbury preferred to keep her involvement in the Cause incognito, as she called it, especially where this particular mission was concerned. She had still brought several women beyond Lucie’s circle of acquaintances into the Investment Consortium and had donated a considerable sum herself. Having to disappoint her now grated.

The countess was seated in the drawing room on a French chaise longue, a black shawl around her shoulders and a dainty teacup in hand. She put the cup down and rose when Lucie entered, something she insisted on doing despite being well into her seventies and walking with a cane.

“Lady Lucinda, soon-to-be mistress of London Print,” she exclaimed, her rounded cheeks crinkling with joyful anticipation.

Lucie pasted on a smile. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid.”

Lady Salisbury’s face fell. “Not yet? But the contract was to be drawn up days ago—here, have a seat. Will you have tea, or sherry?”

Sherry? The clock on the mantelpiece said it was nine o’clock in the morning.

“Tea, please.”

She seated herself and Lady Salisbury poured and said: “Now. What is this ‘not yet’ nonsense?”

“Mr. Barnes is experiencing a delay in drawing up the papers. I should have the matter resolved by next week.”

The countess was not fooled. Her shrewd blue eyes had the sharpness of those of a woman Lucie’s age, and they narrowed knowingly. “They object to who you are and are giving you trouble.”

“It is not out of the ordinary. We shall succeed.”

“I would certainly welcome that,” Lady Salisbury said mildly. “My Athena is raring to make herself useful.”

Lady Athena was Lady Salisbury’s niece and had her eyes on assisting with their coup. She was one of many of her station interested in applying herself to something, anything, outside the doily making in a drawing room.

“My regards to Lady Athena,” said Lucie. “It shall be a matter of days.”

Lady Salisbury shook her head. “Ghastly business, these games of politics.”

“It could be worse. We could be using swords and pitchforks to win our liberty rather than pen and paper.”

Though increasingly, the idea of charging ahead while brandishing a primitive weapon struck her as a more satisfying way of doing it.

Lady Salisbury regarded her pensively while she stirred her tea. “Have you perchance considered becoming a little more likable?” she asked. “Less brash, less radical, less unfashionable? It could make everything less controversial.”

Lucie gave her a weak smile. How could she not have considered it? The suggestion was thrust upon her at frequent intervals.

“If fashionable clothes and pretty smiles wielded any significant influence, surely our bankers, dukes, and politicians would be strutting around impeccably dressed and grinning like Cheshire cats,” she said. “But they don’t.”

“Ah, but then the weapons of men and women are not quite the same.” Lady Salisbury’s tone was well-meaning. “See, a woman overtly grasping for power is a most vulgar creature—it helps when she looks lovely while she does it. And it so confuses the demagogues.”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid the idea that a woman is a person, whether married or not, is so inherently radical no matter which way I present it I shall be considered a nuisance.”

More than a nuisance. An outright challenge, a threat. For if a woman was a person in her own right, one could conclude she was also in possession of a mind and a heart of her own, and thus had needs of her own. But the unwearyingly self-sacrificing good mother and wife must not have needs, or, as Patmore’s perseveringly popular poem put it: Man must be pleased; but him to please / Is woman’s pleasure . . .

“Ghastly business,” the countess repeated, and shook her head. “I can tell it is taking a toll on you—you look awfully tired. Here, have a biscuit.”

“I lost track of time while reading letters last night,” Lucie said. “Or perhaps I am getting old.” Now, this had slipped her lips unintended.

The countess drew back, her brows arching high. “Old, you! Do not say so, for it would mean I was practically dead and gone. No, dear, take it from a truly old woman: you are still of a good age. Certainly too young to have such lines between your brows. Say, do you have a special friend?”

Lucie’s brows promptly pulled together. “I have three close friends. They are in residence here during term time, in the apartments on the first floor.”

“Well, how lovely.” Lady Salisbury took a delicate sip from her cup. “But what I meant is: have you a suitor in your life?”

Oh. She gave the countess a bemused look. “I do not.”

“I see.”

“I lead the campaign against the Married Women’s Property Act—I doubt I could marry and remain credible.”

Lady Salisbury gave a shrug. “Millicent Fawcett is married, and she is well-regarded by everyone in the movement.”

“I suppose it helps that her husband was a suffragist long before they met,” murmured Lucie. It was a little bewildering. In her current position, she was a rare creature—an independent woman. She had a modest but secure income, and yet she belonged neither to a father nor a husband. Usually, only widowhood gave a woman such freedom. Why would Lady Salisbury suggest she give this up?

“I was not speaking of quite such a formal arrangement in any case.” Lady Salisbury leaned closer, a conspiring gleam dancing in her eyes. “I was speaking of a beau, as they called them in my time. A lover.”

A lover?

She eyed the lady’s cup with suspicion. Was the countess having the sherry for breakfast?

The lady chuckled. “My, what a look of consternation. Surely you must know there is joy to be had from a man, on occasion—it is vital to discern between the individual and the politics that be. And you are certainly not old; look, you are blushing at the mere mentioning of lovers.”

Her cheeks did feel warm. This was verging on bawdy talk, and why, oh why was it Tristan’s arrogantly bored countenance that had just sprung to mind?

Lady Salisbury reached across the table and patted Lucie’s hand. “Never mind. Lonely are the brave, it’s always been thus. I do hope we buy this publishing house. You must know that we are all putting our faith in you. You carry the torch for all those of us who can’t.”

“Right,” Lucie said absently. “I shall do my very best.”

“Lord knows I won’t see the changes in my lifetime,” Lady Salisbury said, “but I have high hopes for my Athena. And it is invigorating, having a cause. My lawyer still thinks I used the money for a new hat collection.” She cackled with glee. “How many hats does the man think a woman needs?”

* * *

Hattie’s apartment on the hotel’s first floor was usually guarded by her protection officer, a Mr. Graves. Today, there were two of the kind lurking in the shadows, men pretending to be footmen, their faces notably bland. Of course. These days, Annabelle was being followed, too. One of several disadvantages of being married to a duke. She supposed they had to be grateful Montgomery permitted his new wife to continue her studies of the classics at all.