“I would, but I must catch a train.”

Her mother’s gaze slid to the trunk and open carpetbag next to the door, then traveled back to Lucie.

“You surprise me,” she said. “All things aside, I had not taken you for a woman who runs.”

Lucie blinked. “Well. And I had not taken you for a woman who fights.”

A slight intake of breath. Then her mother gave a tiny nod. “I suppose we all run and fight in our own way when the occasion requires it. Don’t we.” Again she looked at the bag. “You are planning to travel awhile, I suppose.”

“Awhile, yes.”

A pause.

“Would we be able to find you?”

“No.” Why would they wish to find her?

An emotion flickered in her mother’s gaze, erratic and fleeting like a candle flame fighting the draft. And then her gaze became distracted. “Oh, who have we here?”

Lucie glanced back over her shoulder. Boudicca, impudent traitress, had finally deigned to stroll from her hiding place. Ignoring Lucie entirely, she began circling the visitor’s skirt, delicately sniffing the hem.

“How curious,” said her mother. “So this is where you went.”

She bent to stroke Boudicca’s glinting black fur with a familiar ease.

Ice spread through Lucie’s chest. “What do you mean?”

“Hm?” Her mother glanced up, her gloved knuckles still rubbing behind Boudicca’s ear.

“You said ‘this is where you went.’ As if . . . as if you knew her.”

“But I do. I’m quite certain this is one of Lady Violet’s offspring.”

Lady Violet?

Her mother’s hand gave an impatient flick. “The one who won second prize at the London Exhibition.”

Her mind was blank. No, she had not paid attention to her mother’s obscure preoccupation with cat shows, back in the day.

“I should have known he would give her to you,” her mother said. “Lord knows why. You were nothing but prickly to him.”

The whole world went quiet.

Foreboding ran coldly down her spine. “He?” she said. “Who is he?”

“Why, Lord Ballentine, of course.”

For a beat, she was suspended in thin air, disoriented.

“You must be mistaken.” Thoughts were clanging around in her head, not making sense. “It could be any cat.”

Her mother looked affronted. “Any cat? Hardly. It took me years to have the breeder achieve such a look: black fur, a white-tipped tail. The long-legged build. I would know the line anywhere. How old is she?”

Her voice reached Lucie through a ringing noise.

“Ten,” she managed. “Ten years old in autumn.”

“Then this very much confirms what I said. I remember it clearly; Lord Ballentine took one of the kittens during his last summer at Wycliffe Hall—ten years ago. He claimed it was for a young lady who was in dire need of company—he reasoned very charmingly; I remember because I never give cats away lightly. But I indulged him because I owed his mother a debt, one I will consider settled in excess after this ghastly—child, are you all right?”

She was not. Her throat was tight. Her nose burned, her eyes pricked hotly. She had never been more wrong. She turned and staggered along the corridor, into the kitchen. She stood where she had slapped him, a hand clutched over her middle.

“Goodness.” Her mother had followed, and her expression was concerned. “I confused you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “No. Everything is perfectly clear.”

Tristan had left Boudicca on her doorstep. She was the young lady in need of company.

She watched her mother spin in a bewildered little circle, how she took in shabby cabinets and the cast-iron sink of a commoner’s kitchen, foreign objects to her eyes, the kitchen an alien place.

All those years, she had despised him.

All those years had been kinder, warmer, more purpose-filled because of her four-legged friend. At some points, her only friend.

What if I always liked and admired you, Lucie. . . . I had wanted you for half my bloody life. . . .

She had brushed his words aside instantly, because her temper had been high, and besides, who could ever really know with Tristan?

And had she taken him seriously, what would it have done to her?

She had known she could resist a handsome, wicked, clever, unexpectedly tender rogue.

She had known she could not resist a handsome, wicked, clever, unexpectedly tender rogue who had quietly held her in his affections half his life.

“I’m such a fool,” she said.

Her mother made a triumphant noise. She had discovered a wine bottle next to the ice chest, still half-full and recorked, and lunged for it.

“Here,” she said, pouring wine into a tea mug. “You need a sip.”

“Thank you, Mother.” She meant it, and her mother heard it—she looked up midpour, wearing a startled expression.

“I don’t have time,” Lucie said. “I must catch a train.”

Chapter 38

Tristan was leaning over his desk, his hands braced on the tabletop, studying a paper spread.

Her knees went weak with sudden relief, and she greedily drank in the sight of him. He looked handsome and beloved, as usual in only his shirtsleeves, and his cravat was untied and hung on either side of his neck. Her hopes to find him here had been fragile. During the train ride to London, she had resolved that she would apologize, but she had not dared to think any further. She only knew she needed to apologize. And if he no longer cared for her, she would certainly survive.

He looked up, and his neutral expression made her breathless with dread. Mere survival was a low standard—she could have been happy with this man.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes when she turned the key in the lock.

“May I come in?”

This gained her an ironic glance. “By all means.”

Her legs were uncooperative, as if made from lead, when she approached his desk.

Tristan’s gaze swept from her stiff gray collar to her booted feet, lingering briefly on her hands clutching in her skirts, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You don’t look too wholesome, my lady. A rough night?”

“Dreadful,” she blurted. “And yours?”

“Terrible,” he said at once.

Her fingers gripped the edge of his desk, to prevent herself from crawling over said desk to burrow into his arms.

“You’re wearing your earring again,” she said instead.

He made to touch the sparkling stud, then dropped his hand and shrugged.

“Your mother is at Wycliffe Hall,” she told him. “I assisted in her disappearance this morning.”

He nodded. “I received a cable on behalf of my lady mother a few hours ago, informing me that she is well and planning to abscond to the Continent—I’m glad to hear it confirmed.”

She shook her head. “It sounds as though they have had us both.”

“Mothers,” he said. “Terribly secretive creatures.”

“Women become so, given the circumstances.”

He inclined his head. “Without doubt. But something tells me our mothers’ shenanigans are not the sole reason for your visit.”

Her heart leapt against her ribs. She supposed it was courteous of him, giving her a prod. She took a deep breath to begin her piece when she caught the header of one of the papers on the desk.

Her mind blanked.

He was suspiciously quiet while she comprehended what she was seeing.

“This is our data,” she said slowly. “The data for our report.”

She glanced back at him, still confused, and he nodded. “It is.”

She picked up one of the sheets. “Who gave you these?”

“A Mrs. Millicent Fawcett.”

“Millicent Fawcett.”

“Yes. You mentioned her once or twice.”

How droll. She must have mentioned Millicent dozens of times. . . .

“I assumed she would have the same insights you have,” Tristan continued. “In a fit of romantic ambition, I had meant to surprise you with a publishing opportunity—then a Shakespearean drama of my own making unfolded at Wycliffe Hall.”

On the left side of his desk, he had arranged typewritten paragraphs, headlines, and report figures in the layout of a newspaper page.

She struggled for a calm tone. “I heard people from the Manchester Guardian were here?”

“The editor, yes.”

The editor, who was also the owner of the paper, as she well knew.

“Why?” she said softly. “Why did he visit?”

His smile was an enigma. “I had made him an offer he could not resist.”

Her heart sank. “Please do not tell me you forced the hand of a newspaper editor, a suffrage-friendly one at that.”

“No.” Amusement brightened his eyes. “On the contrary. I used to have a habit of, let us call it, collecting incriminating information about fellow gentlemen. It used to serve me well in case my funds ran low—they usually did. However, such a source needs to be tapped wisely and in moderation—”

“By source, you mean blackmail.”

“Yes.” He was not abashed in the slightest. “However, as I said, it may only be used in moderation, and it is also impractical when you reside abroad. Therefore, I had a potential wealth of secrets and debts owed left. I traded them.”