A Rogue of One's Own

Because when a woman happened to acquire a rogue of her own, she might as well make good use of him.

Epilogue

The warm, golden glow of the first August afternoon filled Hattie’s drawing room in the Randolph, inspiring a drowsy languidness in the four occupants lolling on various settees and fainting couches.

“I confess my legs do not feel healthfully exercised,” said Annabelle, her half-lidded gaze idly following the cherubs dancing across the painted ceiling.

On the divan opposite, Hattie’s head lifted a fraction. “They do not?”

“No,” came the dark reply. “They feel veritably destroyed.”

“Ah.” Hattie slumped back into the silken pillow. “I’m relieved to hear it. For a moment, I worried I was the only one whose limbs feel like gelatin.”

“You are not,” Catriona assured her from the plush depths of her armchair.

“Still,” Hattie said after a moment, “I’d quite like to ride one again, and soon. A proper Ordinary like Lucie’s, even, not just a tricycle.”

Lucie grinned. Today marked their very first outing on bicycles, or, in the case of Annabelle, Catriona, and Hattie, female-friendly Victor tricycles. It took a formidable effort to capsize these tricycles and Hattie had almost managed it twice—Lord knew how she would fare on a two-wheeled contraption.

She probingly rotated her right foot, then her left. Her legs felt fine. Surprising, considering she had taken up horseback riding again after Tristan had urged her to set a few hours a week aside for pleasurable activities, not counting those behind closed doors. He rented horses in a stable in Binsey, hardly fiery thoroughbreds, but the stables were sufficiently far from the university crowd and still reachable on foot from Norham Gardens. Every Tuesday night, they took a walk across Port Meadow and then went for a deliciously long ride along the Thames at dusk. Astride.

“You will need to wear breeches to ride an Ordinary,” she told Hattie. A woman’s split pantalets would cause the scandal of scandals if exposed to the world from the lofty heights of a bicycle.

“Gladly,” said Hattie, “as long as they go under my skirts instead of replacing them.”

“I wonder,” said Catriona, “will our morals and fashion have to become more accommodating of bicycles before we are allowed to ride them or will the new technologies force a change in our minds and clothes?”

“Fashion follows practicality,” Lucie said lazily. “Unless you are wealthy. Then it serves to display wealth.”

“I dread to say it, but I am beginning to share your cynical views,” Hattie said. “I have been corresponding with Lady Harberton on the matter of my Rational Dress Society article for the Discerning Ladies’, and it appears she harbors quite a rage against the current fashion of trains in female dress. In her last letter, she detailed the relics she found in her niece’s train after a London outing. I don’t recall all the items, but they included”—and there she squinted—“they included two cigar ends, a portion of pork pie, an orange peel, half a sole of a boot, chewed tobacco, hairpins, and toothpicks. Rather unattractive, seeing it spelled out.”

Her friends’ horrified groans were still ongoing when she stretched out her arm to angle for the last éclair on the table.

“You should write a regular column about fashion hazards for the Discerning Ladies’, and how to remedy them,” Lucie suggested. “Officially make a name for yourself as an expert.”

“I should,” Hattie said, and raised the pastry to her lips. “Harriet Greenfield, discerning art and fashion fiend.”

“Speaking of which, how was your excursion to London last week, Hattie? Pre-Raphaelites, was it not?” asked Catriona.

The éclair abruptly stopped its descent into Hattie’s mouth and quivered suspended in midair.

“It was excellent, thanks.” Hattie’s voice was close to a squeak. “Very . . . educational.”

Lucie watched her friend’s alabaster throat and cheeks flush a nervous red. Interesting. “What excursion?” she probed.

Hattie avoided her eyes. “A private art exhibition in Chelsea. About the Pre-Raphaelites.”

“So I gathered,” Lucie said wryly. “I assume you escaped Mr. Graves to go?”

“Yes?” Definitely a squeak.

“How did Mr. Graves cope?” asked Annabelle, possibly planning to escape her own protection officer for an excursion or two.

Hattie’s answer was to sink her pearly teeth into the pastry with a shrug, a wealthy girl unconcerned about what the staff might think.

Oh, she was hiding something outrageous.

But Hattie could never keep her secrets for long. When she was ready, she would summon them and spill it all to the last detail.

Her own secret, that she was presently sharing her life with Tristan behind closed doors, had been received surprisingly well by her friends. Much more readily, in fact, than the news that she might—one day—marry him, which they deemed worryingly out of character. It had taken a very large engagement ring on Lucie’s finger—courtesy of Lady Rochester’s heirloom chest—for Hattie to approve of the idea. It had taken every ounce of Tristan’s charm to win over the coolly appraising Catriona. Annabelle, still the only one who knew of the clandestine affair preceding the betrothal, had left it at a knowing smirk and a “You do not like him at all, hm?”

She was besotted with him. Every morning, she woke up feeling light and warm, knowing he was hers. In time, she might even become used to the presence of someone in her life who cared about her needs more than she did. It was also very nice to have his unruffled presence by her side when their report broke. Powerful men were closing ranks behind the editor of the Guardian to defend his choice to publish the findings, but they were outnumbered by other powerful men who accused the paper of waging war on the sanctity of the family. The main point of contention was not the widespread maltreatment of wives in their own homes, but the revelation that middle- and upper-class wives were being maltreated, too. Well. It was to be expected that a tyrant who saw power slipping from his grip would double his efforts to hold on. The rage they now witnessed was proof that they had done more than pull the beast’s tail. They had fired a shot at its very heart: every man’s prerogative to be the unaccountable rule in his home. While the Manchester Guardian hadn’t named names, for the time being, the suffragist chapters across Britain had decided to lay low, and, as usual, had to wait until the dust had settled. Resorting to bicycle rides for diversion was the least a woman could do under the circumstances.

One welcome effect of the outcry surrounding the report was the distraction from the betrothal. There had been a headline in the Pall Mall Gazette after the announcement: Who Tamed Who? The London Lothario vs The Suffragist Shrew! But since the long-standing connection of their houses was well known, as was their new business relationship, and since Wycliffe and Rochester had issued the announcement in the Times in accordance with the custom, the rumors were not boiling beyond the ordinary. Rochester had resigned himself to keeping mum on all matters for the time being. Since his heir had only barely escaped a full-blown scandal he was not keen to pour water onto the rumor mills.

The only one besmirched had been Cecily, and, by extension, the House of Wycliffe. And there, too, had been a development to remedy the situation.

Lucie propped herself up on her elbows. “I forgot to share the latest news.”

Three drowsy faces turned toward her.

“My brother is engaged to be married.”

Three brows creased with confusion. She had not the habit of talking about her family nor of being interested in weddings.

“To our cousin, the Lady Cecily.” She grinned at the collective gasp. “Who would have thought Tommy had it in him. He’s a prig, but at least he is a proper prig—denting his own reputation and pride to restore the family’s standing. I do salute him, truly I do.”

“Oh, but it was sly of him,” Hattie said. “He was plainly pining for her at the house party and now Lady Cecily will forever be in his debt and devotedly adore him.”

“That, too,” Lucie said after a small pause. “Hattie, are you certain you don’t wish to tell us about the Pre-Raphaelite Art Exhibition in Chelsea?”

“Very,” Hattie said promptly, and Lucie knew the next scandal was already waiting in the wings.