A Rogue of One's Own (A League of Extraordinary Women #2)(8)

“The day after tomorrow in Blackwell’s new café,” he said when she didn’t reply. “Unless you prefer another venue.”

“What is the matter, Ballentine?”

“Rumor has it you are an expert on the British publishing industry, and I need your advice.”

All of this alarmed her. “Who told you?”

He smiled. “Meet me and I shall tell you.”

He was terribly tedious and it was difficult to read him in the dark of night.

“Even if I were inclined to meet you—and I am not—there must be dozens of gentlemen who could advise you.”

“I have an interest in middle-and upper-class women readers. It seemed logical to approach a woman who knows the readership.”

Her gaze narrowed at him. The man before her looked like Tristan, with his garish, crimson velvet coat and ostentatious amber cane. The words coming out of his mouth, however, were not like him, for she had never known him to be interested in anything in particular nor had she suspected him to be capable of much logic. Then again, he was interested in female readers, which was true to his character and worrying.

“Come now, Lucie.” His voice had deepened to a warmer, richer tone. The kind that sank beneath a woman’s skin and lulled her into committing stupidities.

“Let us meet,” he said. “For old times’ sake.”



* * *





Tristan stood back and watched the turbulence roil behind Lucie’s eyes, dark and billowing like storm clouds. Her elfin face was all pointy with chagrin as two mighty emotions pulled her this way and that: her curiosity, and her profound dislike of his person.

There had been a time, those summers of pleasure-pain at Wycliffe Hall, when he had lived for provoking a reaction, any reaction, in the unassailable Lady Lucinda Tedbury. His crimes had been petty, hardly worse than dipping her pale braids into ink—the one time he had touched her hair—or replacing her collection of first edition Wollstonecraft essays with filthy magazines.

Or letting himself be caught when kissing Lady Warwick on a garden table.

Anything to provoke a reaction.

And while he wasn’t a scrawny boy anymore, greedy for scraps of her attention, it appeared she held some sway over him still. Nostalgia, no doubt. She was radiating annoyance and holding grudges, dating back to those summers. But she was here, living and breathing, the familiar, crisp notes of her lemon verbena soap reaching him through the smoke of his cigarette, and it made him feel warm beneath his coat.

“There is nothing in the old times to recommend you,” she said cooly.

“Then I’m afraid I have to appeal to your charitable mind,” he replied.

The moon stood high in the night sky, and in the diffuse light her hair shone like a polished silver coin. He remembered how it had felt between his fingers in those stolen seconds years ago, cool and sleek like finest silk . . . And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes . . .

He stilled. Felt frozen in the summer breeze. The line had all but ambushed him. Granted, it was just a staple line from Byron. But he hadn’t heard poetry . . . in years. Interesting.

He gave a shake.

Matters were about to become interesting for another reason entirely. Lucie’s real reasons for dabbling in publishing had not much to do with publishing at all—his instincts were rarely wrong on such matters. And if his suspicions proved correct, he’d be compelled to stop her.

“I shall be at Blackwell’s at half past ten,” he said. “The day after tomorrow. I hear the coffee is sufferable, and I would be delighted if you were to join me.” He flicked the cigarette butt into the dark. “And my dear. I do believe the library lies the other way.”





Chapter 4





The next day, Ashdown Castle


Dark, cool, void of sound—his father’s office was a crypt. This impression was caused in part by heavy ebony furniture and finger-thick curtains, but mostly by the crypt keeper himself: surroundings dimmed and silence fell where the Earl of Rochester trod.

He was ensconced behind his desk when Tristan entered, against the backdrop of his most prized possessions: a vast tapestry displaying the Ballentine family tree since 1066, personally gifted to the House of Rochester by Henry VIII. Tradition. The family name. Royal favors. Everything Rochester valued most highly was embodied in this moldy piece of embroidered silk. If given the choice between saving a helpless babe or the tapestry from a fire, he wouldn’t hesitate to let the infant burn. And whenever Rochester took a seat at his desk, the family tree’s branches were sprawling out just so from behind his head, giving an impression of him growing leafy antlers. The first time Tristan had noticed this from his side of the desk, he had been eight years old, so naturally, he had burst out laughing. The next moment, he had been bleeding from a split lip, while Rochester had already been seated in his chair again. The back of his hand struck quick and sudden like a snake.

“Your mother is unwell,” Rochester said. It was a complaint, not a concern.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Tristan said evenly.

“If you were, you would have called on her. You have not set foot in this house since your return.”

He nodded. It had, of course, been Rochester’s idea to enlist Tristan in Her Majesty’s army and to send him to such far-flung places as the Hindu Kush. And he would have gladly left him there, had it not been for Marcus, infallible Marcus, breaking his neck.