Page 12 of The Dueling Duchess

For the first time since entering the room, Marianne smiled—and not a pleasant one, either.

“You will be delighted to hear that both of them will be, er, volunteering in your and Blade’s routines.”

Cecile’s eyebrows shot up.

She would get to shoot at the Darling?

No. Impossible. It couldn’t be true.

And yet judging by the murderous look the Duke of Staunton was giving Marianne, it must be.

How utterly glorious!

Cecile smiled so wide, it hurt her face. “That is fortuitous. I was going to tell Barnabas that I needed to find a new volunteer.”

Marianne smirked. “Oh dear, is Donald still having trouble?”

“Yes, he needs to find some other job. One of these days he’ll jump before I shoot and it will be a problem.” Cecile smiled at the duke, who looked like a human thundercloud. “I would like to start practicing with you both immediately.”

Staunton cut Marianne a look of barely suppressed fury and bit out, “If you want me to volunteer to be shot at, then you’ll need to ask Miss Simpson if there is any room in my busy schedule.”

The marquess lifted an elegant hand, just like a well-behaved schoolboy, and said, “I am available immediately, Miss Tremblay.” He still wore that same charming, devastating, wits-obliterating grin.

Cecile had never met a man so eager to be shot at.

“And there is a third man,” Marianne added.

Cecile could hardly wait to see whom her enterprising friend would bring in next. The Prince Regent? And what would his job be? Shoveling manure and cleaning the privy?

Indeed, Marianne was proving to be a better thaumaturge than Francine Gordon—the Fayre’s official magician—pulling aristocrats, rather than rabbits, out of her hat.

“I’ll schedule all three men with you and Blade starting this coming week,” Marianne said, seemingly uncaring of the duke’s glower. “Do you have any preferences?”

“I don’t care which of them comes on what days,” Cecile said, directing her words at the marquess while surreptitiously pinching herself. Hard.

No, she definitely wasn’t sleeping.

She met Carlisle’s amused gaze and gave him a freezing look. “Just make sure you are here at ten o’clock on the dot on your assigned day.”

Rather than look frozen, the marquess—or she supposed she should become accustomed to calling him Guy—looked delighted. “With pleasure, ma’am.”

Cecile ignored him—or at least tried to because it was the only way she could keep sane—but it was like trying to ignore something awe-inspiring, like a volcanic eruption or a visitant sent by God.

The duke cleared his throat and gave Marianne a pointed look. “Don’t forget that other matter we discussed, Miss Simpson.”

Marianne’s forehead furrowed, but quickly cleared. “Oh yes. That.” She turned to Cecile. “Neither of them will be in the actual performances until we begin the tour. The third one, Smithy he is called, will be available if you have need of him.”

It was obvious to Cecile why neither of these two men could set foot on stage.

Although . . . with Staunton’s distinctive ash-blond hair dyed almost black and wearing spectacles, the duke might go unnoticed by the aristocratic members of their audience.

But it would be impossible to disguise the Darling.

“I’ll tell my uncle that you’ll be using Basil now that Donald is no longer needed,” Marianne said.

Basil was the stagehand who filled in for all the women’s acts whenever necessary. He was so phlegmatic that he wouldn’t have jumped or squeaked if ten women shot pistols at him. The only problem with Basil was that his imperturbable nature didn’t lend itself to the comedic parts of her routine.

The Darling, Cecile decided with a smirk as she allowed her eyes to wander up and down his magnificent body and then linger on his bedroom eyes and full, smiling lips, would add new zest to her rather stale routine.