Page 149 of The Dueling Duchess

The door opened before she could reach the top step and a startled servant stood in the middle of the doorway, as if barricading it from invasion.

“Madam? What are—”

“I am looking for Mr. Curtis Blanchard. I am told he is here today.”

The man’s jaw sagged comically.

“Well?” she prodded when he continued to gawk.

“Y-yes, he is here, but you cannot think to—”

Cecile pushed her cloak to the side, a motion that drew the porter’s attention to her gun belt.

“Good God!” he yelped, stumbling backward, so that he was no longer blocking the doorway.

Cecile took that as an invitation.

She set her right hand lightly on the pistol butt that jutted from the holster on that side. “Be a good fellow and lead me to Mr. Blanchard.”

The lackey spun on his heel and charged toward a staircase.

Word spread quickly that a woman had entered the sanctity of the club and men flocked in doorways like ravenous gulls hovering around a fishing boat as she followed the servant up the stairs toward a set of double doors.

“There he is.” The man pointed to a table in the corner, where Curtis sat alone, enjoying a newspaper and a glass of something amber.

Voices erupted around her but Cecile ignored them as she strode across the room.

Curtis glanced up, looked back at his newspaper, then whipped his head up again, his eyes widening with shock and horror. He shot to his feet. “Good God! What is the meaning of this, Cecile?”

She grinned and he recoiled so violently that he collided with the chair he’d just vacated, his limbs tangling with the chair legs in a way that would have been comical if her entire body hadn’t been shaking with almost two decades’ worth of anger and shame.

“I’m so glad you asked me that, Curtis,” she said as she removed the gauntlet from her right hand, tugging it off slowly, finger by finger.

She’d found the gloves in a trunk full of costumes and had chosen them specifically because they spoke of an earlier age, the smooth black kid leather joined to heavy black cuffs that were studded with silver nailheads.

A tentative voice came from behind her, and a hand landed on her shoulder. “Er, madam, you can’t be in—”

Cecile spun around, causing the room to erupt in gasps when the crowd saw her pistols.

“Unhand me,” she hissed, driving the servant back so quickly, he stumbled into a table full of stout, elderly men.

“Leave her be.” The quiet but firm voice came from the knot of men who’d gathered in the doorway.

Cecile met Elliot’s gaze as he came toward her and then stopped in the middle of the crowded room and stood with arms akimbo. “Let her speak her piece,” he said, his commanding tone cutting through the muttering.

Cecile turned back to Curtis, who’d collected himself enough to begin talking.

“You’re making a terrible mistake, Cecile. You must come with me and—”

Cecile held her glove by the soft kid and struck him across the face with all the force she could muster.

A gasp erupted around her as Curtis staggered back, his hand going to his cheek, which bore three red streaks and a cut on the corner of his mouth.

“I challenge you to a duel with pistols tomorrow at dawn.”

You could have heard a pin drop.

Curtis gave a weak laugh, his stunned gaze darting around the room, which was filled with the most powerful men in Britain.