Page 8 of The Dueling Duchess

Cecile knew all that was true, and she tried to push him from her thoughts—to shove away the pain as well—but she couldn’t stop thinking of him or seeing him.

Strangely, the image in her mind’s eye wasn’t the way he’d looked that last day on the packet from France back to England—desperate, hurt, and angry, as if she had been the one who’d betrayed him.

No, what Cecile saw, as clearly as the most vivid oil painting, was Guy as he’d looked more than a year ago, the day she met him . . .

Part II

The Past

Chapter 2

London

Late January, 1815

Approximately one year earlier . . .

It was Sunday, Cecile’s favorite day of the week. Not only could she have the dressing room to herself and rehearse her routine in peace and quiet—well, except for the sound of her pistols firing—she could also relax afterward and enjoy her guilty pleasure without nosey employees or the Fayre’s owner—Barnabas Farnham, who was prone to nagging—bothering her.

After pouring herself a hot cup of black tea and replacing the pot on the tiny stove in the corner of the room, she shoved the mountain of garments, costumes, and other detritus off the settee and onto the floor, making a comfortable space for herself.

She sat, put her feet up on a rickety Windsor chair, and then opened the first of the newspapers she had collected during the week.

It wasn’t accurate to say they were complete newspapers, rather, they were select sections : the society sections. Or gossip columns, as those who despised such entertainment often referred to them.

Every week she saved the columns to read and enjoy on her Sunday morning.

She’d begun reading the gossip columns years ago when she’d first moved to Boston. She’d been so homesick that she had spent a sizeable portion of her measly quarterly allowance purchasing London newspapers.

It didn’t matter how dated the newspapers were, the delicious parts—those which dealt with opulent ballrooms, lavish women’s gowns, and dashing, daring aristocrats—never grew stale.

As time passed, she became a connoisseur, learning that the various papers offered different tidbits. She’d begun to ask people—her neighbors, coworkers at the millinery shop where she had worked for years, and even her lovers—to save their newspapers for her.

None of them knew that she only wanted a few precious pages.

A secret vice was only pleasurable if it was secret, after all.

Now that she was back in London and earning far more money than she had before, she could indulge her vice without having to beg for castoffs.

But she saved the papers up and read them only one day every week.

She sighed with contentment and opened the first newspaper, The World Examiner. She kept them stacked in order of least to most favorite, keeping the best for last, as it were.

What made one paper better than another? Well, some of them specialized in following certain members of the ton.

While Cecile adored reading about all the social luminaries who comprised the haut ton, she did have her favorites.

The World Examiner was of little interest—only a story about a L_ L_ G_ who’d fallen into the champagne fountain—which were all the rage this year and which Cecile would love to see—at the D_ of M_’s betrothal ball for her daughter.

Although the articles were written using this clever sort of code, the players’ identities were crystal clear to the readers who avidly followed the stories week after week.

L. L. was actually Lady Louisa Garber, a scandalous marquess’s daughter in her third Season. Lady Louisa was frequently observed losing part of her apparel or falling off things or into things.

The D of M was the Duchess of Merriton. Everyone knew that her daughter, Lady Ophelia, had just become betrothed to the Earl of Singleton’s heir.

That was all stale, uninteresting news.

Cecile had to read through three more papers until she got to a juicy story—one that required a second cup of tea—in the London Observer.