Page 4 of Rogue’s Holiday

Chastity took hold of the back of a chair and lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “How little you understand me.” She had deliberately stepped on Lord Percival’s toes to punish him for his wandering hands during a waltz. And M’sieur Béranger was merely a diversion. She had no intention of marrying him or any man in Northampton for that matter. Most of the gentlemen she met were her mother’s choices, dreary bores every one. The few who were not were rogues she steered clear of. Marrying one of them one would be the very worst of fates.

Her one venture into love with a man of less than noble character ended badly. Though she had been only seventeen, she had given Roger Westley her heart but then discovered him attempting to kiss her younger sister, Lucy, who was only fifteen. She did not blame Lucy. She blamed the rogue who delighted in conquest, no matter it was Chastity’s sister he dallied with. Since that day, she had vowed to stay away from such men.

Besides, there were too many places she wanted to see to marry at twenty. And, since she would gain her inheritance when she turned one and twenty, there was really no need to marry at all. The thought of being her own mistress delighted her. Her own home with no one to say her nay. Of course, now that Pen was to marry, the family would expect Chastity to follow suit—providing her groom was not a certain Frenchman.

Chastity had no such intention. She was more interested in escaping her family’s country estate to travel to the seaside resort of Brighton. Her father would not argue with her mother, who reigned over Dudley Hall with a firm hand. He was content to putter in his study reading and designing men’s shoes and boots.

His ancestors had secured their fortune supplying cattle skins and bark from the family’s oak forests to the local shoemaking industry that had thrived since Cromwell shod his army in Northampton.

Her father, bored with the life of a country gentleman, often found enjoyment in creating the new designs he freely gave to the local cordwainers. That a wealthy country squire occupied himself with such pursuits might appear eccentric to some, but not to Chastity. She adored her father. He was the reason she had developed a fondness for designing ladies’ shoes, yet another activity of which her mother and sister disapproved.

Her father loved his wife despite her dominating nature. She was a woman of great beauty, as were Chastity’s two sisters. Men who came calling on them scarcely noticed her. A pale blue-eyed blonde in a family of raven-haired beauties, Chastity considered herself the cuckoo in the nest. Even her best friend, Rose, had that same cream-colored skin, ebony hair and dark eyes that captured men’s attention.

Added to her pale coloring was Chastity’s outspoken nature. In a society where most women did not know enough to form opinions, and those who did rarely stated them in polite company, this was a trait many men frowned upon. She did not consider herself a bluestocking by any means though Rose had told her the word had been whispered about. Chastity’s interests were merely uncommon. Embroidery and music were not among her pursuits. When she wasn’t designing ladies’ footwear, she preferred to read or ride.

As her mother steered the conversation to plans for Pen’s wedding, Chastity excused herself. Concealing her excitement at the thought of spending the summer with dear Aunt Agatha in that wonderful place, she strolled toward the doorway. Northampton was a fair-sized market town but it could not compare to Brighton by the sea with its many attractions. And, with the entire ton swarming to the shore, Brighton was just the place to observe the latest footwear!

Almost to the front door, she heard her mother say, “What do you think about inviting Rose Crockett to go with her?”

“A marvelous thought,” Pen said. “Rose can keep an eye on her. And she doesn’t mind Chastity’s cat—Chastity will be taking the cat with her, won’t she?”

“Lord, yes,” said their mother. “The cat must go, too.”

Angelo’s Fencing Academy, 13 Old Bond Street, London

Robbie flourished his foil, hoping he and Jack might have time for another match before heading to Tattersall’s for the afternoon. “One last bout?”

His uncle grinned, brushing an auburn forelock from his brow. “Would I forgo a last chance to best you? Though the foil may not be my preferred weapon, mais non, I will not decline another match.” Jack was the son of Robbie’s grandfather, Jean Donet, the comte de Saintonge, and half-brother to Robbie’s mother, rendering both Robbie and his uncle half-French and of an age. Now in their early thirties, they had been friends since they were boys.

“You’re still on for Tattersall’s?” Robbie inquired.

“Bien sûr! I am always interested in inspecting good horseflesh.” Jack slashed the air with a quick salute and donned his mask, assuming the starting position, his right foot forward and his left arm, bent at the elbow, raised behind his head. “En garde!”

Robbie secured his mask and the bout proceeded.

Some minutes later, the blunted point of Robbie’s practice foil thumped the front of Jack’s padded jacket. “Touché. That is four touchés now for me.”

Jack growled in frustration and pulled his mask off his head. Running a sleeve across his forehead, he wiped away the sweat. “That sneaking coupé of yours! I fall for it every time.”

Robbie removed his fencing mask, revealing the grin that had been hidden behind the woven wire. “I think perhaps your mind is elsewhere.”

Jack nodded. “’Tis that Venus I met at the theater with you last night. I cannot get the dark-haired beauty out of my mind.”

“Tsk, tsk. Best to think of your opponent’s blade. The sword is not the weapon for a man distracted. Perhaps you should take up something else. The broad-axe, perhaps?”

Jack returned Robbie’s grin. “You go too far, Nephew. Knives, as you know, are my weapons of choice.” Jack had been taught to wield knives by his father, the comte de Saintonge, a former pirate. Robbie had witnessed Jack throw them with deadly accuracy. It was not Robbie’s skill and he admired it.

A shout from the doorway interrupted them. “Powell!” cried Angelo. “A messenger for you. From the Home Secretary’s office.”

The men who’d been standing around them observing the bout began to whisper among themselves.

Robbie gave Angelo an incredulous look. “Here?” He had submitted his report on the Cato Street Affair a few days before. What could this mean?

Angelo gestured toward the door.

“Very well.” Perhaps Sidmouth wanted to apprise him of the capture of the miscreants who had escaped. He crossed the room to the waiting messenger who told him the Home Secretary requested his immediate presence.

Returning to Jack, Robbie said, “I must go.”