Page 1 of The Duchess Games

Chapter One

Caitriona Sparrow was certain that ladies did not sweat.

They perspired. Or glowed. Or something equally absurd.

Cat was sweating.

August should not be so hot.

More to the point, it was cruel to pack this many people into a room, while forcing them to wear layers of petticoats and gloves and starched cravats. Cat’s sister Viola floated through the crowd, fresh as a lily, her muslin gown billowing like mist at her feet. Cat had made do with altering one of their mother’s old gowns. It was a lovely blue. It was also better suited to crisp autumn days at the beach.

She would cut off her own arm for a crisp autumn day at the beach.

But alas, it was bonbons and cheese carved into roses in a room papered with silk and steeped in perfume. The windows were shut because the dowager duchess objected to the saltiness of the wind. It was not dignified. Too Cornish.

Cat failed to see how melting into a puddle on the very fine carpet was dignified.

But then she had never been particularly fashionable. Dignity was for people who did not spend a great deal of their time crawling through haylofts after abandoned kittens or coaxing stray dogs out of mud puddles. She and her sister Viola had faced broken bones, several feral cats, and once, a regrettably dead body washed up on the beach.

Not to mention her other, somewhat less legal, hobbies.

But they had never, it had to be said, faced a house party on the very grand estate of an English Lord. Not just a lord, in fact, but a duke.

The Duke of Tremaine, to be precise.

Why did it have to be Callum?

Cat forced herself to focus on the bead of sweat currently running down her spine. Even the poor vicar, handsome and muscular as he was, looked as though he might faint from the heat. His cravat had wilted, but if he took off his thick coat, there might be a stampede. He was single and good looking and there was only one duke, after all. And a vast number of ladies.

Cat had never seen half so many aristocrats in all her life. Small wonder as she had spent the entirety of that life in the fishing village of Little Crumpet. She lifted her glass to him in a toast of solidarity. He blinked back at her. Spinsters lurking by the garden doors did not generally toast men. Or fan themselves quite so vigorously.

Where was Callum, anyway? They were cooking together in this cake-colored room for his benefit. He should be sweating with them. Although if she were to catch his eye, she might have to worry about the state of her hair, and if her forehead was glistening (it absolutely was).

Caitriona Sparrow catching the eye of a duke. Even this duke.

Especially this duke.

It was laughable. She had not seen him in years. In fact, until they stepped into this parlor mere moments ago, she hadn’t even known he was back in Cornwall. He was hardly going to pay her a social call.

He had once.

A long time ago.

There was easily two dozen people mingling under the painted ceiling. Marble angels flew around the fireplace which was filled with flowers in deference to the heat. There was an alarming number of lions on every surface: crystal figurines, paintings, gold candlesticks. Someone had clearly told the dowager that lions were stately.

Lady Summer, the duke’s sister, greeted everyone with a smile and a promise that ices would be brought out shortly. She was beautiful and cheerful—everything the Tremaine title disdained. Cat remembered that much. The ladies murmured appreciatively. The vicar nearly wept.

Viola made her way back to Cat. “Are you very miserable?” she asked, sympathetically.

Cat forced a smile. “Of course not.”

“Liar. Your cheeks are red.”

Some women went temptingly pink with heat, glistened like iced teacakes. Cat did not.

“It’s this dress,” she admitted with a wry smile. Never mind the hundreds of chores she should be attending to instead of standing here sweltering. Or the thousand details that needed to be worked out if she was going to become Little Crumpet’s next criminal mastermind. The last criminal mastermind had stolen raisin buns. He had been all of six years old.

Viola’s answering smile was amused but also tinged with a familiar kind of sadness. “Mother loved that dress. But then, she was always cold.”