“No,” Annabelle said, “at Claremont.”

“I’m glad you refused that offer,” Catriona said. “We could be friends with a scandalous duchess, but hardly with a duke’s mistress.”

Annabelle placed the empty tumbler on the small side table.

“And now,” she asked quietly, “will you be friends with me now?”

Hattie frowned. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Because I punched a man,” Annabelle said, “because I was arrested, I’ve been rusticated, I’ve been propositioned by a duke, and I’ve been thrown out of the house by my own chaperone.”

Lucie’s lips quirked behind her brandy glass. “It sounds to me as though you could use a friend or three right now.”

“I’m a walking scandal,” Annabelle snapped.

Catriona slipped her arm from Annabelle’s shoulders and folded her hands in her lap.

“I saw him kissing you at the ball at Claremont,” she said, “and I’ve been your friend since, have I not?”

Annabelle gaped at her. Well, yes. Catriona had been in the hallway when she had left the alcove. She had pointed out her messy hair . . .

“You kissed? At the ball?” Hattie shrieked.

And it seemed Catriona hadn’t even spread the gossip.

“Why are you so kind?” Annabelle demanded. “Why aren’t you judging me, or exchanging meaningful glances, or trying to wash your hands of me?”

As every single one of the village girls she had once considered her friends had done after the whispers had started about her and William? As her own father had done?

Lucie sighed. “For being so clever, you aren’t very bright sometimes,” she said. “Look at us. None of us are how we should be.” She pointed at Catriona. “Too clever. They use her papers to go treasure hunting, blissfully unaware that a woman has written their handbooks, and I believe at one point you wore trousers and crawled through some caves in Egypt, didn’t you?” Catriona nodded, embarrassed heat climbing up her neck. “Then there’s me,” Lucie continued. “My family disowned me long before the little incident with the Spanish ambassador and the silver fork. If my aunt hadn’t left me a small trust, which she only did to spite my father, I’d be either destitute or a raving madwoman confined to my bedroom, for I can’t be what they want me to be. I’m not passive, I can’t be quiet, I haven’t ever envisioned myself surrounded by a large brood of children and serving my lord husband and master. And Hattie . . .” She frowned. “I don’t actually know what your oddity is.”

Hattie crossed her arms. “Why would I have to be odd at all?”

Lucie gave her a poignant look. “Why else would a daughter of Julien Greenfield be stuck elbow-deep in paint under a slave driver like Professor Ruskin every week?”

Hattie’s ever-smiling mouth flattened into a sullen line.

“Fine,” she finally said. “I can’t write properly. Nor can I do numbers.” She arched a brow at Lucie. “You think you are a black sheep? Even my sisters know how to make profitable investments. I cannot copy a row of figures in the correct order, and if I didn’t have the red Greenfield hair, my parents would think I was a changeling. I suspect they think it anyway. I think they’d prefer it, less of an embarrassment, I suppose.”

“Nonsense,” Annabelle murmured, “you are lovely as you are.”

“Aw.” Hattie perked up. “How nice of you.”

“You see, Annabelle,” Lucie said, “I’m not saying you aren’t scandalous, but you are not alone.”

A weak smile curved Annabelle’s lips. “No. It seems as though I’m in good company.”

Her breathing was flowing more easily now, as if the vise clamping her chest had been loosened by a notch or two.

“You need a place to stay,” Lucie said.

“I do,” Annabelle said, balling the handkerchief in her fist.

Lucie looked smug. “You should have just stayed with me when I offered it.”

“I suppose I should have, yes.”

“Let’s get your luggage, then. Unless there are any more secrets you should divulge first.”

“Not on my part,” Annabelle said, “but come to think of it . . .” She turned to Catriona, and her friend ducked her head. “Why and where on earth did you help hide Lord Devereux?”

Chapter 30

Peregrin Devereux was a mellow young man with a sunny disposition. It took dramatic events to drive him to dramatic actions. Was there anything more dramatic than seeing a lovely woman like Miss Archer in tears? With the sound of her pitiful sobs in his ears, he made his way from Oxford to Wiltshire without tarrying once.

His bravado withered the moment Claremont loomed into view. It was dead and gone by the time he stood before the dark, heavy door to his brother’s study. Nausea writhed in his stomach. Nothing good had ever happened to him beyond this door.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember all the reasons why he was here. Then he rapped firmly.

No one answered.

Peregrin frowned. Where else would Montgomery possibly be?

He pushed into the room uninvited.

The study was dim. The heavy curtains had been drawn and no lamp, no fire had been lit, and the stale smell of cold tobacco smoke thickened the air.

“Sir?”

Montgomery’s eyes gleamed like polished stones in the shadows. He was sprawled in his chair behind the desk, his head lolling back against the leather upholstery.

Peregrin had been unaware his brother even knew how to sprawl. It shocked him almost as much as the empty bottle of Scotch amid the chaos on the desk. And chaos it was. The usually meticulously aligned stacks of papers had toppled; sheets were strewn across the floor as if they had been scattered by a gust of wind.

“Sir . . .”

The duke’s hooded gaze slid over him, and Peregrin’s throat squeezed shut. His brother’s eyes lacked their usual eviscerating edge, but he could still level a calculating enough stare to make a man squirm.

“So you have returned.” Montgomery’s voice sounded rough from disuse. Or from draining a bottle of Scotch? There wasn’t even a glass. Egads! Had he drunk straight from the bottle’s neck?

“You look awful,” Montgomery remarked. “I’d offer you a drink but as you can see, the supply has dried up.” He eyed the empty bottle before him balefully, then prodded it with a fingertip.

Peregrin’s mouth opened and closed without producing a sound, like a puppet that had forgotten the script.

His brother waved at the chair opposite with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Sit down, halfling.”

Warily, Peregrin sank onto the edge of the seat.

“Well,” Montgomery drawled, “have you perchance lost your speech along with your loyalty?”

“It’s just that I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I don’t,” Montgomery said curtly.

“Of course you don’t,” Peregrin said quickly.

“Precisely,” Montgomery slurred.

Peregrin had hardly seen a man more drunk in his life, and as the head of a drinking society, he’d seen his fair share. The duke was completely pissed, and no doubt held upright only by his inhuman discipline.

He didn’t know what made him say what he said next: “Is it because Father drowned in a puddle when he was in his cups?”

Montgomery’s gaze narrowed. “How did you learn that?”

“The usual way. People whisper. I have ears.”

Montgomery was quiet. His sight adjusted to the low light, Peregrin could see his brother’s face clearly now and found he wasn’t the only one who looked awful. Montgomery’s features were lined and harsh with tension, but most alarming was the grim set of his mouth. It was a fatalistic grimness, not his usual determined one that said he was about to embark on a grand mission. No, this was an altogether different level of grim.