Page 147 of The Dueling Duchess

Just say it.

She swallowed, shifted slightly, and said, “I—I love you, too.”

For a moment there was no answer.

And then, the softest of snores.

Chapter 26

Cecile didn’t wake until eleven o’clock the following morning. It was the first time she’d slept past eight o’clock in years.

The bed was empty, and she’d never even heard Guy get up and leave.

It was just as well he was gone because she’d woken up with a plan forming in her head.

By the time she’d washed, dressed, and eaten a very late, solitary breakfast in the kitchen, most of the pieces had fallen into place.

She smiled grimly and poured herself a third cup of coffee while she considered her next move.

“Where is Guy—do you know?” Cecile asked Cook when the older woman came bustling in a few minutes later.

“He took the wagon to fetch all the replacement fly lines.”

“That’s quite a long drive, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but he said that he’d be back in plenty of time for dinner.”

Good. Things could hardly have worked out any better. That meant he’d be gone for most of the day, which was just as well.

Otherwise, he would have had questions for her when she left the house wearing her pistols.

* * *

The first thing on Cecile’s list of errands was a visit to Mr. Jordan, her man of business, to request that he determine exactly how much was needed to pay off her three silent partners.

If Mr. Jordan wondered why she was wearing such a heavy cloak on a fine spring day, or why she refused to remove it in his stuffy office, he didn’t mention it.

He did raise his eyebrows when she told him to prepare a contract of sale for the circus and have it delivered to her house.

Her next visit was not nearly so harmonious.

It had been many years since she’d last seen either her cousin or his wife. When she’d lived with Curtis and Martha, their house had been far from the fashionable part of town and closer to the gunsmithing shop. But a quick look in her London directory showed Cecile that her only surviving relatives had shot up in the world. That shouldn’t have surprised her if what Guy had said about Curtis’s newfound wealth was true.

And yet she’d not understood just how much money Curtis must have made.

Indeed, their rise, geographically at least, had been meteoric, and their new house was just off Orchard Street on Portman Square, a property that was near enough to Mayfair to be within shouting distance, where the newly wealthy rubbed shoulders with bankers and Harley Street physicians.

The house in question was an attractive four-story, fronted with Portland stone.

Cecile had the driver wait for her as she suspected her visit might be of extremely short duration, depending on who was at home at the unfashionable hour of five o’clock.

A liveried domestic answered the door and bade her wait in the foyer while he inquired if anyone was at home.

Cecile amused herself by examining the showy, tasteless objets d’art in the vestibule while she awaited the verdict.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, she was contemplating returning another day when the footman returned.

“Mrs. Blanchard will see you now, Miss Tremblay.”