Page 56 of The Duchess Games

Viola kissed Percival’s nose. “She thinks we’re stupid.”

“I do not!” Cat muttered. “And he doesn’t look at me.” But he did kiss her hard enough to ruin her for any other kiss until the day she died.

“Ha.”

“Don’t be absurd. Anyway, how would you know? You’ve been sniffling under the blankets.”

“I have a window,” Viola pointed out. “And eyeballs.” She smiled smugly. “And gossip.”

Cat groaned, dropping into a chair. “The gossip, I am quite certain, is about how ill-suited I am to everything in this house and nothing else.”

“Not at all,” a maid bustled out of Viola’s room with an armful of bedsheets and a cheeky grin. Her brown curls were caught up under a little cap and her cheeks were rosy.

“Morgen!” Cat returned the grin. Morgen lived just down the street from them in Little Crumpet. Her mother brewed the best ale this side of Bristol. “What are you doing here?”

“Not all of us were lucky enough to win the duke’s lottery,” she said. Cat wrinkled her nose. Luck had nothing to do with it. Morgen laughed. “Never mind, I’d rather have the work for the next two weeks. You can’t eat dancing and pianofortes.” She rubbed Percival’s haunches when he trotted over to her. “Hello, dog. Which one’s this one again?”

“Percival.”

“Is he the one that leapt into the cabbage cart and ate himself sick?”

Cat winced. “No, that was King Arthur.”

“And that was three years ago!” Viola added loyally. “He’s grown into his name. He’s very regal now.”

“If you say so.”

Viola sniffed with pique worthy of the dowager duchess. Her pique did not last. It never did. “Cat, Morgen here tells me that Lady Siddal has been unceremoniously removed from the premises.”

Cat sat up straighter. “She has?”

“Aye,” Morgen said.

“Good. She kicked a turtle. She deserves it.” Cat might not be as competitive as her sister, but she did have a rather well-developed sense of justice. Vengeance. Whichever.

“I don’t know if that was the reason.”

“Why else?”

Morgen exchanged a glance with Viola before replying. “Your dress was found stuffed under her bed.”

Cat blinked. “Oh.” Confusion warred with the glow of being seen, being thought of—possibly cared for. By Callum.

“So you see?” Viola crowed. “It’s all going according to plan.”

Cat snorted. “What plan? You had no plan.”

“Maybe not, but I believe in fate and fate got us invited here.” She narrowed her eyes with what could only be called unholy glee. “And I have a wager.”

Cat raised her eyebrows. “You do? With whom?”

“Lady Ruby,” Viola replied. She rubbed her hands together like something out of a gothic novel. “If I win, I get her cashmere shawl. I’ve never felt anything finer.”

Cat did not ask her where in the fishing village she intended to wear such a fine shawl. “And what is her prize?”

“Nothing half so fine, I assure you.”

“What’s the wager?”