Page 78 of The Duchess Games

Cat’s journey back to Penhallow was considerably slower than her journey out had been. Everything hurt. She kicked off her boots, exchanging them for the dancing slippers. Off came the pants, back on went the bumroll and the skirt. She was no doubt flushed and her hair a bit wild, but at least it was mostly dry. Hopefully no one would notice after several hours of drinking champagne and by candlelight. She’d pretend she had danced too exuberantly in the heat of the ballroom.

It was the best night of her life.

And the worst.

Chapter Thirty

The contradiction to the bruising work of dragging barrels out of the sea and the glittering waves of exquisitely dressed aristocrats was a jolt.

The wild press of energy, the laughter, the scorn, it all swirled with the exhilaration and the exhaustion she already felt. She was calculating profit margins as she glided between dancers, seeking out the refreshment table. She might actually kill for a cup of lemonade.

“You see, Mr. Armstrong,” Viola said with forced cheer behind her. “I knew she would be here somewhere.”

Cat stilled then turned, pasting on a cheerfully curious smile. “Were you looking for me?”

“Where are you been? You look dishevelled.”

“Mr. Armstrong,” Viola said. “That is not very gentlemanly.”

“But no doubt true,” Cat said. “I was dancing. It’s very warm in here.”

Mr. Armstrong, sweating into his cravat, could not argue.

“All the same,” she added. “I thank you for the reminder. I’ll have my sister help put me to rights. If you’ll excuse us?”

“Just one moment, if you please.”

The music swelled around them. Someone laughed too loudly. Beeswax and perfume clogged the air. Cat felt it all like nails along her spine. Why was he singling her out? Watching her? What did he know? “Yes?”

“I have questions.”

“Certainly. How may I help?” She moved towards one of the collections of lemon trees. The fewer people who could overhear, the better. There was a spill of wine on the floor.

“I received an anonymous tip that there was smuggling activity occurring tonight.”

“How dreadful.” She set her cup down. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“Your name was mentioned.”

She laughed brightly. Behind Mr. Armstrong, Viola was trying not to appear as though she wished to stab him in the kidney with a shrimp fork. “Surely not.”

“It does seem unlikely,” he admitted, clearly not convinced. But also just as clearly eager to make a dramatic arrest.

“After all, you were the one who said women were too dainty for crime,” she pointed out.

“All the same, you come from the village, surely you know something.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve been here all week, same as you.”

“You say you were dancing, but I did not see you.”

“I don’t see how you would have,” she murmured, forcing herself to sound calm. To sound confused, like a spinster from a fishing village out of her element. “It’s quite the crush.”

“Who was your partner?”

Bollocks.

“Lord Blackpool,” she blurted out because he seemed amiable enough and mischievous enough to play along if he was questioned. And it seemed unlikely Mr. Armstrong would dare question an earl, especially a friend of the duke. He preferred to exert his power over the little fish in his little pond.