Page 68 of The Boxing Baroness

“I thought we were friends?”

Marianne looked up at the hurt in the other woman’s voice. “Of course we are. I’m sorry I’m so peevish.”

Cecile waved away her apology. “That is not what I mean. For weeks I have waited for you to tell me what you are doing with these men.”

It surprised her that Cecile had waited so long to dig into this subject. “You recognize them?”

“Them? No, I don’t recognize the slender fellow you call Smithy. But the duke, of course I know that face—those are not eyes a woman would soon forget. As for the other one—Guy.” Cecile’s full lips curled and she pronounced the name in the French fashion, so it sounded like Ghee. “Naturally I recognize that big, dark-haired, dumb—”

Marianne laughed. “Dumb? I’d call him many things: arrogant, flirtatious, smug, superior—oh, I could go on—but dumb? No.”

“Very well. Perhaps dumb is not the right word.”

“Has he been difficult about volunteering for your routine?” she asked, suddenly curious. She’d assigned all three men their volunteering duties but hadn’t checked with either Cecile or Blade to see how the performances had gone.

“No, no, he’s shown up and done what I told him.”

“Then what is it? You look disgruntled.”

Cecile ignored the question, gazing out over the Channel.

“I would have thought you’d be happy to have him at your beck and call.”

The Frenchwoman’s head whipped around. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you did like reading about him in all those gossip—”

“You didn’t tell him that, did you?” Cecile demanded, dark eyes flashing.

“No, of course not. I haven’t told him anything about you.”

“Why? Has he been asking questions about me?”

Marianne gave a startled snort. “No, he hasn’t asked anything and I wouldn’t tell him if he had. What’s wrong? Why do you look so . . . anxious?”

Cecile turned away again. “Nothing is wrong.”

Marianne didn’t believe her, but she wasn’t feeling energetic enough to press the matter.

Personally, Marianne rather liked the happy-go-lucky Marquess of Carlisle. At least he’d not accused her of treason and murder.

“When did you first recognize them?” Marianne asked.

“Pffft! The first time I saw them I knew. Do you think I am stupid? That I can’t see through a bit of hair dye and cheap clothing?”

“Barnabas didn’t recognize either of them until I told him who they were.”

Cecile snorted. “That fool. How you came to be the relative of such a stupid man I will never know.”

Marianne couldn’t help laughing, even though she felt guilty about it. But Cecile was right—how in the world could her uncle not have noticed immediately that the men looked and behaved like English lords? Even Smithy—who did a fair enough job with his Bristol accent—looked far too sleek and healthy to be an ex-butcher pugilist.

“I don’t suppose you will tell me why they are traveling with us?” Cecile frowned at Marianne’s bonnet and then reached for the bow beneath her chin.

Marianne tried to pull away, but Cecile held tight. “Hold still and let me put this right,” she muttered, tugging on the navy-blue ribbon until it was longer on one side, and then ironing the wrinkled ties with her fingers before fashioning a new bow beneath Marianne’s ear. She stood back to admire her work. “Bon. Why do you insist on dressing like such a down?”

“I think you mean a dowd.”

Cecile gave one of her elegant Gallic shrugs—which seemed to communicate so much more than the standard English shrug. “Don’t try to evade my question.”