Page 148 of The Dueling Duchess

She followed him up the curved staircase to the second floor, where he ushered her into a surprisingly elegant sitting room in shades of gold and yellow.

Martha did not stand when Cecile entered, nor did she look especially surprised to see her.

“Wait outside the door. Miss Tremblay will not be long,” she told the servant, her chilly blue gaze on Cecile.

Cecile sat without being offered, pleased by the pinched look her forward behavior earned her.

“You don’t look surprised. How did you know it was me?” Cecile asked.

“We have known of your return for several years.”

“Let me guess—Curtis saw me perform?”

Martha ignored the question, but the hard glint in her eyes told Cecile she’d guessed correctly.

“Why are you here, Cecile? What do you want?”

“I want to speak to Curtis.”

“Mr. Blanchard is not at home right now.”

“When will he be home?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

Curtis had always come and gone with no regard for his wife. Cecile had suspected even back then that he’d kept lovers—probably at the same time he was bedding her.

“Does he have a place of work?”

Martha sneered. “We are no longer connected with trade.”

“Does he have a club?”

“He is a member of White’s, not that you could visit him there.”

“Thank you, Martha.” She stood and strode toward the door.

“Surely you are not going to track him down at his club?” Martha called after her.

Cecile didn’t bother answering.

Twenty minutes later she was caught up in a snarl of vehicles on St. James’s Street and the carriage had slowed to a crawl.

Cecile slid open the divider and said to the driver, “Just let me off here.”

“Here?” He eyed her up and down and she knew what he was thinking—that she looked like a woman of quality and such women did not parade up and down what was generally considered the domain of male aristocrats.

“Yes, I will walk. I want you to wait for me outside White’s.”

“Er, White’s?”

“Yes, White’s. I shan’t be long.” Unless they decided to seize her and summon the constabulary.

As Cecile strode down the street, she couldn’t help noticing that she was the only female pedestrian. Her pulse was pounding at the base of her throat and her skin prickled with sweat and awareness as she approached the entrance to that hallowed bastion of masculine privilege.

The five short steps felt like a hundred, and the sensation of being watched made her look to her left, where she encountered the infamous bow window.

Male faces with wide eyes were pressed up against the glass. None of them was Curtis, of course—he was not esteemed enough to merit such a prime seat.