Page 2 of The Duchess Games

They had enough money to fake a wardrobe for a house party for exactly one person and it would be wasted on Caitriona. Never mind that she was long on the shelf, but she also spent most of her time with dogs and barn cats and cranky goats. Sometimes a ferret or two.

“You do look a bit queasy,” Viola said. “Put your head out of the window.”

“Like the family dog trying to bite the wind?” They had four dogs at last count, all of whom would have done exactly that.

Viola laughed. “You’ll make me look good, at least.” At twenty-three years old, with a bright smile and adorable freckles, she did not need assistance in looking her best. Even when she was not dressed like a flower.

Still, this was rather outside their purview.

Cat knew she ought not look a gift horse in the mouth. She needed access to the estate and to Callum, Duke of Tremaine. This would be much easier if he was not Callum, but instead only “His Grace.” If that summer did not lie between them.

But Viola needed to make connections. Cat might love her little life in Little Crumpet, dangers notwithstanding, but Viola wanted more than the fishing village. She always had. And opportunities such as this one were scarce on the ground.

No matter what they cost her.

But a country house party.

Full of debutantes and lords and shoes that pinched. In her own parlor, she could fling her slippers clear across the room and curl up in a soft chair, covered in dog hair. If she did that here, the butler would toss her out on her ear.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

She would never have an opportunity like it again.

Even though she’d known Callum years ago, she’d only glimpsed the house from afar as a child when they dared each other to get close. The dowager duchess had instructed the footmen to run them off with hunting hounds. And possibly pelt them with stones. That might have been a story they told themselves to see who would fall back first in fear, but honestly, it seemed plausible. In fact, she might have been the one to start that rumor. She had absolutely been the one to steal the slowest dog with the limp. He did not look properly fed.

Penhallow had seemed massive back then, but if anything, it was bigger now. It prevailed over the horizon, wings opening onto other wings, into a maze of a building in the gray stone famous to Cornwall. It had stood in the same spot for over two hundred years, as evidenced in the Tudor timber framed gatehouse, the parapets, and the addition of the modern Corinthian columns. It was a lot to take in. Imposing, beautiful. Formal.

Her room in the guest wing boasted gold tassels bigger than a Christmas goose.

Her bed felt like a cloud. An actual cloud. There were even angels watching her from the ceiling, carved in relief.

It was disconcerting, to be honest.

She’d rather sleep in a fishing boat.

After the footmen finished circulating with teacups filled with ice in a variety of flavors from lemon to mint to parmesan, the dowager duchess rang a tiny silver bell. Silence fell, broken only by the clink of silver spoons on porcelain.

“I want to welcome you all to Penhallow on behalf of the duke,” she said, glittering with diamonds and pearls. Cat had seen quail eggs smaller than the pearls she wore at her ears. She could buy a barrel of the best salt with a single one. Five barrels. If there was ever a proper pilchard harvest to salt, that was. There were too many people in danger of starving just a thousand meters south of where she stood, and too many sugar biscuits in this room.

“It is no secret that His Grace must marry. Nor is it a secret that I have selected only the finest families for this little party, though only those joining us from London may have seen the papers.” She lifted the ironed newspaper, of which she was clearly proud.

“The finest families and us,” Cat whispered to Viola, amused. They were here after having won a village lottery for an invitation to the fine house. Cat had not entered their names. She knew exactly how they had got here. And Viola didn’t. Would never.

Bad enough she knew about the smuggling.

This was so much worse.

And she absolutely would not think about Callum getting married.

It was none of her business.

“We will get to know each other. A duchess must be proficient in all of the social graces, after all.”

The ladies exchanged glances fraught with what might be generously called adrenaline. Less generously: battle frenzy. Cat was more accustomed to seeing it on the beach under a full moon while looking out for revenue men.

“The lady who excels at each task will sit next to His Grace at supper that night. And the lady I find most pleasing will open the ball on his arm.”