Page 4 of The Duchess Games

And regardless, she had no choice. She had to see this through. For the village. For Viola. For Matthew. Both of whom could never, ever know about it.

Neither could Callum.

Chapter Two

Cat was not too proud to make a run for it.

If Callum, the esteemed duke, could do it, so could she.

And what kind of a smuggler would she be if she could not even sneak out of a party? She had once hidden an entire rowboat from a Revenue man.

In the middle of the day.

Twice.

Just for practice.

The parlor was overheated long before the fires of competition whipped through the room—now it could easily double as a new circle of hell. The garden doors beside her were unlocked. No one would notice her absence except for Viola who was right beside her, cheeks pink, brow threatening to perspire. “Hurry,” she murmured. “The duchess can’t see me sweat.”

Luckily, she was too busy assessing the competitors, like a queen at the head of her own personal army. If no one died, this might well become a trend. Cat did not remind her sister that girls from Little Crumpet were unlikely to be on her list for anything other than seat-fillers. She had every confidence Viola would shine.

Just not with sweat, not today.

As the doors were in the presence of the dowager duchess, they were perfectly oiled and did not dare squeak. Success.

Cat stumbled out onto the terrace, blinking in the sudden sunlight, Viola doing the same. The clouds were gathering over the sea, but they had not made it inland yet. They were a bruise on the horizon, boiling and seething with energy. She spared a thought for Matthew, at home with two dogs who hated thunderstorms and two who loved them more than raw beef. The cats, predictably, did not deign to care.

They hurried down the steps into the formal garden. The walkways were swept clean, marching in precise formation between carefully trimmed hedges. There were delicate flowers, marble benches, lazy bumblebees away from the hive. Viola fanned herself. “That was brutal. You must be melting.”

Cat nodded. “I’d burn this dress, but I think it might already be on fire.”

Their cottage might not be fancy, but it had windows and doors that opened wide to allow for a delicious breeze off the sea. The chimney smoked in winter, but they were used to it. Their mother had pressed shells into the mortar of the windows and hung windchimes made of beach glass from the ceiling. The entire cottage could have fit into the formal drawing room of Penhallow, with room to spare.

The garden paths were wide enough to accommodate a carriage. Viola brushed her hands over the spears of lavender. “Have you noticed? Not a single weed.”

The weeds in their vegetable and herb garden were a veritable menace. Sometimes they grew taller than the bean trellis, no matter how often they attacked them. Viola sold watercress bundles when she could, but no one in the village could afford them and most of the time they had to eat their own product or starve. The fishing nets came up emptier and emptier. Two bad summers in a row made for a disaster.

“Clearly they’ve made a deal with the devil.”

“Clearly.”

Cat was already feeling more like herself with fresh air in her lungs and a breeze around her ankles. She felt entirely like herself when they came across a formal fountain with marble fish and a reclining Poseidon with a perfectly curled beard and a trident in one hand.

And a turtle.

This at least was familiar. Finding animals in odd predicaments was common for the Sparrow family. Their mother had seen to it. It was, in fact, why Cat was going to make such a good smuggler. She was constantly in the oddest places at the oddest times. No one noticed anymore, not even the revenue men. And though new officers had come to town just this past month, they had already been informed by helpful villagers that the eldest Sparrow was odd and not to worry over it. She’d discreetly ordered Guinevere, her largest wolfhound, to jump on an officer with very muddy paws. As a future deterrent. Dog breath was also a most formidable and underestimated weapon.

The turtle was impressively wide and far from home, somehow having found itself inside a stone fountain ornamented with many curlicues that it resembled nothing so much as frozen icing. “Oh, poor thing, he’s stuck,” Viola said.

The turtle’s back was thick and strong, all shades of browns and greens. Cat saw no wounds, no blood clouded the water. “I don’t think he’s hurt, at least,” she said.

“How are we going to get him out of there?”

Cat was wondering the same thing. He was rather wide and cumbersome. Not to mention that snapping turtles were not known to have the softest mouths. Or the kindest dispositions. She touched his shell gently and he eyed her with what could only be called deep distrust. She pushed slightly. He did not so much as budge an inch. “He’s absolutely wedged in there. No help for it.”

She kicked off her shoes and unrolled her stockings before tying a knot in the bottom of her dress to keep it from dragging. Viola groaned, well used to where this was leading. “Not here. Not now,” she said. “The dowager duchess could look out the window.”

“I doubt she can see us from the house,” Cat soothed. “And if she can, we’ll only look like we’re admiring the fountain.”