Page 69 of The Duchess Games

It helped her mood enormously.

Especially when he stumbled back, tripped on a chair, and went ass over tea kettle. Laughter swelled around them. Cat looked down at him, his fists clenched, his face red. “You utter arsewit,” she spat. “You nearly murdered a duke.”

Her duke.

Juro sat up, testing his sore jaw. “Told you she was too soft, lads.”

“You tried to murder a revenue man, failed, nearly murdered a duke instead, and then failed at that too,” she pointed out. “If you’d succeeded, what do you think would have happened, Juro? Do you think all of the customs agents would have fled, terrified of you? With the threat of the French army at our shores?”

He shoved to his feet. “You don’t know anything.”

“I’ll tell you, then, shall I? Since you’re too thick to work it out yourself. They would have called the magistrate, and then the army. On principle, they would have tripled the number of revenue men, because clearly we have something to hide. They would have sent in soldiers, because clearly we’re ungovernable. They would watch the beaches, our homes. And then where would we be?”

The other men nodded to each other. Juro was more and more incensed. He spat blood from his split lip. “You bitch.”

The men paused, waiting to see how she would react.

“Juro,” Ambrose said.

Cat held up her hand to stop him. She appreciated the sentiment, but Juro’s insults meant nothing to her. She didn’t take her eyes off of him. “Are you trying to hurt my feelings? To make me lose my temper?” She yawned. “You should try harder because right now, you are very boring.”

He went purple. She didn’t stay to watch the explosion.

“Listen to him if you like,” she told the others. “He’ll lead you straight to Bodmin jail. Or the hangman’s noose.”

She marched straight back out, the door banging shut behind her.

Granny, peering in through the pub window, clapped.

Violence helped.

So did peeling potatoes.

Odd, but still true. There was too much energy coursing under her skin and nothing to do with it. She needed the signet ring, despite being caught. She needed a smuggling gang she could trust to help run her operation or it would flounder before it began.

She needed Callum.

Which was galling in the extreme.

So. Potatoes.

Truthfully, she didn’t go looking for potatoes. She was pacing near the kitchen garden before going inside, waiting until she was sure she could smile politely without looking like Percival with a need to bite things.

As if she needed further proof that she would never be a lady.

“There’s a face on you,” Morgen said, stepping out from the kitchens. Her cheeks were pink, her hair curling around her face with perspiration. “Did someone abandon a puppy?”

Cat wrinkled her nose. “No. I’m cross, is all.”

Morgen wiped her brow. “So’s Cook. But I needed a breather.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Three of the maids have come down with sickness. Ate bad oysters though they were warned not to. How Londoners survive is beyond me. Who eats raw oysters on the beach when the shells are cracked open?”

Cat shuddered. “That’s awful.”

“With the ball looming and hundreds of pounds of vegetables to deal with, it’s beyond awful.”