Page 75 of The Duchess Games

“Make sure you eat the roasted potatoes,” she added. “I spent two hours peeling them.”

The ballroom was something out of a storybook. Marble statues lined the walls, draped with roses. Half of the greenhouse had been moved inside, to create little jungles of privacy in the corners, potted trees dripping with oranges and lemons and flowers she had never seen before. Hundreds of beeswax candles burned in crystal chandeliers overhead. Every accent and chair and ribbon that was not a pristine snow-white, glittered gold. Even the musicians wore gold cravats and gold gloves, and the effect was stunning. Excessive.

“What an… interesting dress.”

Cat curtsied, smiling as though the dowager’s tone wasn’t caustic enough to peel the very expensive wallpaper from the walls. Viola curtsied beautifully, successfully drawing the dowager’s attention away from her.

Summer stepped out of the receiving line, breaking protocol. “That color is lovely on you, Miss Sparrow.”

Cat curtsied again. Lady Summer leaned forward slightly. “I’ll send whisky.”

Cat grinned.

Callum was next to be greeted and his eyes flared when she paused in front of him. She suddenly felt like a goddess.

There was no time for talk as the line of guests pushed behind them. Cat took a turn about the room, making sure to be seen by Mr. Armstrong. Viola found Ruby and they drew back to whisper, heads bent together.

There was no better time.

It was easy to get lost in the crush of people, to let herself be carried to the glass doors already opened to let in the night air. The dowager no doubt disapproved, but the bodies would litter the dancefloor before midnight if fresh air didn’t circulate. Fainting would be unavoidable.

She hurried between the hedges, snuck out past the flagstone border and retrieved her boots from under a bush. She removed her overskirt and her padded roll, hiding them under the leaves. Matthew’s trousers and the removal of her dancing slippers allowed her to run home down the path. The moon was a sliver, barely offering light.

She clambered down the slipway, the waves crashing gently below. There was no storm on the horizon, no customs agents on her heels, no bright moonlight to give away the boat.

One problem.

There was also no gang of smugglers waiting for her orders.

The beach was deserted.

Bollocks.

Captain Davignon’s ship lurked in the shadows. This was the time. But she had no lander to bring him in, no slipboats, no tubmen to carry the goods.

No one.

She was alone on the beach with her lantern and her secret codes.

Confusion, frustration, anger boiled in her belly. Her hands shook with the force of it. This was her chance. Possibly her last chance.

She lit her lantern, trying to calm her pulse. She covered the flame, and uncovered it, the pattern asking for a ten-minute pause. Just ten minutes. Please.

She sagged with relief when the answer came. He would wait. But she knew if he was spotted there would be two options: he would leave and take her last chance with him or he would dump the cargo and she would have to fight the water and Juro’s men to claim it.

Because there was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that Juro was behind this particular little development.

And planting him a facer was unlikely to help this time. Even if it would make her feel enormously better. Enormously.

She raced back up the slipway and down the road to the village. The windows were yellow with candlelight, the air fresh with salt and the laughter of families sitting outside. The pub fairly rocked with noise. She slipped inside, with her cleavage and her curled hair and her brother’s trousers.

Ambrose was the first to see her. He shook his head, sympathetically. She knew he’d have been there to help but the slipway and the beach were nearly impossible with his bad leg.

Juro was the second to spot her. He was set up on a chair like a throne, waiting. The village men glanced between them both, most not able to meet her eyes. Only his best mates grinned at her smugly, just as he did. “Cat. Bit overdressed, aren’t you?”

“What the hell, Juro?”

“Is there a problem?”