“They were not,” she confirmed. “However, I worked with Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Becker in secret. My father found out during a rather unfortunate encounter two years later. I had gone to Westminster with a group of suffragists to confront Secretary Henry Bruce—he had not delivered on any of his promises, much like Gladstone today, hence, a reminder was necessary. Unfortunately, Bruce was with my father and another peer. And I chose not to abort the confrontation.”

“Oh, Lucie. It must have been dreadful.”

She shrugged. “It was that, or try and hide at the last moment, which would have been prudent, I suppose, but it felt as though it would betray the women whom I had worked with for two years. It felt as though I would betray myself. So I made a choice.”

“So you did,” Annabelle said softly.

“He did wait until we were home to let me have it.” And her mother hadn’t intervened. She had hovered at the back of the study, looking pallid and appalled, and had not said good-bye when the earl had sent Lucie from the house with just a trunk full of her possessions. Aunt Honoria had saved her from beyond her grave, having set up a small trust for her in wise foresight, and Wycliffe had not objected to Lucie claiming it before reaching the age of majority. He had considered this a grand concession, she supposed. Granted, he had never publicly denounced her—all the public knew was that she had relocated to Oxford to indulge her bluestocking tendencies. It was the reason she was not shunned by society, and found allies for her work, but she had no doubt that Wycliffe had done so only to spare the family name a scandal.

She shook her head. “Old stories are not why I called on you today.”

“What is it?” Annabelle asked. “Your missive was rather, erm, brief.”

“I meant to ask you to tutor me in feminine wiles.”

A baffled silence followed her announcement. “I don’t quite understand,” Annabelle then said.

Lucie sighed. “If I am to steer us through the current situation with Ballentine and London Print, I need every ally. Ballentine will try and paint me as a harridan who should best be ignored. . . .”

Annabelle leaned forward. “Have you really called on him last night?”

She must not blush now, she must not. “I have,” she said, smoothly, too.

“Do tell?”

He is built like a Greek god and his mind is pure filth, and I dreamt of him all night.

She cleared her throat. “I need hardly tell you that it led nowhere. Under the circumstances, we need to concentrate on garnering sympathies for our report elsewhere—which means I must try and inspire some sympathy in men, at least until Parliament reconvenes in September.”

“This sounds wise, and I would gladly assist you,” Annabelle said wryly. “However, I am the Scandalous Duchess, remember? Before that, I was a scandalous bluestocking. I’m hardly in a position to give advice.”

“And yet you brought the most calculating duke in the kingdom to heel—clearly your strategy works.”

“Hmm. But the truth is, I had no strategy. I didn’t make Montgomery do anything he did not wish to do.”

Lucie’s brow flicked up. “I doubt he longed to become embroiled in scandal.”

Annabelle looked amused. “Let me say this: I was the most stubborn, reticent creature the duke had ever encountered—I just said no to everything he offered.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “I suppose when a man truly wants something, he will do what is required. It is quite simple.”

It might be simple, but it also sounded dishearteningly uncontrollable.

Her stomach snarled into the silence, and Annabelle gave her a pointed look. “How do you feel about taking luncheon together?”

“I suppose some lunch would be lovely,” Lucie admitted.

Annabelle was on her feet and headed to the assortment of bell strings dangling from the wall. “An Indian restaurant has recently opened on High Street,” she said as she rang for a footman. “I’m of a mind to try it.”

“It sounds intriguing.”

“We could then return here and read books together for as long as we want.”

“Splendid idea,” Lucie said. “Though I would prefer to work on my correspondence here instead. And I have to go to the reading room at the Bodleian later, they have the legal works.”

Annabelle smiled. “Whatever puts you best at ease.”

She had an inkling she would not really feel at ease for some time to come.

Chapter 13

Later in the day

Oxford had scored a victory over Cambridge during the annual cricket match this evening, hence the Turf Tavern was hot and crammed with obnoxiously exuberant patrons. Tristan used his size to plow a path through the crowd toward the bar, already of a mind to leave. The Turf was damp and reeked of centuries of spilled beer and piss on a regular night. Then again, this was every tavern in Oxford.

His Lagavulin arrived in a sticky tumbler. Braying laughter shook the rafters. There must have been a time when he had enjoyed himself immersed in the noise and excitement of revelers, but tonight, it was simply loud and felt hollow. As though they were all a little lost and tried to cast an anchor in the fray by way of their own booming voice.

Somewhere in the shadows at the back of the room, Lord Arthur Seymour, second son to the Marquess of Doncaster, was lurking and watching him in a sulk, all while pretending to have a jolly good time with his friends. He had noticed the boy’s mop of curly blond hair on his way in. Ah well. Unrequited lust compelled people to do all sorts of ridiculous things.

He would know.

His whiskey glass came down hard on the counter.

Lucie was lying low, the little coward. She had not been in the London offices today, nor had she sought him out this evening, if only to berate him some more. Lust must have compelled his mind to circle around her today . . .

“By God, you are beautiful.”

A young man his age had been crowded against his left shoulder. Tall, but not as tall as him. Well-drawn lips. Overlong dark hair curled around his collar. His blue gaze was intent on Tristan’s face, tracing his features with the singular concentration of an artist.

Tristan leaned in close to keep his voice low. “And a good evening to you, sir.”

“Such a face should be eternalized in oil and marble, so that future generations may behold it and weep over the glory of the bygone days,” said the man.

Tristan gave his near-empty glass a little spin. “There’s weeping already, I hear, though it is caused by my lack of character rather than my face.”

The chap threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t be modest. Your beauty causes the tears—the carelessness of a plain fellow is rather forgettable.” He offered his hand. “My name is Oscar Wilde.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Wilde. You won the Newdigate Prize for your ‘Ravenna’ poem two years ago.”

The playwright inclined his head. “Why, I’m flattered. You enjoy poetry?”

“On occasion.”

“You write yourself? Lord Ballentine, is it?”

“Yes, and yes.”

Oscar Wilde was delighted. “A fellow scribe! I shall pay for your next drink. Brandy.” He shouted for the barkeeper and fished for coin on the inside of his coat—a remarkably sharply tailored, midnight blue coat, with velvet lapels and silver buttons depicting peacocks. Tristan would quite like to have it for himself.

He slid his hand over the velvet, over Oscar’s hand beneath the fabric, halting the futile scrabble for money with a light press of his fingers.

Wilde’s gaze jerked toward him, surprise flashing in his blue eyes. Tristan watched it heat to intrigue at a startling speed. He had already dropped his hand again. Playwrights. The one species with even less regard for convention than he.

“Allow me.” He procured a shilling from his own pocket and flipped it at the bartender. “Brandy for my friend, more of the same for me.”

Wilde was still contemplating him with a half-lidded gaze. “Just what are you doing in this student-infested pub when you could have the best of London at your feet?” he murmured. “Or better yet, Italy.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

And he realized what he was doing—seducing people for the sake of it, as Lucie had called it. Shouted it. Damn, but he was doing exactly that.

The smile faded from his lips.

“London gets old. Variety’s the very spice of life that gives it all its flavor,” he cited, because using someone else’s words could convey a lot without saying much at all.

A second or two ticked past until Wilde gave a wry little nod. “You like Cowper, then?” he asked in a neutral tone, and slid the freshly filled tumbler across the counter toward Tristan.

His nape prickled with awareness as he closed his fingers around the glass.

He looked up and met Lord Arthur’s wounded stare from the other side of the bar. Arthur’s expression was as glum as though someone had just shot his puppy. Well. He would not invite impressionable young things along to an orgy again if this was the result. What a nuisance.

“Oh dear,” Wilde said, his gaze discreetly lingering on the lordling before he peered back up at Tristan. “What an unhappy fellow. A matter of romance?” He chuckled. “But of course not. It’s a matter of sex, isn’t it.”