“Well, the more recipients we add to our mail chains, the more confusing it will become.”

“Surely there must be a better way to organize ourselves.”

“But how?” Hattie asked. “You can hardly travel to London solely for suffrage meetings every day—neither can the other suffrage chapter leaders.”

“We can’t,” Lucie said darkly.

“Besides, we already have the Central Committee in London,” Catriona pointed out.

“I’m aware,” Lucie said. “It just is neither as efficient nor as effective as it should be. I imagine it will get worse—there are dozens of local suffrage chapters now, and a few societies, and unless we all talk to each other regularly, fat good will it do us.”

“Imagine a world where mail does not travel for days,” Hattie said. “Or where we could all be reading the same letter at the same time.”

Catriona smiled faintly. “We’d have a woman’s army rising within weeks in such a magical world.”

“As it is, we should have at least one monthly meeting where we all try and align ourselves.”

“Like a clan gathering,” Catriona said.

“Clan MacSuffrage?” Hattie suggested.

Lucie gave a snort, but Catriona was chuckling into her plaid.

“Right—third point on our agenda: Catriona is checking the accounts. Hattie is in charge of membership applications. I shall make notes on necessary campaign work arising from my correspondence.”

Atop her letter pile was a gentle reminder from Lady Harberton about the campaign for women on bicycles. She groaned. How could she keep forgetting about the bicycles? No, she was not forgetting them, she just could not seem to find the time. . . .

“How strange.” The puzzled note in Catriona’s voice made Lucie look up. Catriona was rarely puzzled.

Her friend was frowning down at the list of donations before her.

“What is it?”

“There’s a donation from the Oxford University Fencing Club.”

Lucie sat very still. “Are you . . . certain?”

“It says so clearly. But it must be a mistake.”

It could be that.

Or it was something far more complicated.

“How much?” she asked, and heard her voice squeak.

Catriona glanced up. Her blue eyes were wide behind her glasses. “A hundred pounds.”

“Good Lord.” It was everyone else’s monthly donation to the Oxford chapter put together.

“How curious,” said Hattie, her eyes round. “Why would they have an interest in women’s rights all of a sudden?”

Catriona made a note on the ledger’s margin. “I shall confirm this with their treasurer.”

“Please do,” Lucie said, but her mind continued to race. The donation was not a mistake, she knew it in her bones. She could see the menacing glint of wet steel as clearly now as if the young men were squaring up to her again. Even if they’d known who she was, they would not have felt compelled to pay such a penance come morning—unless something, or rather, someone had, in fact, compelled them to do so.

Tristan. Who else.

But why? A two-pronged attack, perhaps, a tactic of carrot and stick to confuse her?

He had succeeded at confusing her.

She was tempted to ignore it. Unfortunately, she would have to address the matter—did not bear contemplating how Tristan had extracted the money, and the suffrage chapter could not afford to make personal enemies out of the upper-class males at Oxford. She made a note in her diary to resolve the situation after the house party.

Chapter 15

Lucie had been twelve the last time her family had paid a visit to Montgomery, so the landscape now slipping past the carriage window was unfamiliar. She had memories of Claremont, a sprawling gray limestone palace dominating the view of the green hills of Wiltshire. The entrance hall had been three stories high beneath a domed glass ceiling.

“It should not be difficult,” she said out loud. “I present myself in fashionable clothes. I shan’t mention a word about women’s suffrage, diseases, or politics. I shall make conversation with the most staid of society matrons we can lure into being seen with me. I will dance a waltz.”

On the bench opposite, Hattie sat up straighter. “A waltz? That is a new addition to the list.”

It was. It had just popped out of her mouth. Perhaps because she was preternaturally aware of a crimson ball gown taking up half of her luggage trousseau.

Hattie surveyed her—again—and made a happy noise. “You shall have no problems at all with the first point on your list—you look most elegant. I know, I must stop saying it.” Every time she did say it, she pressed her hands over her heart and her brown eyes grew dewy. Hattie really took pleasure in other people looking their best—especially when they had followed her fashion advice.

Lucie smoothed her hand over the dove gray skirt of the carriage dress. The scent of fine new wool wafted around her when she moved. The new gowns were very flattering, modern, and sleek. Also quite constraining, as the sleekness was achieved by making them a snugly fitted one-piece. All her old dresses were three-pieces. By the time she had to present herself to the baying crowds, she would hopefully be used to the limited movement of her arms. Then again, none of her fashion choices would adequately counter Tristan’s most recent move.

The news that he was the author of A Pocketful of Poems had hit the papers on Tuesday. Wednesday morning, she had received a shrill cable from Lady Athena, who was standing in as secretary at London Print: what was to be done with all the mail? The office was being flooded with letters, half of them heavily scented. Ballentine cards were pouring in, demanding to be signed and returned. Lucie had traveled to London and had had to give her fiercest scowl to escape a gang of journalists lurking by the side entrance of the publisher. By Thursday afternoon, it had been clear that they needed to issue a new edition of Tristan’s poetry as fast as possible. And Tristan? He’d shone with his absence. After sending runners to the four winds to find him, she had discovered a note on his office desk: Editing the war diaries—you can thank me for the increase in sales later.

A small growl escaped her throat, and, at Hattie’s alarmed expression, she added: “Him.”

Hattie bit her bottom lip. “Ah,” she said. “Him.”

And Hattie didn’t know half of it. She’d never bother her friends by repeating his lewd proposal.

“I maintain that the publicity for London Print is a good thing.” Catriona had been silent throughout the ride, sitting next to Lucie and reading. She was still looking down at the tome on her lap.

“Is it really?” Lucie asked. “Have the company value and number of book orders soared overnight? Yes. Has Lord Ballentine just become more powerful? Again, yes.”

Silence filled the carriage, leaving each of them to brood.

Hattie was never able to brood for long. “Have you read it yet?”

“His poetry? No.”

Hattie was studying her with the intent expression she wore when she stood in front of a painting, mentally dissecting the composition. “May I ask why?”

Lucie gave a shrug. “It’s romantic poetry.”

“But . . . why?”

“Most gentlemen write poetry to their sweethearts, I believe?”

“I certainly hope they would.”

“And how many gentlemen take a mistress soon after the honeymoon?”

Hattie’s tawny brows pulled together in a frown. “A few, I suppose.”

“More than a few. And I imagine I should feel doubly fooled as a wife when he is out frolicking with another while I am at home with a pile of paper declaring his undying adoration. It’s all lies.”

Hattie’s sweet face fell. “I feel this may be a little cynical.”

“I like to call it realistic.”

Hattie’s jaw set mulishly. “Even if romantic sentiments cool over time, the poems could well have been true in the moment.”

Lucie shrugged. “I suppose I don’t rate truths that last only for a moment. Truth should be more durable. If you must put something in writing and make it rhyme, let it be timeless. In fact, consigning fleeting emotional outbursts to the bin instead of using them to lure an unsuspecting lady would be the true mark of chivalry.”

Hattie blinked as if she had splashed water at her face. “Heavens. It’s just poetry.”

Catriona slowly raised her gaze off her page and stared. “Just poetry?”

Hattie threw up her hands and raised her gaze to the carriage roof. “Shall we make a wager? This house party is going to be scandalous—again—because it happens whenever we make an appearance together.”

A pang of alarm made Lucie point a warning finger. “Harriet Greenfield, do not jinx this house party.”

“Yes, don’t,” Catriona said. “Annabelle would be exceedingly cross.”

“I can hardly control my intuition, can I?”

“Please try, will you?” Lucie said.

When their carriage pulled into the vast quadrangle of Claremont Palace, Lucie was amazed. A building last seen in childhood normally appeared smaller upon a revisit. Not so with Claremont. It was still a palace the size of a small city, its long row of pillars fronting the main house looming like sentinels.