Page 86 of Go, Rogue

“Am I?” Rogers asks as he’s shown into the morning room, clearly having overheard part of their conversation. “I certainly don’t mean to be. And my apologies for calling so early.”

Catherine watches as Mrs. Masters’s cheeks turn crimson in embarrassment, but Rogers goes smoothly on.

“I won’t be at the picnic, I’m sorry to say. I was rather hoping to give Miss Hope a tour of the island instead.” He smiles charmingly. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Masters?”

Catherine glances at her companion and watches her face recover from its red tinge only to fall again at this suggestion. She rather does mind, Catherine thinks, and it occurs to her that Mrs. Masters is lonely here, on this island. That she’s surrounded herself with all the makings of England but none of her own friends or family to keep her company.

Heavens above, Catherine realizes with a start, her host is in the cage too. She’s unwittingly hauled it all the way to Jamaica and settled herself into it, watching the world go by outside her bars.

In so many ways, Catherine thinks, the wealth and societal standing and aristocratic system they’ve surrounded themselves with has only ever served as a method of isolation, particularly for women. The higher up one goes, the more exclusive company one keeps, and the lonelier one becomes. She wonders how many would opt to stay in their cages if they knew there was another option.

She has to go with Rogers to find Andrew, but—

“I would love to tour the rose garden with you this evening,” she says. “And perhaps we could dine together tonight, Mrs. Masters, and discuss the upcoming Yule Ball? If I could be of help in the planning, I’d be delighted.”

The smile that returns to Mrs. Masters’s face lightens Catherine’s heart. At least a little.

“That was kind of you,” Rogers says when they’ve made their way out into the bright sunshine of the Jamaican morning. Catherine blinks—this is a far more powerful sun than the one she’s accustomed to in London.

“It wasn’t really,” she says. “It was the least I could do.” She turns to him. “Did you know that Barclay is here? In Jamaica.”

Rogers helps her into the waiting carriage. “I did, yes. We’d word he was planning a trip here.”

“It cannot be a coincidence.”

“No.” Rogers’s face is unreadable. “I don’t imagine it is.”

“It’s how you knew,” Catherine says, “that they were headed to Jamaica.” She stares at him. “You know exactly what’s happening, don’t you? Barclay’s involvement isn’t… how did you put it… an unexpected development.”

She glowers with her best imitation of an irritated doyenne’s face. If that doesn’t work, she can always threaten to get rid of the key, although he’ll likely see through that charade. She’ll keep that key as long as she has to and as safe as she has to until she finds Andrew.

Rogers sighs. “I have an idea of what his role is, yes.”

“Well,” Catherine prompts, impatient, “what is it?”

“James approached a colleague of mine some time ago with an offer to sell the Home Office information vital to our case against the East India Company. He used a fake name and credentials, but it wasn’t terribly hard to track him down. James was, until a year or so ago, a vagrant laborer. When the agricultural opportunities dried up in Scotland, Barclay hired him on. We’d suspected for quite some time that Barclay was in the Company’s pocket, so it wasn’t hard to imagine that Barclay was the keeper of the information we needed.”

“That’s why you were on The Elphame,” Catherine says. “You were tracking James, not Andrew at all. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you,” Rogers says. “Or at least the parts you needed to know. That we were not specifically tracking McGann. That Barclay was somehow involved. That I thought they were headed to Jamaica. The Home Office begs your pardon if—”

“Oh, do shut up,” Catherine cuts him off, “and tell me what happens next.”

The tip of Rogers’s mouth turns up in what might be a smile.

“It will be tricky. A duke is, after all, a duke—and largely beyond the law. Even here.”

The carriage rounds the dusty road to a travellers’ inn and pulls to a stop.

“What are we doing here?” Catherine asks.

“We’re collecting McNeil. And then we’re going to find McGann, along with, God willing, whatever information Barclay is holding onto.” He turns to examine her. “You do still have the key?”

“Of course I do,” she says. She can feel it now, tucked into her bodice.

“Will Barclay cause trouble for you?” she asks.

“I imagine he’ll try,” Rogers answers. “But don’t worry about me. He won’t be the first to try and cause me trouble, and I highly doubt he’ll be the last. And my orders stand, no matter his inclinations or his title. There is something comforting about orders in that way.”

Catherine nods. She can understand his point, she supposes, although she knows she would hate being given commands she has to follow, no matter what.

And with that, the carriage door swings open and McNeil shoves his way inside.

“Are we ready then?” he asks, and both Rogers and Catherine nod. “Grand. Because it’s hotter than Satan’s armpit on this island and I’m already ready to leave.”

The corner of Rogers’s lips tips up again and he knocks on the carriage roof to proceed.