Page 28 of The Dueling Duchess

It astounded her that nobody in the circus seemed to recognize the trio. Not because their disguises were so perfect, but because most people wouldn’t believe that men of that stature would be working in a circus—especially not the way Marianne treated them, as if they were drudges.

If there was a vile, difficult, or boring job, one of the men was going to get it. The worst tasks went to the duke, for whom Marianne seemed to reserve a particular animus.

Cecile had watched in open-mouthed amazement as they’d hauled laundry, cleaned the front of the house—an excellent job for the three of them since it was their cohort who spilled, spit, slopped, and generally behaved like swine—swept, scrubbed, and even washed the pail closet a few times when the night-soil men had made a mess of their job.

And they’d done it all without complaint.

Whatever they were up to at the circus hadn’t seemed to cut into their nighttime activities, either. At least not when it came to the duke and marquess.

Both men made regular appearances in the newspapers. The duke not as often as his friend, and usually in regard to matters of state or simply because his name was printed on dinner lists.

Guy, on the other hand, was described as dancing until dawn almost nightly and driving different heiresses in Hyde Park in his high-perch phaeton during the fashionable hour. There were also murkier rumors of him engaging in less innocent activities with several of society’s most notorious widows as well as at least three married women.

Cecile wished she could stop reading the stories about the wretched man, and she hated herself for joining the pushing throngs who gathered outside Humphrey’s print shop daily to see what new scandalous illustration might be up, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Thankfully the man himself had no clue about her obsession with his outrageous activities.

More than ever, Cecile burned to know why the three men were working in a circus but by this point it had become a matter of pride not to ask. If Marianne didn’t want to confide in her, she wasn’t going to force the issue.

Cecile looked up from her thoughts and noticed that the other employees were already boarding; it was time to get on the packet and return to the country she’d fled over twenty years before.

* * *

Cecile was watching the water churn a short time later when the man who’d been occupying so much of her thoughts came strolling toward her.

“Marianne is looking for you,” she said before he could open his mouth.

He gave her a wry look and settled his forearms on the railing beside her. “Don’t fret yourself, darling, she already found me and had me drudging for her.”

“Hard work builds character,” she retorted.

He laughed. “Well, she has turned her attention to Sin for now, so I am safe from her machinations. At least until we reach Calais.”

Cecile ignored his comment, both willing him to go away and wanting him to stay.

He fidgeted, glancing from his hands to the water and then back before cutting her a speculative look.

“Where did you work before coming to the Fayre?” Cecile couldn’t help asking, wondering what amusing falsehood he’d concoct.

“Oh, here and there.”

“Doing what?”

“Whatever was necessary.”

It was her turn to laugh. “If one is going to embark on a masquerade, it behooves one to concoct a believable story.”

“What do you mean?”

Quite suddenly, Cecile could bear the deception no longer. “I know who you are . . . Lord Carlisle.”

Rather than look displeased or at least surprised, as she’d expected, he looked disturbingly . . . amused.

“Oh, do you? How long have you known?”

“Since the first day I saw you.” She smirked at him. “I know all about you.”

Again, he didn’t look surprised by her admission. “And what, exactly, do you think you know about me, Miss Tremblay?”