Page 11 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days

It would all be over soon, she supposed. The news of her family’s financial ruin wouldn’t stay secret for long. And when what was left of her money ran out, her long-ago transgression would be revealed as a direct result.

Because if one couldn’t pay one’s bills, one certainly couldn’t pay one’s blackmailer.

Better that Francesca marry now and have the designation of duchess when the scandal broke.

And Cecelia,dearkind Cecelia, didn’t have the responsibility of a title, nor did she have the protection of one. Her reputation meant little to her, mostly because she was a rather obscure woman in all but her immediate academic circle.

But reputation was nothing next to the hangman’s noose… and they all might be in danger of that.

Pressing her hand against a pitch of dread in her stomach, Alexandra hid herself behind her meager hill of luggage. A hill because, by comparison, the piles of trunks, hat cases, and garment bags currently being carted from the train were veritable mountains rising from the mists.

The Earl and Countess Bevelstoke hurried past, tucked tightly into their furs and cloaks as an army of servants and porters—Smythe, included—conducted their things in the direction of an ostentatious coach.

Lord and Lady Bevelstoke had once been counted among her parents’ most intimate society.

Until lately.

Luckily, the train belched another whoosh of steam, further concealing her from their view.

“Alexandra? Lady Alexandra Lane? Can that possibly be you?”

Alexandra flinched at the sound of her name, but broke into a genuine smile at whom she found behind her.

“Julia? Julia Throckmorton?” she greeted.

They embraced with the exuberance of long-parted friends, and stepped apart to examine what the years had done to each other. They’d been kinder to Julia than to her,as her old school chum was bedecked in more pearls and sapphires than a traveling kit warranted.

“How long has it been?” Alexandra asked.

Julia tucked an errant golden ringlet into her stylish cap, pursing her lips together. “Six years, at least,” she recalled. “Our last drink at the caféin Boston the summer my husband took us on the grand tour of New England. Then it was de Chardonne before that. Can you believe it’s been ten years?”

“I cannot,” she answered honestly. It felt like only yesterday, and yet another lifetime ago. “Where is Lord Throckmorton? You’re both here for the wedding, I presume?”

Julia’s bright eyes dimmed along with her smile. “Of course, you haven’t heard. You were in Greece two years ago when my husband passed.”

Alexandra gripped her hand. “Oh, Julia, I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard, and when I’m in the field, I never read the papers. I’m hopeless at correspondence. Forgive me for not writing.”

“Don’t think of it.” Julia’s smile was tighter when it returned. “I know you’ve enough on your mind as it is, poor dear.” She patted Alexandra’s hand in a manner almost condescending, as though reminding Alexandra of her diminished circumstances without being gauche enough to lend them voice.

Oh, yes, this was why Julia, generally considered a friend, had never been inducted into the Red Rogues. It wasn’t the lack of the red hue in her hair, it was her propensity to be a bit priggish. Not that she had a reason to feel superior, she’d been married off to Lord Walther Throckmorton, the Viscount Leighton. A man twenty years her senior and at least double that in weight due to his excessive drinking.

“Can you imagine, a dowager at my age? Though Lord Throckmorton left me a vulgar fortune,” Julia whispered, increasing the vulgarity by mentioning it. “And now I’m enjoying jaunting about all of Christendom with Lord and Lady Bevelstoke.”

“How lovely for you.” Alexandra hoped she sounded sincere.

If Julia noticed, she didn’t mention. “How mysterious this Duke of Redmayne is. I’ve heard he’s beastly. Have you any idea to whom he’s engaged?”

“I couldn’t possibly say.” Alexandra sighed, already tiring of the gossip. Although she had to admit she’d enjoy Julia’s astonishment when Francesca was revealed as the bride.

They’d never got on.

“Lady Throckmorton,” Lady Bevelstoke called over the increasing storm from the coach. “We really should go, we’veimportantsociety waiting upon our arrival.”

Alexandra didn’t miss the slight emphasis she’d placed upon the word.

“Let’s do catch up.” Julia kissed her on both cheeks and burrowed further into her furs as a footman held an umbrella over her all the way to the coach.“Au revoir.”

The slap of the whip sent the Bevelstoke carriage axles grinding toward one of the oldest, and perhaps grandest, fortresses still standing on British soil.