rigid with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. She was so furious, so hurt, that she could scarcely trust herself to speak.
She whirled and stalked up the stairs.
“Callie!” Rochford shouted and started after her, then stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking after her in frustration. He turned toward the duchess as though seeking an answer.
His grandmother crossed her arms in front of her and stared back at him stonily. “It is your fault that she acts this way. It is because you raised her so laxly. You have always indulged her and let her do exactly as she pleased. You have spoiled her terribly, and this is the result of it.”
The duke let out a low noise of frustration, then swung away from the staircase and started toward his study. He stopped and turned back to his grandmother. “I will finish my business in London quickly. Please get everything ready, so that we can return to the country the day after tomorrow.”
CALLIE STALKED INTO HER ROOM, fuming. Her maid Belinda was waiting for her there to help her undress, but Callie sent the girl to bed. She was too irate to stand still while Belinda unfastened her buttons. Anyway, she certainly could not lie down meekly and go to sleep.
The maid gave her an uncertain look, then slipped out the door. Callie strode up and down her room, stewing in her own anger. As she paced, she heard her grandmother’s slow steps go past her door, but she did not hear her brother’s heavier tread. No doubt he had retired to his favorite room, his study. He was probably peacefully reading some book or letter, or going over a set of numbers in preparation for visiting his business agent tomorrow. He would not be grinding his teeth or boiling with injustice and rage. After all, as far as he was concerned, the matter was over.
Callie grimaced at the thought and flung herself down in the chair beside her bed. She would not allow herself to be put in this position. She had thought herself a young lady who lived her life on her own terms, at least within the general limits of society’s rules. Had anyone asked, she would have said that she was free to do as she liked, that she directed her own life. She gave in to her grandmother a great deal, of course, in order to keep peace in the household, but that, she knew, was a decision she made. It was not something she had to do.
She went where she liked, received whom she wanted, attended or did not attend plays or routs or soirees as she chose. The household staff came to her for instructions. She bought what she pleased, using her own money, and if it was the agent who actually paid the bills for her, well, that was simply the way things were done. Sinclair’s bills were usually paid the same way. And even though Sinclair invested her money for her, he explained everything to her and asked her what she wanted to do. If she always went along with what he suggested, it was only because it was the sensible course. Sinclair had been running his own affairs for years and did so extremely well.
But now she could see that her vision of her own freedom was merely an illusion. She had simply never before crossed her brother. Who she saw, where she went, what she bought, the decisions she had made, had not been anything he disputed. But what she had presumed was freedom was not; she had simply been living in so large a cage that she had not touched the bars.
Until now.
Callie jumped to her feet. She could not allow this to stand. She was an adult, as old as many women who had married and had children. She was five years older than Sinclair had been when he came into his title. She would not give in meekly to his orders. To do so would be tantamount to granting him authority over her. She would not just go to bed and get up tomorrow morning as if nothing had happened.
She stood for a moment, thinking, then turned and went over to the small desk that stood against the wall. Quickly she dashed off a note and signed it, then folded and sealed it, writing the duke’s name across the front before leaving it propped against her pillow.
She grabbed up her cloak from the chair where she had tossed it, and once more wrapped it around her shoulders and tied it. Easing open her door, she stuck her head out and looked up and down the hall. Then, moving silently, she hurried down the hall to the servants’ staircase and slipped down the stairs. All was quiet in the kitchen, the scullery lad curled up in his blanket beside the warm hearth. He did not stir as she tiptoed past him nor even when she opened the kitchen door and stepped outside.
Callie closed the door carefully behind her and crept along the narrow path that ran down the side of the house to the street. She looked up and down the wide, dark thoroughfare. Then, pulling up the hood of her cloak so that it concealed her head, she started off boldly down the street.
ACROSS THE STREET and a few doors down from the ducal mansion sat a carriage. It had been there for several minutes, and the driver, huddled in his greatcoat, had begun to doze. Inside, two men sat. One, Mr. Archibald Tilford, sat back against his seat, a bored expression on his face as he turned his gold-knobbed cane around and around in his fingers. Across from him, staring out the open window of the carriage at Lilles House, sat Archibald’s cousin, the Earl of Bromwell.
“Really, Brom, how long are we going to sit here?” Tilford asked somewhat peevishly. “I’ve a bottle of port and some very lucky cards waiting for me at Seaton’s right now. And the brick the driver put in here is growing cold. My feet will be like ice in ten more minutes.”
The earl flashed him a cool look. “Really, Archie, do try to bear up. We have scarce been here a quarter of an hour.”
“Well, I cannot imagine what you are doing, watching a dark house,” his cousin went on. “What the devil do you expect to see at this time of night?”
“I’m not sure,” Bromwell replied, not taking his eyes from the house.
“It is clear no one will be coming or going so late,” Archie pointed out. “I cannot imagine why you took it into your head to see Rochford’s house right now. Good Gad, it’s been fifteen years, hasn’t it? I thought you had finally forgotten about the duke.”
Bromwell gave the other man a long look. “I never forget.”
Tilford shrugged, ignoring through long experience the fierce gaze that would have quelled most other men. “’Tis long over, and Daphne got married anyway.” Bromwell did not reply, and after a moment, Tilford went on. “What are you about?”
Bromwell countered his cousin’s question with one of his own. “What do you know about Rochford’s sister?”
Archie sucked in a sharp breath. “Lady Calandra?” He hesitated, then said carefully, “You’re not thinking of…some sort of game involving the duke’s sister, are you? Everyone knows the man is devilishly protective of her—as you would know, too, if you had not spent the last ten years of your life buried up on your estate making money.”
Bromwell grimaced. “I’ve never known you to complain about the money that I have made for the family.”
“Heaven forbid,” Archibald responded mildly. “But you have made an ample amount, surely. You can enjoy some of it now. Live a normal life for a change. Isn’t that why you came to London—to enjoy yourself for a while?”
Bromwell shrugged. “I suppose.”
“Well, a normal life does not include sitting about in cold coaches, spying on dark houses.”
“You were going to tell me about Lady Calandra.”
Archie sighed. “Very well. The lady is young and beautiful and wealthy.”
“Suitors?”
