How the Scoundrel Seduces (10 page)

At that point, Zoe gave up. This had been going on for three days, a constant battle between Papa and Aunt Flo about how she should act and dress and walk, and who was at fault for the things she did badly. Though she was used to the criticism and knew it came from good intentions, today it unnerved her.

Did they say such things because they were sure that she wasn’t of their blood? Or was it just because they wanted the best for her? Or both?

Oh, Lord, what if she
wasn’t
really Papa’s daughter?

Fighting to put that horrible possibility from her mind, she took Papa’s place at the window while he and Aunt Flo argued. They were still arguing ten minutes later when a coach pulled up in front.

Zoe froze. He was here. It was time. Heaven save her.

Holding her breath, she watched as the steps were set down and the carriage door opened. A booted foot emerged, followed by a second. When they proved to be connected to a very tall, lean man with hair the color of ripening wheat, she sagged against the window frame in abject relief.

He wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t short or fat or—her greatest fear—half-bald like Papa. And when he turned to speak to the footman, and she saw his attire in full, she broke into a smile. Watching him meet Papa might actually be fun.

Turning from the window, she said cheerily, “It looks like Mr. Keane has arrived, Papa.”

Aunt Flo settled her skirts. “Come away from the window, for pity’s sake! We can’t have him see you gawking like some urchin at the fair.”

Meanwhile, Papa was smoothing his coat and straightening his posture. Zoe bit back a smile. One of the many things Papa had taken away from his years in the army was the necessity of dressing sharply, which, to him, meant precision creases, dull colors, and nothing remotely remarkable.

Their butler appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Jeremy Keane, my lord.”

When the man walked in she watched her father, whose expression became so carefully fixed in a smile that she knew at once he was screaming inside. Because Mr. Keane wore attire that was the very essence of remarkable—a green and gold striped waistcoat beneath a bottle-green coat, with a matching striped cravat casually tied about his neck.

Papa thrust out his hand to the fellow. “Welcome to our home, cousin.”

With a genial smile, Mr. Keane shook it. “Thank you, sir. I’m pleased to meet you all at last.”

Swiftly, Papa made introductions. Zoe noticed that her cousin seemed distracted. He kept surveying his surroundings as if taking inventory of the furnishings. Only when Papa introduced her did Mr. Keane give anyone his full attention.

Zoe offered him her hand. “We’re delighted to have you here.”

“Glad to be here, coz,” he said most informally as he
took her hand. To her surprise, he brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to it.

Papa snorted beside her. She well knew his opinion of hand kissing—it was “Frenchified” and excessive.

As Mr. Keane released her, his eyes, almost the same blue as Tristan’s, gleamed. Yet somehow when she looked into them, naughty images didn’t immediately spring to mind as they had with Tristan.

You’ll know within seconds of meeting him whether you desire him.

Balderdash. Why was she listening to anything that devil had said, anyway? For that matter, why was she even comparing her cousin to the man?

When he straightened, Mr. Keane swept her with an interested glance, much as Tristan had, from the lilac ribbons in her coiffure to her black kid slippers. But though his smile broadened as if he liked what he saw, it didn’t rouse any heat in her belly.

Should she be alarmed by that? Or pleased?

Definitely alarmed. She might have to marry him, after all.

“How pretty you look, Lady Zoe,” he said smoothly. “I was afraid that English ladies might prove duller than our bold American ones, but clearly I was wrong.”

At least he knew how to flatter a lady properly, unlike a certain dark-haired gentleman. “Thank you, sir. Coming from an artist as accomplished as you, that is quite a compliment.”

He shrugged. “I confess I see things differently from most. It’s contrasts that fascinate me, not similarities.
So sometimes I enjoy clothes with a bit more . . . shall we say . . .”

“Dash?” she put in, deliberately not looking at Papa and Aunt Flo.

“That’s the word.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Dash.”

When Papa stiffened, Aunt Flo jumped in. “You must be hungry after your long journey, Mr. Keane. Cook has prepared a bit of tea and some cakes, if you are so inclined.”

“I don’t drink tea, but if you have coffee . . .”

“We do,” Zoe said hastily before Papa could launch into his lecture about the evil effects of coffee on the constitution. She gestured to the door. “This way, Mr. Keane.”

The next two hours passed pleasantly enough, despite Papa’s reserve. As her cousin drank coffee and downed ginger biscuits at an alarming rate, Aunt Flo consulted him on her plans for the soiree she intended to throw tomorrow to celebrate his visit to London. He seemed oddly reticent to discuss it and soon turned the conversation to wild tales of his voyage. Before long, he had them laughing at his deft characterizations.

Even Papa unbent enough to add a few anecdotes about his days in the army. She’d heard them all more than once, but Mr. Keane seemed to find them interesting enough. So it was nearly four o’clock before she noticed the time.

She turned to her cousin. “I know you must be exhausted from your journey, so if you’d like to retire to your room for a bit before dinner . . .”

“Actually, after being cooped up on a ship for days and then for hours more in that carriage, I have plenty of restless energy to work off. I’d rather take a walk, or even ride, if that’s possible.”

“Zoe goes riding nearly every day, sir,” Aunt Flo put in eagerly before Zoe could prevent it. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to have you join her.”

Oh, dear, she hadn’t planned on taking her cousin with her on her daily rides. But the likelihood of Tristan’s having already returned was small, so she ought to be safe.

“And you, Lord Olivier?” Mr. Keane asked. “Will you be joining us, too?”

“Not if I can help it,” Papa retorted. “Even in the winter, Rotten Row has far too many people to suit my taste.”

Papa’s sciatica always acted up in damp, cold weather, though he wasn’t about to say that to their cousin. The Major never liked to be seen as weak.

Mr. Keane’s eyes met hers, twinkling. “Any place called Rotten Row has to be entertaining.”

“It is indeed, sir. And if you’ll give me a moment to change into my riding habit, I’d be happy to accompany you there.”

A short while later she and her cousin set off on horseback down Curzon Street for Stanhope Gate, with Ralph lagging far behind. Clearly Papa had ordered Ralph to give them some privacy.

Her cousin apparently noticed, for he glanced back at the footman, then winked at her. “I’m happy your family didn’t come along.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because now you can tell me all the things I really want to know. Where can I find a good cigar? I have completely run out. And where do the most interesting folk congregate—the most reckless ladies and the boldest gentlemen? Am I likely to see many at this Rotten Row place?”

She gaped at him, hardly sure where to begin answering. “Papa has cigars, I think,” she said. “But he would never smoke them around me.”

“Ah.”

“As for where
interesting
people congregate, you will get to meet some tomorrow night at Aunt Flo’s soiree.”

As predicted, she’d had no trouble convincing Aunt Flo to invite the rest of the Duke’s Men, though she’d made no attempt to invite Tristan. She only hoped that if she didn’t see Tristan by tomorrow night, she could find out from Mr. Manton what Tristan had discovered.

Slanting a glance at her cousin, she noticed a decided chill in his expression. He hadn’t seemed too happy about the soiree when Aunt Flo had first mentioned it, either. “I hope you don’t mind that my aunt has arranged a party so soon after your arrival.”

“I confess that I tire of being trotted out to be admired as the great Jeremy Keane,” he said in a clipped tone. But when he caught her frown, he sighed. “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be ungrateful for your family’s kindness. My mother has always spoken highly of
yours, from when your parents visited America shortly before your birth.”

Her breath quickened. “Do you remember it? You would have been old enough.”

“I was eight . . . but I wasn’t home when your parents came. I was visiting my American grandmother at the time.”

“So you didn’t meet them,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“No. Why?”

“I was just curious to know what they were like back then.”

She could hardly tell him that she wanted to know if there’d been any mention of Mama’s impending child when her parents were visiting there. But surely if his family had suspected that Mama hadn’t actually borne Zoe, they would have said something before now to
someone,
and almost certainly to him.

They rode past one of the bigger mansions, and his expression turned pensive. “This seems a very nice part of town.”

The abrupt shift in subject threw her off. “It’s generally considered to be so, yes.”

“It must cost a great deal to live here.”

She bristled at the statement. “I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said, though that was a lie. “Well-bred English ladies—and gentlemen, for that matter—don’t discuss such matters.”

He cast her a sidelong glance. “I’ve offended you. Forgive me.”

“Not at all.”

“I want us to be friends,” he said, in that too-familiar manner he’d used ever since his arrival.

She softened. “We’re cousins, so of course we’ll be friends.”

He arched one eyebrow. “I have a few American cousins who might disagree,” he said dryly. “I’m considered something of an outlier even by family.”

“Why?”

His expression hardened. “Because of my blunt speech. I don’t suffer fools easily.”

“Believe it or not,” she admitted, “I’m considered blunt by English standards myself.”

“Aha, I
knew
it! I was sure from the first that we were kindred spirits. Any lady who wears yellow and lilac together has to share my well-developed sense of adventure.”

He kept using that word
friends.
Perhaps Papa had been too quick to assume that her cousin would be interested in marrying an Englishwoman.

They rode through Stanhope Gate, and her cousin frowned at her. “We’re in a park.”

“Yes. Hyde Park. That’s where Rotten Row is.”

His frown deepened. “I imagined something more . . . ‘rotten.’ A street of gaming hells or theaters or even brothels.”

“Mr. Keane! You must not speak of ‘brothels’ in polite society. Goodness gracious. Do you say such things in front of American ladies?”

“Of course not.” He was staring straight ahead down
the path. “But everyone in America knows that you English lords and ladies are licentious. That’s why my ancestors fled to the colonies in the first place.”

She was about to give him a piece of her mind when he glanced over and she saw the glint in his eyes. Oh, Lord, another one. He was teasing her.

Two could play that game. “And everyone in England knows that you colonials all eat bear and fight off Indians regularly. So where are your bear-hide boots? And where did you stow your hunting knife in your dashing clothes?”

He laughed. “All right, coz, you have me there.”

They’d reached Rotten Row, so she turned onto the wide path. There weren’t nearly as many people riding as in the height of the season, but it was busy enough to require that they keep to one side.

“We’re here,” she told him.

He stared about him in confusion. “Why is a dirt track under the trees called Rotten Row?”

“Truthfully? Because certain of the English could not pronounce ‘route du Roi’ properly.”

“So it was once a road for kings?”

The man continued to surprise her. “You speak French?” She couldn’t resist teasing him again. “I thought you Americans spoke nothing but Indian.”

He eyed her askance. “Firstly, Indian isn’t a language—each tribe has its own. Secondly, I know all the appropriate languages. I did have a proper education.” His tone turned acid. “Even by English standards.”

“Now it’s my turn to beg forgiveness for offending,” she said softly.

“No offense taken.” He stared out over the crowd, his expression pensive. “As I told you before, I wish us to be friends. Because I will need a friend in the coming weeks.”

“Why?”

“You have no idea how cutthroat artists and critics can be. And they are almost certainly going to be disappointed by the work I’ve chosen to exhibit. They’re expecting a young Benjamin West.”

She had heard a little about the American artist who’d visited England more than half a century ago and ended up staying. “Wasn’t he a portrait painter?”

“And a painter of grand historical scenes.” His voice tightened. “That’s what they want, especially since my earlier work was exactly that.” He got that distracted look on his face again. “But I mean to give them something more natural . . . and more savage—scenes of death in dark forests and drunken, bloody fights in taverns. What happens when man encounters his own mortality.”

She swallowed hard. “That sounds . . . um . . .”

“Depressing?”

“Perhaps a bit.” She’d already witnessed Mama’s death firsthand; she didn’t need to see death in paintings, too. “But then, I don’t know much about art.”

He snorted. “That’s the problem. The fine academies of London and Paris and even my native Philadelphia have convinced people that only certain lofty persons
can truly appreciate art. But everyone ought to be able to find works that resonate with them, whether ordinary or fantastical. And decent artists ought to be able to mine drama from even the mundane.”

She brightened. “You mean, like the drama of an owl swooping down upon a mouse?”

“Something like that. Though I prefer that people be part of the drama.” He glanced around. “I was hoping to see some drama at your Rotten Row, but there’s not much drama in
this
crowd to paint. I suppose that cavalry officer flirting with a maid has potential. Or that child entangling himself in a rosebush in his attempt to escape his nurse.”