How the Scoundrel Seduces (7 page)

She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Not unless he has to,” Mr. Manton broke in. His tone turned forbidding. “I promised you our discretion, but that was contingent upon yours. If you choose to engage my brother in a fight that could ruin him, then you’ll have to engage me as well. And I assure you, I’ll defend us both by any means necessary.”

The warning gave her pause. She hadn’t meant to take this to such an extreme. It was just that Mr. Bonnaud had the most abominable ability to shatter her control. Now, thanks to him, she would have to regain lost ground . . . which meant choking down great gobs of her pride.

“I understand.” She forced a smile. “And I . . . apologize for my rash words. Manton’s Investigations
is
doing me a favor, after all. I didn’t mean to be ungracious.”

When Mr. Manton acknowledged her words with a tight nod, she went on hastily, “But I still think that Mr. Bonnaud—”

“You have no choice,” Mr. Manton cut in. “And for more reasons than my brother’s knowledge of the Romany. You see, I’m in the middle of a case involving a marquess’s missing valet, and Victor is tied up in a
case at court. Tristan happens to be the only one free to pursue this matter just now.” He eyed her steadily. “Unless, of course, you wish to wait longer to have it taken care of.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “You know perfectly well I can’t.”

“Then Tristan will be handling your case.” As the knocker sounded downstairs again, he added, “I really must tend to that. I’ll leave you and my brother to work out the details.”

Then he was gone, and she was alone with her nemesis.

How mortifying. She couldn’t even bear to look at him after she’d let her temper get the better of her. When would she learn that just because she
felt
something didn’t mean she had to let it fly? As Mama always said,
If you keep your true feelings private, you’ll never feel regret.

Regret was a bitter pill indeed.

After a moment, Mr. Bonnaud murmured, “Was that really so hard?”

“What?”

“Apologizing.”

“You have no idea,” she muttered.

When he remained silent, she ventured to look at him and was astonished to find his smirk gone and his eyes surveying her thoughtfully. “Pax,” he said. “I didn’t mean to provoke you.”

“Oh, yes, you did! You’ve been provoking me since the moment we met.”

“True. Nonetheless, I shouldn’t have carried it quite so far.”

She eyed him uncertainly. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Take it however you like, princess.”

Princess?
Knowing him, he probably meant that as an insult. “Last I checked, I was never heir to a royal title.”

His eyes gleamed. “A Gypsy princess, then,” he amended in a slow, silky drawl that made her stomach flip over.

“We’re not even sure that I
am
a Gypsy.”

“No. But by the time I’m done, we’ll know the truth one way or the other, I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Leaning back against the desk, he stared hard at her. “I happen to be very good at what I do. I worked for La Sûreté Nationale in France for years, you know.”

“I didn’t know, actually.” But she did know about the French secret police, who had supposedly cut crime in Paris by nearly half. There’d been articles about them, now that the home secretary, Robert Peel, was attempting to start a police force in London. “Details of your former life haven’t appeared in the newspapers.”

“Yes, well, there are many things that don’t appear in the papers. That doesn’t make them any less true.”

He had a point. And now her curiosity was roused. “What exactly did you do for La Sûreté Nationale?”

“I was an agent. So was Victor. We caught criminals by pretending to
be
criminals.”

“That certainly explains why you were so successful at playing the thief the day we first met,” she said testily. “You make a very convincing criminal.”

One eyebrow quirked up. “You really don’t like me much, do you?”

Torn between telling the truth and being circumspect, she settled for something in the middle. “I don’t like having pistols pointed at me.” Her voice hardened. “Or mud slung on my father’s good name.”

“Ah.” He drummed his fingers against the desk, then said softly, “Still, you can’t ignore the possibility that you could be your father’s by-blow.”

She winced. She had never met anyone like him—so blunt, so rude, so . . . honest. She’d find it refreshing, if not for the fact that he was insulting Papa. “You’d really enjoy it if I proved to be so, wouldn’t you? It would make me the same as you.”

“Hardly.” Eyes of arctic blue pinned her in place. “Unlike you, I don’t get to choose between being the pampered heir to an estate or merely
marrying
the pampered heir to an estate. So no, we aren’t remotely the same.”

“In one respect we are.” She regarded him with a faint smile. “It seems you really don’t like me much, either.”

He blinked. Then his lips twitched as if he fought a smile of his own. “Actually, I haven’t decided that yet.” He raked her with a slow, sensual glance that sent a thrill skittering through her. “I daresay I could like you a great deal . . . under the right circumstances.”

There was no mistaking his meaning. Or its effect on her. And she would die before she let him guess it. “Does that sort of blatantly lascivious glance generally sway women to jump into your bed?” she asked tartly.

“Often enough to make it worth the attempt.” He grinned. “Besides, it need only work occasionally. A man must sleep
sometime.
”

She rolled her eyes. “At least now I understand why you’re convinced that Drina was my father’s mistress. You judge him by your own low standards.”

The insult slid off him like rain off an oak leaf. “Have you a better explanation for why Drina’s people left her to bear a child among strangers in the dead of winter?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly. “But there
is
one hole in your lovely theory. When I asked around in Highthorpe, I was told of a local proscription against Gypsies dating back for decades. So how could Papa have taken a Gypsy mistress when there were never any Gypsies around Winborough?”

“Can you really be sure of that, princess?”

“Stop calling me that.” She knew he meant to mock her for being the “pampered heir to an estate,” something he clearly neither understood nor approved of. “And I’m telling you, I never so much as saw a Gypsy growing up.”

He eyed her skeptically. “No tinkers, no itinerant musicians, no soothsayers of any kind?”

“Not in Highthorpe.” A long-ago memory drifted into her mind. “I did meet a fortune-teller once, but that was in London. One of my good friends had a Gypsy
soothsayer at her birthday party when I was a girl. I remember because Papa got so angry when I told—”

Pain ripped through her. “Oh, Lord, I’d forgotten that. He went on and on about the foolishness of hiring Gypsies to spout nonsense in the ears of young, respectable girls. I thought he was just being overly cautious, as usual.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But what if it was more than that?”

“You mean, what if she was your father’s mistress?”

“No, of course not,” she said dismissively. “What if Papa didn’t like Gypsies because he bought me from one of them?”

His face clouded over. “I told you—the Romany don’t sell their children.”

“But it
could
happen.”

“It’s highly unlikely.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It makes far more sense that the former mistress of your father would have shown up at the party because she wanted to find out if you were all right. Did the woman show any special interest in you? Ask you any probing questions?”

“Not really. She just read my palm along with all the other girls’.”

“What did she say?”

“A great many things.” As the memories rose, she walked over to the window to stare out at the waiting hackney. “That I was born of secrets and sadness. That it would either destroy my future or lead me to greatness. And she said something about a person becoming the hand of my vengeance. Whatever that means.”

“It could mean anything,” he said with surprising gentleness. “A good fortune-teller leaves the predictions vague or mysterious on purpose so that you can make what you wish of them. Most of what they tell people is rot anyway.”

She dearly hoped so, considering something else the woman had said:
A handsome gentleman with eyes like the sky and hair like a raven’s wing will come into your life.

Oh, Lord. She could well imagine what Mr. Bonnaud would make of that. Then again, perhaps Jeremy Keane also had blue eyes and dark hair. Or perhaps fortune-telling
was
all rot.

She drew a deep breath. “So, I suppose you mean to focus your investigation around proving my father to be an adulterer.”

“Actually, I should first determine if your aunt’s tale is even true. I’ll head for Liverpool in the morning to examine the Customs records for the year of your birth.”

“That sounds time-consuming.”

“It will take a few days, yes.”

“But I don’t
have
a few days!”

“You do want to be sure that she’s not lying before we pursue the Gypsy connection, don’t you?”

She bit her lower lip. “I suppose.”

“Then you must let me do this my own way. I’ll work as swiftly as I can.” He glanced at the window. “But keep in mind that if the Customs records prove your aunt’s story to be true, it will take me quite a bit longer to explore your past. All of this occurred years ago, which
makes it hard enough, but with the Romany keeping to themselves as they do . . .” He shook his head.

“I know,” she said. “But at least I’ll have some idea of how to proceed with my cousin while you’re looking for the mother who actually bore me.”

Silence fell between them, thick as fog and twice as impenetrable. She could feel his eyes examining her, as if he were looking for cracks in her armor. He wouldn’t have to look hard. Lately, her armor was flimsier than muslin.

Then he shoved away from the desk. “You do realize you don’t have to pursue this at all. You could just go on with your life and hope no one ever learns of this.”

“But what if someone did? If I
am
a Gypsy, then my Gypsy mother, at the very least, knows where I am and who I am. What’s to stop her—or someone in her family—from trying to blackmail me once I inherit the title and my fortune? And if word got back to my cousin, he would surely fight to gain the title and the estate and disinherit me. That would be disastrous.”

“Because of the scandal?” he said cynically. “Or because you’d lose all that lovely money and high rank?”

“Neither, you dratted—” She caught herself when she saw the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. He was deliberately provoking her. Again. She moderated her tone. “Hundreds of people depend upon Winborough for their livelihood, and I take my responsibilities to them very seriously. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You live for yourself alone.”

“Yes, thank God,” he said, though a telltale tightening
about his lips belied his seeming nonchalance. “I wouldn’t have your meddlesome duties for all the money in England.”

“My cousin might very well feel the same. He’s an artist, accustomed to catering only to his muse, not to the needs of tenants and servants. And Winborough can ill afford an owner who will let it fall into disrepair while he’s off painting pictures of trees.”

“You’re not an art lover, I take it,” he said sarcastically.

“I like art well enough in its place, but there are more important matters to deal with on a large estate. That’s why it’s imperative that I marry Mr. Keane if I prove
not
to be the legitimate heir. Papa isn’t exactly young, so I can’t take the chance of my cousin inheriting everything in his own right before we can make sure he could handle it.”

“Fine. Then marry him.” His expression was impassive. “Even if you
do
turn out to be your parents’ daughter, you still have to marry in order to produce the requisite heir. Personally, I think you ought to do as you please and take your chances, but if you insist on saving the family estate, you might as well marry him as anyone else. Assuming that you can stomach him, that is.”

Men could be so obtuse. “There’s more to love than that.”

He snorted. “Who said anything about love? Marriage, especially in your world, is about two things: gaining or securing property, and satisfying one’s desires.
You already know what you have to do to secure your property. Now you need only determine whether you can desire your cousin and he desire you.”

“Yes, and what if he doesn’t? What then?”

He swept her with a long, heated glance. “Then he’s blind and stupid, and you won’t wish to marry him anyway.”

When the offhand compliment sent her silly pulse into a scamper, she chided it silently. Mr. Bonnaud was well known for his blithe flatteries. He didn’t mean anything by them. “All right, what if he desires me but I don’t like
him
?”

“Liking has nothing to do with desire.” He walked to the door. “Trust me, you’ll know within seconds of meeting him whether you desire him. Although if your cousin has any talent at all with women, he can
make
you desire him.”

“How ludicrous.” She couldn’t believe they were even having this conversation. It was most . . . inappropriate. Yet she didn’t want to stop it, either. “I could never desire someone I just met, no matter what he did to coax me into it. And I certainly could never desire someone I didn’t like.”

“You think not, do you?” He shut the door, then came toward her.

“What are you doing?” she squeaked, alarmed by the determination in his eyes.

He stopped mere inches away, his gaze dropping to her mouth. When she swallowed beneath the force of his penetrating stare, a sudden heat flared in his face.
“Since we’ve already established that you don’t like
me,
I’m giving you a little demonstration of what I mean.”