How the Scoundrel Seduces (9 page)

The relief on her face spiked his temper higher, and it was all he could do not to grab her and kiss her again, just to provoke her.

“Well, then.” She donned the ladylike reserve she seemed to put on and off like a cloak. “I’ll see you in a few days at Rotten Row.”

Then she was gone, leaving him with his blood in high riot and his hands clenched at his sides.

God, he really hoped that his jaunt to Liverpool turned up clear evidence that she was her father’s heir. Because if he had to deal with her for weeks on end, he might end up strangling her.

Or doing something far more dangerous.

No, what was he thinking? It was to his advantage to have her be part Gypsy, and he dared not jeopardize the investigation by being an arse. He needed this chance to locate Milosh. He would just have to keep his distance, and communicate with her as little as necessary.

That shouldn’t be too hard; she was soon going to be gadding about with her American cousin. Though that thought oddly didn’t sit well with him, either.

The door opened and he tensed, thinking she’d returned. But it was only Dom, with a pile of papers in his hands.

“I caught Hucker outside, watching the place,” Dom said grimly as he set the pile on the desk.

That instantly put Tristan on alert. “Bloody hell. George must really be desperate to find some way to ruin us, if he can spare Hucker for days at a time.”

“Either that or George can’t afford to pay the man his salary, so Hucker’s hoping that if he can find something on us, George will give him money for it. My spies in Ashcroft tell me that our brother falls deeper into debt every year.”

“Which only makes him more dangerous,” Tristan pointed out. “A cornered animal will attack with particular savagery.”

“True. That’s why I made sure to run Hucker off for
good. I told him that if I saw him around here again, I would charge him with breaking and entering, and get my close friend the chief magistrate to lock him up.”

Tristan tensed. “Do you think he believed you?”

“Hucker’s a coward at heart. He won’t risk his neck on the off chance that George will save it for him.”

“I hope you’re right. Because our brother is determined to see me in shackles, one way or another, and he’ll do whatever is necessary to make that happen.”

But Tristan wouldn’t be the only one to suffer for it. Dom would almost certainly lose the business if Tristan was dragged to gaol over some trumped-up charge. So it wasn’t just for himself that Tristan wanted George brought down; it was for Dom, too.

Dom had never once chastised Tristan for the chaos set in motion by the theft of Blue Blazes, but that didn’t alter Tristan’s guilt. He hated that he’d given George a reason to deprive Dom of his rightful inheritance. He hated that he’d sentenced Dom to a life outside of the society where he belonged. And most of all, he hated that there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

“Fortunately,” Dom said, “I managed to send Hucker packing before Lady Zoe came downstairs.”

“But he saw her enter?”

“Almost certainly, but she came in a hackney, so he won’t know who she is, and he definitely won’t know why she was here.”

“I damned well hope not. That would be sticky for her as well as for us.”

Dom slanted a glance at him. “Speaking of sticky
matters, her ladyship seemed awfully flustered when she left.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Tristan lied. Dom would probably
not
approve of how Tristan had handled the woman.

Not that it mattered. They were equal partners in the business, which meant they had equal say in everything. Tristan had put plenty of his own money into Manton’s Investigations once he’d returned from France, so Dom had added his name to all the legal documents.

“What do you think of Lady Zoe’s tale?” Dom asked him.

“I think it highly unlikely that her father acquired her from a Gypsy.”

“Though if he did, she has a reason for concern,” Dom pointed out.

“I suppose.”

Dom leaned against the desk to eye him with rank curiosity. “Lady Zoe irritates you, doesn’t she?”

To avoid his brother’s too-probing gaze, Tristan headed for the decanter stashed in a cabinet near the window. “No more than the average lady of rank.”

“That’s nonsense. I’ve never seen you be anything but perfectly charming to pretty women, no matter what their rank. If anything, the ladies of rank rouse you to exert yourself even further. You flirt and you flatter, and in so doing dismiss them as anything but potential bed partners. It’s your peculiar way of keeping them at arm’s length.”

Sometimes he hated how perceptive his blasted
half brother was. “So perhaps I’ve changed my tactics,” Tristan said as he poured himself a generous glass of brandy. “Perhaps I’ve given up on hiding how much ladies of rank irritate me.”

“And you made this profound change for Lady Zoe?” Dom lowered his voice. “Take care, Tristan. That particular young lady is not yours for the picking.”

Tristan downed a slug of brandy. “I don’t recall saying that she was.”

“You didn’t have to. I saw how disheveled she looked when she left here, with her lips reddened and her—”

“Are you implying I did something inappropriate while you were gone?”

“Did you?”

Tristan scowled. “If you didn’t trust me, you shouldn’t have given me the case,” he said, avoiding the question. “But now that you have, I’ll handle it however I see fit.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I’m not as bad as rumor has it, you know,” he grumbled. At Dom’s snort, he added, “All right, so I’m almost as bad. But that doesn’t mean I can’t behave myself around Lady Zoe.”

“I hope you will. Because she’s the marrying sort—not the tumble-in-the-hay sort.”

“I’m quite aware of that, believe me,” he bit out.

“Although I suppose if your intentions are honorable—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, you know I’m not looking to marry.”

Dom blinked. “
Ever? 
”

“I suppose I will one day, after the business is on a firmer footing.” He swirled the brandy in his glass. “But only when I find a pretty woman who doesn’t bore me, with a keen mind and a solid character.”

“That’s unlikely to happen, when you only associate with featherheaded actresses and giggling opera dancers.” Dom’s gaze narrowed on him. “And might I point out that Lady Zoe fits your description.”

Tristan glowered at him. “First you tell me that the woman isn’t mine for the picking, and now you suggest I marry her.”

“I’m merely saying—”

“I don’t see
you
rushing to marry, either,” he went on, tired of Dom’s poking at him. Time to go on the offensive. “Even though Jane Vernon has been waiting fruitlessly for you all these years.”

The temperature in the room instantly dropped. The minute Dom clenched his jaw hard enough to shatter teeth, Tristan regretted baiting him. But he
did
want to know why his idiot brother remained stubborn about the woman he’d been engaged to thirteen years ago. It was clear to everyone on God’s green earth that his former fiancée would still marry him if Dom would only renew his offer.

“Leave Jane out of this,” Dom snapped. “Lady Zoe is our client, and I deserve to know whether you can handle her properly.”

“Trust me, I can handle Lady Zoe perfectly well.” Properly, improperly, and every way in between. As
long as she didn’t get too close. “I can certainly handle her better than you handled Jane.”

“Damn it, Tristan—”

“I suppose you’ve heard that she’s engaged to the Earl of Blakeborough.”

Judging from the warning glitter in Dom’s eyes, he had indeed heard. “I don’t want to talk about Jane.”

“Right. Because God forbid you’d admit that you shouldn’t have let her go after George threw us all out.”

“I didn’t let her . . . Blast it, this is none of your affair!” Shoving away from the desk, he headed for the door. “I wish you and Lisette would stop plaguing me about Jane. You don’t know the situation.”

“We would if you told us.”

Dom glared at him. “Go to hell.” Then he headed out the door.

Tristan stared after him, sipping his brandy. Getting Dom to leave him be afforded him little satisfaction. Dom still clearly had feelings for Jane, but that wouldn’t do him a bit of good if Jane meant to marry some other fellow.

Perhaps it was Jane’s connection to George that put Dom off. As the cousin of George’s wife, Jane spent a great deal of time with the arse. It might have changed her. George might even have convinced Jane to see matters from his side—though if he had, Dom was better off without her.

Tristan set his glass down. That gave him just one more reason to find out George’s dirty secrets. Because he had no doubt that George was at the root of why
Jane had jilted Dom. And Tristan would make the bloody devil pay for
that,
too.

He glanced out the window. It wasn’t dark yet, and the mail coach didn’t leave London for Liverpool until 7:00
P.M.
If he traveled tonight he could be in the Customs offices first thing in the morning, which might shorten his trip.

Good. Because the sooner he found out the truth about Lady Zoe’s birth, the sooner he could either move on to the next phase of his investigation . . . or be free to pursue his other leads.

Either way, he
would
figure out how to hoist George by his own petard.

5

T
HREE DAYS AFTER
her visit to Manton’s Investigations, Zoe paced the drawing room of her family’s town house, which spanned most of one end of Berkeley Square. Aunt Flo sat perfectly straight on the only halfway comfortable chair available, awaiting Mr. Jeremy Keane with complete composure.

Meanwhile, Zoe was a bundle of nerves. After landing in Liverpool, her cousin had sent a note ahead that he’d be arriving sometime midafternoon. It was already well past noon, so he should be here any moment. Two days early, thanks to favorable winds.

Botheration. Mr. Bonnaud was almost certainly still in Liverpool himself.

His voice sounded in her head.
After what we just did, you can damned well call me by my Christian name in private.

Her cheeks heated. She refused to think of that scoundrel as Tristan . . . except at night, when reliving
their foolish, impulsive,
intoxicating
kisses. He shouldn’t have kissed her.

She shouldn’t have let him. Because now she thought of it all the time. Which was ridiculous.
And
annoying. Truly, men as smooth-tongued and handsome as Mr. Tristan Bonnaud shouldn’t even be allowed out in public until they were at least forty.

When an image of a prison full of rakes, rogues, and scoundrels waiting for their hair to go gray sprang into her mind, she giggled.

“No giggling,” Aunt Flo chided as she set down her embroidery. “You sound like a chit fresh out of the schoolroom. You are heir to the Earl of Olivier, for heaven’s sake! Behave like it. Gentlemen do not like silly girls.”

“No, they do not,” Papa said as he entered the room. “And what in God’s name are you wearing, girl?”

She gazed down at her perfectly presentable gown. “A day dress. Why?”

“It’s yellow. It should be white. Girls your age are supposed to wear white.”

“But—” Zoe began.

“She’s hardly a girl anymore, Roderick,” Aunt Flo said, patting her perfectly coifed salt-and-pepper hair. “Besides, white hasn’t been the fashionable color for day dresses for some time.”

“Fashion be damned, she ought to be wearing white.” He tugged at his modestly tied white cravat as he went to gaze out the window. “Mr. Keane is not coming here to see a circus show.”

Zoe winced. “I hardly think that a yellow—”

“And what about those purple gloves?” he asked, directing the question to Aunt Flo. “And the black things about her wrists?”

“The color is lilac, not purple, and the lace bracelets are—” Zoe began.

“Well, I agree with you there,” Aunt Flo said, taking small, even stitches in the fabric. “Yellow and black and lilac. A vile combination, but one she got straight out of some ladies’ magazine. And you know your daughter. She must have a bit of ‘dash’ in her clothes . . . and in the furniture and draperies and her curricle.”

Zoe sighed. “I don’t see what’s wrong with—”

“Gentlemen don’t like ‘dash,’ ” Papa muttered. “They like sensible girls with sensible ideas.”

“I have sensible ideas,” Zoe protested. “It’s just that—”

“It’s not the clothing that worries me, flashy though it may be,” Aunt Flo went on. “It’s the way she carries herself. She walks too fast for a lady.”

Papa turned to scowl at Aunt Flo. “Don’t be absurd. She walks perfectly fine.”

“Says the Major, who would have us all marching about like soldiers if he could.” Aunt Flo stabbed a needle into her embroidery. “That’s the trouble. She spends too much time rambling about Winborough with you. I don’t know what Agnes was thinking, to let you drag her everywhere from the time she was five.”

“I always liked—” Zoe began.

“She had to learn how to manage the place,” Papa
said stiffly. “It’ll be hers one day. And I’ll have you know . . .”