The Dowager's Wager (11 page)

Alain waved a hand airily. “Don’t get dressed on my
account” He stopped in front of another arrangement of
roses and fingered the card propped inside. “I would think a
man who was hunting for a wife would be very interested.”
Alain squinted and peered hard at the card before continuing. “Of course, that assumes the secret admirer is a woman,
Tristan.”

Tristan looked up sharply from his buttons. “What do you
mean?” He would have to send word to Halsey to get a different writer. If the notes were too obvious, the informant
wouldn’t fall for the bait. The agent would know it was a trap
and Tristan would be dead. The hope of getting more information out of Tristan was the only reason the agent hadn’t
tried to kill him yet. At this point in the game, the informant
had the advantage. He knew who Tristan was. Tristan knew
only that the double agent was a titled English lord with a
twisted sense of loyalty.

Alain crossed the hall and stood next to him, flourishing
the card and doing his best imitation of the dreaded
Professor Snodgrass from their Oxford days. “The handwriting on these cards is very manly. Women don’t tend to
write in such a firm hand.” Alain held up the boldly scripted card for Tristan’s inspection. “This person is trying too hard
to be romantic. Have you read these messages? Women
aren’t so stilted when it comes to pretty phrases”

Alain chuckled and reverted to his own voice. “In fact,
Old Man, I have to say this note qualifies as the worst love
note in history and no doubt written by a rank amateur.” He
winked at his friend. “So you’re even gathering virgins to
your standard these days, eh Tristan? I was under the
impression your discriminating tastes were reserved for the
racier set alone.” In spite of the teasing tone, there was a
condemning quality underlying his voice that set Tristan on
edge.

“Are you quite finished analyzing my love life?” Tristan
responded querulously. He was in no mood to divulge the
intricate truths and falsehoods of his life.

“No, actually, I am not,” Alain replied in a vague tone that
suggested his mind was hard at work on a problem, his eyes
focused exclusively on the card in front of him.

Tristan swallowed hard, warnings sounding in his head
from years of seeing conspiracy in unexpected places. At
school, Alain had been a whiz at problem solving and puzzles. All the boys had been agog at Alain’s ability to discern patterns and give them meaning.

“Tristan, I can’t make it out instantly, but I think your fine
admirer is sending you secret messages,” Alain said in astonishment. “Which would explain the awful prose” Alain
slapped Tristan on the back. “I can’t believe you didn’t
notice, and you were a reconnaissance officer!”

“That’s right, a reconnaissance officer, not a spy. I went
out and surveyed enemy territory and troop placement
before a battle. That’s a little different than spying.” Tristan
said more tersely than he’d meant to. What he told Alain
wasn’t exactly a lie. Reconnoitering was different than espionage. He knew. He’d engaged in both.

Attempting a lighter tone, Tristan said, “Enough Alain.
Give me the card. I doubt my admirer is smart enough to code anything. Let’s go down to Brooke’s and have an early
luncheon.” He reached for the card but Alain held up a hand.

“Wait, Tristan. This prose might not be very good, but
there’s a riddle inside, I swear it. The letters all occur in
some type of order. Can I keep this and work on it?” Alain
said gamely. “You can help if you want, it’ll be like old times
at school. We can pretend it’s the latest math problem from
Professor Snodgrass.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry as he considered the implications of his best friend’s request. Could the informant be
Alain? Was that why the Home and Foreign Offices had
wanted him on the mission, to flush out his best friend? Who
better to get close to the culprit than someone already close
to him? Tristan’s mind warned him not to draw rash conclusions, but his thoughts ran rampant.

“Leave the card here. I must confess I hadn’t read the
cards closely. I’ll look at them later. If they stump me, I’ll let
you know.” Tristan was all nonchalance as if the request
hadn’t seemed strange to him at all.

“Good, I need something to occupy my mind these days.
Sommes is here with the rest of your clothes. Hurry up, I am
starving.” Alain surrendered the card goodnaturedly and
turned the conversation to other things as the butler handed
Tristan a waistcoat and his valet hovered nearby ready to
help with the cravat. “Isabella suggested that you come to
the Burton soiree tonight. It’s a political gathering, but several lords will be there with their families.”

Tristan nodded at the suggestion, letting his valet fuss
over tying a “mathematical” with the cravat.

Over lunch, he proceeded to brood, making the appropriate responses so as not to alert Alain to his distracted frame
of mind, which kept returning to Alain’s interest in the card.
He tried to create a motive. Why would Alain be the informant? He didn’t have any financial problems that Tristan
knew of. Tristan doubted there were any. Isabella’s marriage had restored the family coffers. Her wealth alone would
keep them both comfortably for years.

Tristan knew men didn’t inform for money alone, though.
They did it for loyalty. What would be Alain’s connection
there? A rush cold of sweat turned his palms clammy. The
baroness, Alain’s mother, had been French. Alain had taken
much teasing from the boys at school over the French origins of his name. Such a circumstantial link was ridiculous,
the other part of his brain argued. There were several French
emigres living in Britain and absolutely loyal to the Crown.
So far Alain had done very little to be considered suspect in
this matter. A man searching for information and engaging
in spy work would not be so blatant about his interest in the
cards. Nor would he act as Alain had by calling his attention
to the possibility of the verse hiding a message in code. A
guilty man would find a way to secretly take the cards.

Still, Tristan knew from experience, one of the best ways
to hide was to hide in plain sight. He had done it himself.
That cover would suit Alain perfectly for this foray. For
Alain, it was the perfect set up. He’d already laid the
groundwork for Tristan simply handing him the cards.
Tristan suspected that Alain wouldn’t even need to remove
the cards from his household. He’d just sit down with Tristan
over whisky one night and talk him into translating the cards
with him for entertainment. He might even invite Giles and
Chatham over to do it and make a game of it.

That would complicate matters severely. There would be
no proof that the agent was Alain unless Tristan told the
Home Office. If he held off telling, it would be treason on his
part. Could he turn Alain in? He thought about showing Alain
the ugly scar on his left hand to see his reaction. He tried to
rein in his galloping thoughts. He was getting ahead of himself. He wasn’t even certain Alain was guilty and he had too
little to go on to get worried over the coincidences … yet.

The Burtons’ home buzzed with the hum of intelligent
conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter from groups mingling in the various interconnected rooms. In the main
salon, a room done up in the Egyptian style, Isabella held
court under the light of a hundred candle chandelier, the
flames catching the fire of her diamonds whenever she
swiveled her head. Ostensibly, she turned her head to divide
her attention between the various gentlemen surrounding
her. Covertly, she used the opportunity to divine Tristan’s
state of mind. Her attention span was severely taxed trying
to keep track of her own conversations while watching his.

He’d arrived twenty minutes ago and had yet to approach
her. He was engaged in an animated conversation with Giles,
Chatham and a few other men she knew by name. His
relaxed posture and conservative evening dress did nothing
to suggest that he was the target of much disreputable gossip. Anyone looking at him would not guess anything was
wrong. He looked and acted much as he had acted prior to
the scandal erupting. Didn’t it bother him to be at the center
of such notorious attention? Perhaps the lewd speculations
didn’t upset him because they were the truth? And perhaps
he didn’t care.

Isabella was both eager and reluctant to have him
approach her. She wanted one thing from the evening, clarity. She wanted to confront him about the truth of the rumors
so that she knew where she stood. During the long week,
she’d wrestled with her thoughts and this morning she’d
awakened with an epiphany. If the rumors were true, she
could not in all good conscience let him pay court to innocent young debutantes. They would be helpless against his
purported rakish techniques. She would not be a party to
such one-sided matchmaking. She needed clarity on her
position with him as well. Had he meant to declare his love
before Beatrix Smallwood’s interruption? She could not risk
her heart without the truth.

Disappointed but convinced that Tristan was not going to
materialize at her side in the near future, Isabella snapped
open her fan and applied herself to the conversation at hand,
hoping her court hadn’t noted her distraction. “What of you, Lord Driscoll, what do you make of Lord Burton’s bill for
the orphanages?” Isabella said as she turned to the fairhaired gentleman next to her.

The little knot of admirers chuckled and one of them
spoke up teasingly, “Haven’t you learned by now, Lady
Westbrooke? If it doesn’t have to do with horses or hunting,
Driscoll hasn’t a worthy thought in his head?” This brought
another round of laughter, which Driscoll took goodnaturedly. He spread his hands in defeat and used the opportunity to turn the conversation in another direction.

“It’s true. Cunningham has the right of it.” He smiled,
revealing straight white teeth that added to his already
attractive athletic looks. “I am more interested in horseflesh
than any other thing or person in the whole of England,
except my Lady Westbrooke, of course” Avery Driscoll
gave Isabella one of his dazzling smiles while the laughter
rolled at his own expense.

Everyone in Isabella’s long standing court of gentlemen
knew Avery Driscoll was head over heels for her, and Avery
made no attempt to hide it, regardless of the fact that
Isabella herself seemed oblivious to his intentions, treating
him as nothing more than a highly esteemed friend. That
treatment was part of her great charm.

As a young widow she had a certain amount of license to
behave more freely with gentlemen, nonetheless she had
never behaved loosely with any of the gentlemen who
sought out her attentions. Consequently, her circle had
grown accordingly in appreciation for her virtue. She had a
reputation for treating men respectfully and fairly. She
talked horses and hunting, putting them at ease with her conversation. Even if she had not been stunningly beautiful,
men would have flocked to her by dint of her generous conversation. She did not toy with them or flirtatiously play
them off against one another. She dealt with them honestly,
each in their own turn. But no one mistook her for a manly
woman who eschewed the more feminine pursuits of domesticity. Lady Westbrooke was unquestionably a lady.

“I say, Lady Westbrooke, I heard a rumor the other day
that you were interested in Middleton’s stallion,” Driscoll
continued once the laughter died down, turning his cerulean
gaze on her alone.

“You heard correctly,” Isabella confirmed, her eyes dancing as they had yet to do that evening. Nothing failed to
spark her interest like horseflesh and she definitely needed a
distraction. Her eyes darted back towards the door.

The collective gasp of worry mingled with disapproval
from her group drew her back to the conversation in time to
hear Darcy Prendergast elaborate on his concern. “You cannot be serious. Hellion? Why do you think Middleton is selling him? Certainly your brother is not thinking of letting
you go through with it?” Darcy, always the stickler for propriety in the group, exclaimed with real horror.

“Prendergast is right, Lady Westbrooke,” Cunningham
put in, “the horse is called Hellion for a good reason.
Middleton has been thrown at least four times and he’s one
of the finest riders I know. It would be a waste of money to
purchase a horse you’d never get to ride.” Of them all,
Isabella liked Cunningham the least but beneath his priggish
demeanor, he was polite and thoughtful which was why she
tolerated him. Tonight his penchant for rightness was
beyond the limits of her patience.

“Do you doubt my abilities?” Isabella said with a touch of
steel in her voice that made Cunningham dart his eyes
around the group for support. He was saved from answering
by Alain’s arrival.

“Gentlemen, I give you all a good evening.” Alain nodded
to the group, all of whom he knew on familiar terms. “I must
beg your pardon and steal Isabella away from you for a few
moments”

“What is it?” Isabella asked, slightly cross, as Alain
steered her away from the group. “It had better be important,
we were talking about Hellion.”

Alain gave her a stern glance at the mention of the temperamental horse. “It’s Tristan. He needs a break from the gentlemen. They’re all sniffing around for another bit of
scandal. Take a turn around the salon with him and cheer
him up. Introduce him to a few young ladies. See if you can
drag the truth out of him,” Alain asked sotto voice as they
reached their group of friends.

“Ah, Isabella, you look spectacular tonight!” Giles said
effusively as the circle expanded to include the new arrivals.

“Thank you for noticing, Giles. It’s new.” Isabella looked
down at the gown and fingered the sea green crepe of her
overskirt appreciatively. “I had worried the round bodice
would be too much, especially since it’s not modish to wear
much jewelry this Season. But my modiste insisted it would
look quite the thing. I think she was right. I love the back.”
Isabella gave a small pirouette to show Giles the deep V in
back.