The Dowager's Wager (7 page)

“I think she must have gotten the fortunes reversed,” Chatham jested as Giles took the gypsy off to handle payment. “Tristan is the least likely candidate to love hastily. If
any of the fortunes are false, it is his. I think the fortune
teller was overwhelmed by his pretty face.” Chatham winked
at his friend.

Tristan shifted into the light, displeased with the direction
of the conversation. He attempted to come to Isabella’s rescue. “How do you know? Maybe our little gypsy witch was
jealous that Isabella was surrounded by so many handsome
men?”

“Maybe it is all insignificant dribble.” Alain spoke from
where he was reclined on a stone step, looking as comfortable in the winter air as if he were lazing about in a summer
hammock.

Tristan narrowed his gaze, taking in the mischief in his
friend’s eyes. Alain hadn’t said much since the game had
begun. He had his answer momentarily.

“Maybe all our fortunes are false because there is no such
thing as true love. Valentine’s Day is nothing but one gigantic farce.” Alain waved his mask for extra emphasis. “I propose a test for love.”

“Ho! A test of love, I’ve been gone too long.” Giles
sailed back into their midst and took up his position at
Chatham’s right shoulder. “We are agog with interest,
Alain. Proceed.”

“I propose a test to prove the existence of true love, or
lack thereof and by doing so, proving the legitimacy behind
Gresham’s fortune.” Alain offered, pushing up from the step
and pacing the verandah as he outlined the wager. “I think
there is no such thing as true love and all our fortunes are
poppycock. Since Tristan’s is the fortune which will be fulfilled first, we will use his as the experiment. As such, I will
wager that Tristan doesn’t fall in love and fulfill his fortune
by the end of June. Any takers?”

“Do you take us for addlepated nincompoops?” Chatham
said, deflated. “Tristan’s not interested in anyone and he’s been gone for ages. It’ll take the entire Season for him to
reestablish himself. The odds are against us.”

Alain shrugged nonchalantly and pushed his hand
through his hair. “On the contrary, Chatham, I think the odds
are decidedly against me. Isabella has agreed to help Tristan
find a wife and Tristan is eager to wed. Is no one game
enough to test the fortune?” he asked again.

Tristan attempted to put an end to the awkward wager.
“Alain, it seems no one is willing to take your offer. Alas, I
am a poorer catch than I thought.” He had meant it as a self
deprecating joke. Chatham and Giles laughed but his words
found an unlooked for champion in Isabella.

Isabella spoke up. “I will take your wager, brother. Our
friend is a fine catch. I think he will fall in love by June and
prove your cynical outlook false. If I am right, you are going
to buy me the horse of my choice at Tattersalls.” She beamed
at her brother.

“Not that horse, Bella. I will never buy that horse for you.
You know how I feel about the subject” Alain’s voice was
filled with consternation, suggesting they’d been over the
subject before. “That horse is a menace. You could get seriously hurt or worse”

Isabella only laughed. “Then you’d better hope Tristan
keeps his track record clean and doesn’t fall in love.”

Muted sounds of the city at rest randomly pierced
Tristan’s self absorbed thoughts as he climbed the stairs to
his Mayfair town house in the early morning hours. The
clack of Alain’s coach wheels on cobblestones faded into the
distance as he fumbled for his house key. He was looking
forward to a quiet glass of brandy to soothe his raw nerves.
The evening had bordered on disclosures he was not ready
to make and he’d been on constant alert not to let anything
of his recent past slip. He’d only dropped his guard with
Isabella and that had nearly been disastrous. He did not want
her pity over a shattered hand.

He sighed and let himself in. The foyer was dim and
empty. All the staff had retired for the evening, which
suited his need for privacy. Tristan crossed the hall to his
study and came to an abrupt stop as he entered the darkened room. The place felt disturbed. A chilly draft blew
against the folds of his cloak. Silently, he drew forth from
its secret compartment inside his cloak, the slim lethal
blade he’d become accustom to carrying over the last
seven years and spoke in a low, commanding tone. “Show
yourself. I am armed and aware of your presence. I will
not hesitate.”

“Moreland, sheath that blade of yours. I am from the Home Office. We have business to discuss.” A gravelly voice
intoned.

Tristan’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim room and he
followed the voice to the wing-backed chair near the window. He could make out the lines of a man’s figure seated
there. “Light the lamp on the table and show your face. Do
not move from that chair.” He commanded in a stern voice
used to giving orders, although he did not doubt the truth of
the man’s claim. No one but his military superiors called
him by his surname, Moreland.

A match flared. The wick of the lamp caught, revealing an
angular face framed by thinning gray hair and distinguished
by a long nose. Sharp eyes stared back at him. “Hello,
Moreland. As distrustful as ever, I see”

“Halsey.” Tristan said coolly, still alert to danger. He recognized the man. He had worked with him before. This was
no ruse. Halsey was important to the Home Office. They
wouldn’t send him on a fool’s errand.

Getting straight to business, Halsey extended a cream
envelope marked with the official seal. “We have a simple
but vital job for you”

Tristan raised a wary eyebrow. In his experience, those
two words did not go together. No piece of vital espionage
work was ever simple. He voiced his disbelief and broke the
seal, scanning the contents as Halsey spoke.

“We’ve discovered information about the man who evaded you in France last fall. He’s an English informant working for the French. We believe he has recently returned to
England. The office would like you to serve as bait to draw
him out. It’s very simple, as you see”

Tristan gave an empty laugh. “He knows who I am. He’s
already exposed me. There’s nothing I could tempt him
with. He knows I am through with the game”

“You’re wrong. He’s only exposed you to himself. He’s
kept your identity quiet from others. We have reason to
believe that you’re the reason he’s risked returning to England. Whatever is between the two of you has become per sonal to him. The informant is hunting you” Halsey let the
last words hang in the air.

Tristan could feel the tic in his cheek twitch. “What exactly do I need to do?”

“Be yourself. Your exploits in Europe are legendary as an
entertainer and womanizer. Now that you’re home,
announce that you’re throwing a fete at your estate to reintroduce yourself to Society. We’ll resurrect the `secret
admirer’ ploy. If the informant believes you have information, he’ll be less likely to kill you off. The informant will be
bound to show up at the house party, thinking you’re still
receiving information coded in love notes. We are fairly certain the informant is among the ton.” Halsey chortled and
rubbed his hands together in glee. “Everyone will believe
you. In the barracks you’re known as a regular walking bacchanal, my dear fellow. The informant won’t miss such a
perfect opportunity to finish his business with you”

“The Home Office believes the house party ruse will
work?” Tristan questioned.

“As long as you stay alive to give it. There’s always a
chance the informant will strike at you before you discover
who he is.”

The dynamics of the situation were not lost on Tristan.
“This is to be my last assignment?” He understood perfectly how he was being used. He was live bait, which created
an added incentive for him to join in the manhunt. One last
mission and then he could put his career behind him.

“Yes and a good way to end your career, too. You’re
young enough to want a real life back, especially with the
money you’ve got. No sense tempting fate and not living to
make use of that fortune” The statement was about the most
sentimental collection of words Halsey had ever uttered in
his life, Tristan thought as he watched the agent disappear
out the window.

Tristan didn’t relax his stance until Halsey was well out of
sight. Then he strode to the lamp and held the note over the
flame until it burned. Finally, he collapsed into his worn leather chair and put a hand across his eyes. What a damn
fine night this was turning out to be, he thought with sarcasm. Between Isabella discovering his injury, Alain’s crazy
wager and the sudden but perhaps expected news that his
career was over, the evening couldn’t get any worse.

He reflected on all that Halsey had said. Was Halsey
right? Did the rest of the world see him as an immoral
debaucher, to whom nothing was sacred? How ironic when
he prided himself on settling for nothing less than a loving
marriage-his very excuse for not having married yet.

He would marry for love or not marry at all. Of course he
didn’t shout that desire from the rooftops. His cover hadn’t
allowed him to. Tristan groaned. In France, his job had
demanded he create an alternate identity. He’d acted the role
of the socialite officer. He’d given splendid entertainments
and spent most of his time convincing others he was nothing
more than a buffoon who’d bought a commission in the
army for the thrill of it, having no real leadership or military
capabilities to recommend himself otherwise.

The ladies had loved him. He’d had a string of highly
public affairs, many of which weren’t real and others which
were exaggerated-the most prominent being with the
incomparable Beatrix Smallwood, the supposed widow of a
cavalry officer but in reality his accomplice and partner. All
of which made it easy for him to overhear or be the direct
recipient of information he would not have been privy to if
he’d been a serious military man. The affairs made it easy to
explain his late night absences from his quarters on Rue de
Madeleine.

Tristan groaned. If it was to be business as usual for this
last assignment, Beatrix was bound to show up. He had
hoped that when he’d left France he had also left Beatrix
behind, along with the blurred lines between the fiction and
actuality of their relationship. He did not relish the thought
of explaining Beatrix to Isabella. He wasn’t even sure it was
possible to explain Beatrix without compromising the
integrity of the mission.

It seemed that his alternate identity had become his reality. Halsey had said he just had to be himself. Be himself? If
he were really himself, he’d be miles from London at one of
his estates, burying himself away with his gardens and
greenhouses. The real Tristan embraced nature, not manmade intrigue. The real Tristan wanted to live in the country
with a wife who loved the same things he loved. But until
then, he’d be stranded in London living out a ruse, as Halsey
so eloquently put it, “as a walking bacchanal.”

Three blocks away at Westbrooke House, Isabella stared
helplessly at the pages of the book she’d brought to bed with
her. The book was supposed to have guaranteed a quick passage into oblivion, but even with the long night of dancing
behind her, sleep would not come. Her mind whirled with
visions of Tristan. She replayed the evening in her head like
a Covent Garden drama. His costume had been aptly chosen.
He’d exuded a feral power that both startled and intrigued
her when he’d neatly insinuated himself into her group of
admirers. His polished manners had deftly dispersed them,
leaving her alone with him.

Their walk in the garden had been most revealing.
Isabella could not forget the horrid scar he bore on his hand
or the naked vulnerability that had glinted in his eyes, if only
for a moment, when she’d held the injured hand in her own
and begged his story.

It wasn’t the maimed hand that had been revealing,
although it had been a shock of its own. It was the realization that the openness she had once associated with Tristan’s
nature was gone. She had not been conscious of its omission
when Alain had brought him to the town house. She’d only
intuitively found Tristan changed somehow. She’d passed it
off as expected after such a long absence. But tonight when
he’d adroitly steered the conversation away from his injury,
she’d recognized what was different about him. Instead of
cultivating mannerly behavior as a natural extension of him self, he was now using it as a facade behind which to hide
his true self.

The book Isabella held slid to the floor with a thud as she
recognized the full impact of such a choice. Tristan was hiding something and it was more than his injured hand,
although Isabella had no doubts that his hand was in some
way connected to the deeper issue. She yawned in frustration. She’d managed to solve one mystery regarding Tristan
only to find another.

Isabella gazed down on the bustling street below from
the long window casements of her chinois-styled front
drawing room. She sighed wistfully. She’d be out there
among the people of the city that morning if it hadn’t been
for her impending appointment with her dear friend, Amy
Weatherspoon, Lady Briarton. She hadn’t seen Amy since
she and the earl had retired to the country three months ago.
Amy would arrive within the hour, which left too much
time to sit idly, yet not enough time to actually do something useful.