“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
THREE 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 . . .”
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 notic
ed, 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.
How the Scoundrel Seduces Page 7
