How the Scoundrel Seduces

by Sabrina Jeffries

  They rode past one of the bigger mansions, and his expression turned pensive. “This seems a very nice part of town.”

  The abrupt shift in subject threw her off. “It’s generally considered to be so, yes.”

  “It must cost a great deal to live here.”

  She bristled at the statement. “I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said, though that was a lie. “Well-bred English ladies—and gentlemen, for that matter—don’t discuss such matters.”

  He cast her a sidelong glance. “I’ve offended you. Forgive me.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I want us to be friends,” he said, in that too-familiar manner he’d used ever since his arrival.

  She softened. “We’re cousins, so of course we’ll be friends.”

  He arched one eyebrow. “I have a few American cousins who might disagree,” he said dryly. “I’m considered something of an outlier even by family.”

  “Why?”

  His expression hardened. “Because of my blunt speech. I don’t suffer fools easily.”

  “Believe it or not,” she admitted, “I’m considered blunt by English standards myself.”

  “Aha, I knew it! I was sure from the first that we were kindred spirits. Any lady who wears yellow and lilac together has to share my well-developed sense of adventure.”

  He kept using that word friends. Perhaps Papa had been too quick to assume that her cousin would be interested in marrying an Englishwoman.

  They rode through Stanhope Gate, and her cousin frowned at her. “We’re in a park.”

  “Yes. Hyde Park. That’s where Rotten Row is.”

  His frown deepened. “I imagined something more . . . ‘rotten.’ A street of gaming hells or theaters or even brothels.”

  “Mr. Keane! You must not speak of ‘brothels’ in polite society. Goodness gracious. Do you say such things in front of American ladies?”

  “Of course not.” He was staring straight ahead down the path. “But everyone in America knows that you English lords and ladies are licentious. That’s why my ancestors fled to the colonies in the first place.”

  She was about to give him a piece of her mind when he glanced over and she saw the glint in his eyes. Oh, Lord, another one. He was teasing her.

  Two could play that game. “And everyone in England knows that you colonials all eat bear and fight off Indians regularly. So where are your bear-hide boots? And where did you stow your hunting knife in your dashing clothes?”

  He laughed. “All right, coz, you have me there.”

  They’d reached Rotten Row, so she turned onto the wide path. There weren’t nearly as many people riding as in the height of the season, but it was busy enough to require that they keep to one side.

  “We’re here,” she told him.

  He stared about him in confusion. “Why is a dirt track under the trees called Rotten Row?”

  “Truthfully? Because certain of the English could not pronounce ‘route du Roi’ properly.”

  “So it was once a road for kings?”

  The man continued to surprise her. “You speak French?” She couldn’t resist teasing him again. “I thought you Americans spoke nothing but Indian.”

  He eyed her askance. “Firstly, Indian isn’t a language—each tribe has its own. Secondly, I know all the appropriate languages. I did have a proper education.” His tone turned acid. “Even by English standards.”

  “Now it’s my turn to beg forgiveness for offending,” she said softly.

  “No offense taken.” He stared out over the crowd, his expression pensive. “As I told you before, I wish us to be friends. Because I will need a friend in the coming weeks.”

  “Why?”

  “You have no idea how cutthroat artists and critics can be. And they are almost certainly going to be disappointed by the work I’ve chosen to exhibit. They’re expecting a young Benjamin West.”

  She had heard a little about the American artist who’d visited England more than half a century ago and ended up staying. “Wasn’t he a portrait painter?”

  “And a painter of grand historical scenes.” His voice tightened. “That’s what they want, especially since my earlier work was exactly that.” He got that distracted look on his face again. “But I mean to give them something more natural . . . and more savage—scenes of death in dark forests and drunken, bloody fights in taverns. What happens when man encounters his own mortality.”

  She swallowed hard. “That sounds . . . um . . .”

  “Depressing?”

  “Perhaps a bit.” She’d already witnessed Mama’s death firsthand; she didn’t need to see death in paintings, too. “But then, I don’t know much about art.”

  He snorted. “That’s the problem. The fine academies of London and Paris and even my native Philadelphia have convinced people that only certain lofty persons can truly appreciate art. But everyone ought to be able to find works that resonate with them, whether ordinary or fantastical. And decent artists ought to be able to mine drama from even the mundane.”

  She brightened. “You mean, like the drama of an owl swooping down upon a mouse?”

  “Something like that. Though I prefer that people be part of the drama.” He glanced around. “I was hoping to see some drama at your Rotten Row, but there’s not much drama in this crowd to paint. I suppose that cavalry officer flirting with a maid has potential. Or that child entangling himself in a rosebush in his attempt to escape his nurse.”

  His gaze wandered farther, then fixed on something off the path ahead. “Better yet, there’s that mysterious rider under the oak tree ahead who’s been watching us for the past ten minutes.”

  “Watching us?” She followed the direction of his gaze, then caught her breath.

  Lord save her. Tristan was here.

  6

  TRISTAN WASN’T SURE why it annoyed him to see Zoe riding with a gentleman who looked so blond, well formed, and respectable, if a bit raffish.

  Perhaps it was because the man was also clearly eligible, given his age and the way he edged his horse closer to her protectively as he spotted Tristan staring. Apparently the sight of a road-weary fellow wearing a serviceable greatcoat stained by mud and rain put Zoe’s blasted gentleman friend on guard.

  Good. Let him worry.

  Still, with Zoe’s gaze assessing him, Tristan regretted riding over here in such haste. He should have waited until tomorrow, when he could look more presentable. But given his news, he’d thought he should tell her as soon as possible.

  Ballocks, you arse. You just wanted to see her.

  He scowled. All right, so perhaps she was a sight for sore eyes in that fur-trimmed riding habit that skimmed her figure so well. And perhaps he’d been looking forward to baiting her and making her blush. To annoying her by calling her “princess.”

  It meant nothing. She meant nothing. No matter how entertaining he found her, in the end she was only a client and an excuse for searching for Milosh.

  Right. And he was only an investigator. Who itched to kiss her throat just where the fur brushed the skin. To feel that delicate mouth open beneath—

  Damn it, he was not here for that.

  She murmured something to the gentleman, then rode toward Tristan with her companion at her side.

  He gritted his teeth. Why hadn’t she dispensed with the fellow so he could give her the news in private?

  “Mr. Bonnaud!” she said as they reached the shade of the oak. “How good to see you again.”

  “Good day, Lady Zoe. You’re looking very well.”

  Tristan watched her companion’s reaction, but if the man knew who Tristan was by name, he showed no sign of it. Behind him, however, Footman Ralph glowered at Tristan in a way that gave him pause. Had Zoe confided to the pup what had happened in the office earlier in the week?

  That seemed unlikely. Even he would surely have reported that to her father if he’d known.

  “Mr. Bonnaud,” she said in the lyrical voice that made his every muscle flex
, “may I present my cousin Mr. Jeremy Keane?”

  Bloody hell. Leave it to the man to show up when and where he wasn’t wanted.

  Keane acknowledged him with a nod, but his gaze grew calculating as he glanced from Tristan to Zoe. “Any friend of my cousin’s is a friend of mine, sir. How exactly do you know Lady Zoe?”

  Before Tristan could answer, Zoe jumped in. “We met at some party, did we not, Mr. Bonnaud?”

  “Yes.” Tristan forced a smile. “Clearly a very dull one, since neither of us can remember which one it was.”

  Her cousin gave a hearty laugh. Damn. The chap had a sense of humor. Not to mention extraordinary good looks for an American. Tristan had secretly hoped that Keane would be less . . . Adonis-like. Especially after what Tristan had learned on his trip.

  “In any case,” Zoe hastened to say, “my cousin has just arrived from America.” She cast Tristan a meaningful glance. “He disembarked in Liverpool.”

  It took Tristan a second to catch on to why she’d mentioned it. “I was just in Liverpool myself, Mr. Keane.”

  “Were you? How odd. What were you doing there?”

  Fortunately, Tristan was accustomed to thinking on his feet. “I was meeting a friend of mine and his wife, who’d come here from Canada. I’d heard gossip that his wife had recently borne a child, but the rumors turned out to be false. She set foot on shore without a babe in arms. And her husband confirmed that she was not, nor had ever been, enceinte.”

  He dared not look at Zoe, but her sharp intake of breath told him that she’d taken his meaning. She would want to hear details later, of course, want to know exactly what he’d found out at the Customs office, but at least she now had a definitive answer as to whether she’d been born on her parents’ voyage.

  She had not.

  But clearly she didn’t quite wish to believe it. “Are you talking about our mutual friend . . . Mrs. Major?” she asked shakily.

  Mrs. Major? Oh, right, she called her father “the Major.” “Yes, that’s her. Came on shore and went through Customs with only her husband for company.”

  The color drained from her pretty cheeks. When she almost seemed to sway in the saddle, he wished to God he didn’t have to do this with an audience.

  Swallowing convulsively, she searched his face. “I was so hopeful . . .”

  “Yes, we all were.” Well, that was a lie—he’d been hoping to be able to pursue the Gypsy angle further, and now he could. But knowing what it meant for her, he hated having to give her such news. “Unfortunately, the Majors hadn’t added a child to their nursery after all.”

  Twisting the reins round in her hand, she gave a jerky bob of her head. “It’s sad, but such is life. I suppose it can’t be helped.”

  “No.” Taking pity on her, Tristan changed the subject. “So, Mr. Keane, what brings you to London?”

  “Business.” Keane slid a knowing look at Zoe. “And a bit of pleasure, too, I hope.”

  Damn it all. Now that Zoe knew she wasn’t her mother’s daughter, she would be angling to marry this fellow. He shouldn’t be bothered by that; why did he care whom the chit married?

  But he was. And he did.

  “You may actually have heard of Mr. Keane,” Zoe said in that carefully precise tone that betrayed her agitation to Tristan. “He’s a well-known American artist.”

  With a clear penchant for fetching females. “How interesting. I’ve never met an American. Or, for that matter, an artist.” Some devil seized him, and he added, “In my line of work artists are scarce, although I suppose I could include that forger I caught last year in Antwerp. It takes a certain amount of artistry to forge a banknote, don’t you think, Mr. Keane?”

  To his surprise, Keane burst into laughter. “More artistry than I would dare use, sir. I understand that they hang forgers in England. And since I prefer to keep my neck its usual length, I don’t intend to practice any artistry of that kind.”

  Zoe looked annoyed. “I’m sure Mr. Bonnaud wasn’t implying that you might be a criminal.”

  “Of course not,” Tristan said. “Anyone can tell that your cousin is a respectable man.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Keane drawled. “But I do try to uphold the law, if only out of a sense of self-preservation. And can I assume, from your activities catching forgers, that you try to enforce it?”

  Zoe shot Tristan a warning glance.

  He ignored it. “You could say that. I work for an investigative agency in London.”

  “A working man, eh?” Keane looked speculative. “It’s good to hear that English aristocrats aren’t as insular as we Americans have been led to believe. Clearly they do respect a useful sort of man, if they’re willing to invite him to society parties where he can meet young ladies like my cousin.”

  “Oh, yes,” Tristan said with a smirk for Zoe, “the English aristocracy is quite enlightened. We all ramble about together, don’t we, my lady?”

  She stared daggers at him. She did that a lot. He rather liked it. Her temper was what lent her kisses all their fiery intensity, and he was definitely fond of her kisses.

  Shifting her attention to her cousin, she said loftily, “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension about English aristocrats, Mr. Keane. We, too, are useful sorts, as Mr. Bonnaud knows perfectly well. Lords run their estates and serve in Parliament, both of which duties they take quite seriously.”

  “Really?” Keane said. “Sounds dull to me.”

  “It’s not dull at all!” she said fervently. “I can’t speak firsthand of serving in Parliament, but running an estate . . .” Her face lit up. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to be a steward of the land, to know that your efforts bring food to hundreds, supply farmers with work, transform rough lawns into glorious gardens. Watching it all take shape before one’s very eyes is magical.”

  Keane gave a cynical laugh and turned to Tristan with a raised eyebrow. “What do you think, Bonnaud? Does that sound magical to you?”

  Envy pierced him unexpectedly . . . of her life, her manner of existence . . . the land she got to oversee.

  He scowled at himself. Envy? Absurd. He didn’t envy her one jot. He might have considered such work rewarding years ago, when Father had dangled in front of him the possibility of doing some of it. But after years of crisscrossing the Continent and England, he probably wouldn’t care for it.

  He’d much rather spend his time poring over birth records, watching a house for hours while waiting for his quarry to emerge . . . trudging through the human muck of London looking for needles in haystacks.

  Sharing a house with his brother that was less a home than a convenient place to sleep.

  “That doesn’t sound remotely magical,” he forced himself to answer. Liar.

  Zoe gave him a sad look. “I understand why you would not wish for such a life, Mr. Bonnaud—you’ve never known what it’s like, so it must sound very tedious to you.” She turned to her cousin. “But you, with your liking for seeing the drama in the mundane, ought to appreciate it.”

  “I appreciate it, coz,” Keane said. “I just prefer to observe it, to paint it. I have no desire to be part of it. Can’t imagine anything more soul-destroying than going over endless account books and arranging planting schedules.”

  Mangling her reins, she leaned forward in the saddle. “But you’re Papa’s heir if something should happen to me! Surely you wish to know a little—”

  “A very little,” her cousin quipped. “Let us therefore pray that nothing does happen to you.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And if you’re worried that I’ve come here to murder you and your father in your sleep so I can inherit, you can put that idea to rest. The idea of running Winborough doesn’t appeal to me.”

  When she looked stricken, Keane said in a teasing tone, “Unless, of course, I get to do more of what I’ve always heard that English lords really spend their time doing: gambling, wenching, and watching cockfights. That sort of life I might enjoy . . . when I’m not painting.”
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  “Haven’t I already made it clear that English lords don’t live that sort of life at all?” Zoe cried.

  Tristan suppressed a snort. Even after learning she was a lady in name only, she was still defending their kind.

  Keane exchanged a knowing glance with Tristan. “So none of them are spending their time at gaming hells and hunting lodges? All that gossip about English gentlemen that we hear in America is invented?”

  “A complete fabrication,” Tristan said before Zoe could answer. “And the mistresses they hide in little cottages are imaginary, too, along with the money sunk into bad investments, and the time spent drinking until all hours at fine gentlemen’s clubs.”

  Zoe’s eyes sparked green in the fading light. “I’ll grant you that there are gentlemen who are irresponsible gamblers and rakehells, but I know none personally. My father divides his time between sitting in Parliament and running Winborough, or teaching me to run it. My aunt spends her days in charitable works or in teaching me valuable skills as well, and her friends do the same.”

  Suitably chastened, Keane said, “Forgive me, coz. I get carried away in tweaking your English nose. But I am well aware of your father’s fine character, I swear.”

  “It isn’t entirely your fault.” Straightening in her sidesaddle, she shot Tristan a veiled glance. “Mr. Bonnaud enjoys egging you on, I’m afraid. But of course, his perspective of the aristocracy is a bit different since he spends all his time with criminals.”

  “Not all my time, my lady,” Tristan said dryly. “I’m here at Rotten Row, after all, observing the many fine ladies and gentlemen from London’s upper echelons.” He swept his glance over the crowd. “And they do appear to be very busy with their estates, indeed.” When she bristled, he added, “But then, everyone must have some relaxation, eh, Keane?”

  “Absolutely. And since my cousin is clearly unwilling to tell me—or, more likely, is unaware of—where to find them, perhaps you could reveal the location of the famous gaming hells and brothels of London.”