How the Scoundrel Seduces

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “And something of a rogue.”

  “True.” Dom shot Tristan a sidelong glance. “Which is why it’s curious that you want to save Lady Zoe’s reputation by marrying her.”

  Tristan bristled. “Only a blackguard would refuse to marry her after taking her innocence.”

  “Exactly.” Dom smiled fondly at him. “And that reaction is precisely why you are nothing like Father. Because he was perfectly happy to give your mother child after child without the bond of marriage. Didn’t bother him a whit.”

  “She was a French actress,” Tristan pointed out.

  “Yes. And your new lady, for all her trappings, is the illegitimate daughter of our sworn enemy and a Gypsy. Some would say she’s nothing but trouble. Her own cousin didn’t wish to marry her, yet you do. That doesn’t sound like the choice of a man incapable of love, does it?”

  No, it did not. And in the midst of his confusion over what he felt for Zoe, that was oddly reassuring.

  25

  ZOE TRIED TO sleep, but it was hopeless. She was too on edge. Besides which, she was hungry. So, less than an hour after she’d left Tristan, she wandered downstairs in search of food. She’d barely reached the bottom of the staircase when their undercoachman leapt up from a chair where he’d apparently been awaiting her.

  Her blood began to thunder in her veins. “What is it?”

  “Your fiancé and his brother left half an hour ago in your father’s curricle. They instructed me to tell you that they were heading for Rathmoor Park, and that you and his lordship are to remain here until their return.”

  “The devil we are! Go ready the traveling coach for us right this minute. I shall rouse Papa.”

  Pipkin looked panicked. “But . . . but, my lady, Mr. Bonnaud said—”

  “I don’t care what he said,” she snapped. “You do as I tell you, or there will be hell to pay. Mr. Bonnaud isn’t my husband yet, you know.”

  Nor would he ever be if he got into a brawl with his half brother. That devil would as soon shoot Tristan as look at him.

  Her stomach roiling, she hurried for the stairs. She was not going to sit here and wait around for news that George had hauled Tristan off to gaol or knifed him in the back or shot at him because he was trespassing. There was still a chance that she could reach Tristan first. Papa’s coach-and-four could outrun the curricle any day of the week, even with snow on the roads.

  Tristan was not going to risk his life over her future. It had been one thing when he was trying to catch up to Uncle Milosh before the man got to Hucker. But if matters had progressed beyond that . . .

  No, she wouldn’t endure it. Let Uncle Milosh do as he pleased with Hucker. If it meant ruin for her, then so be it. But she was not going to sacrifice Tristan to stop Uncle Milosh.

  When she reached Papa’s room, she found her shouting had apparently roused him, for he was already dressing. After explaining the situation, she headed off to get her own clothes on. Twenty minutes later, they were climbing into Papa’s coach-and-four. Two of their sturdiest grooms joined them on horseback as outriders.

  While the equipage barreled down the drive at top speed, manned by Pipkin and drawn by a fresh team of horses, Papa watched her with a veiled expression. “You realize that if you go in there and expose yourself as Hucker’s daughter, we may not be able to stop the man from spreading the tale far and wide. Bonnaud says he’s a nasty piece of work.”

  She nodded. “But Uncle Milosh might expose me anyway. And while losing Winborough and the title wouldn’t be my first choice, I vastly prefer it to having my fiancé jailed or murdered before I can even marry him.”

  “Very well. So long as you recognize what the consequences could be.”

  Oh, she did, only too well. The weight of it all lay on her chest, and not just because of what might happen to Winborough.

  “Papa,” she asked, “what Tristan said that night you found us together . . . about the things you did that were against the law. Is there a chance . . . have I put you in the position of . . . of . . .”

  “Of course not, dear girl.” He reached over to pat her hand reassuringly. “Your fiancé vastly underestimates the power of an English earl. The burial in the woods isn’t illegal. The bribery of an official is a minor offense. There’s no legal requirement in England to register a birth, so the lie I told in the baptismal record is between me and God, and I daresay He will understand.”

  “And the stealing of a child from her family?”

  He drew in a heavy breath. “Forgive me for saying this, but Drina was a Gypsy. I fear no one will make a fuss about that.”

  “Except Uncle Milosh.”

  “Whose complaints will be ignored because of who he is.” When she winced, he added, “I am sorry, dear girl, but that is the way of the world.”

  “I don’t have to like it, though,” she said tersely. “Just as I don’t have to like that by English law, my lack of a blood tie to you outweighs my being your child in every other way.”

  “Well, with any luck the world will never learn of that.” He forced a smile. “And if it does, I may still live long enough to convince your cousin that he should take over Winborough. Or, failing that, convince his sister.”

  She blinked. “His sister.”

  He nodded. “When the title goes to the heirs general, they choose from among all possibilities. As my direct descendant, you would be first choice, but if your true heritage is exposed, they would move on to Mr. Keane and Miss Keane.”

  “Of course!” She broke into a smile. “I was so focused on Jeremy’s being the heir that I forgot about that. Since he doesn’t want the title, his sister might actually be a better choice.”

  “I could marry her to solidify the claim,” Papa said with a twinkle in his eye. “You are not the only one who can marry for the sake of the estate, you know. And she is only, what, thirty or more years my junior?”

  “Papa!” she cried. “You wouldn’t!”

  He laughed. “No. But my point is that these things work themselves out. And you should have some faith in your Mr. Bonnaud, too. He might surprise you by settling this matter without bloodshed.”

  “I dearly hope so.”

  “Still, when we arrive, you must leave this matter to me.” He patted the pistol case at his side. “Stay in the carriage. No point in letting them get a look at you if they don’t need to.” He smiled sadly. “According to Bonnaud, you are the very image of your poor mother, so it was probably only a matter of time before Lord Rathmoor or his lackey saw you in public and recognized Drina in you.”

  “Don’t you think I look like her?”

  He winced. “She’d been beaten, my dear girl. I couldn’t tell what she looked like.”

  When Papa fell silent, she tried not to think of what her natural mother’s final hours must have been like, but it plagued her. She could too easily imagine Drina stumbling through a snowy night like this one in search of help for her coming babe.

  That painful thought reminded her of Tristan’s wild promise to avenge her natural mother one day. Suddenly the long-ago prediction of that Romany fortune-teller leapt into her mind.

  You are a woman born of secrets and sadness. It will either destroy your future or lead you to greatness. A handsome gentleman with eyes like the sky and hair like a raven’s wing will come into your life. If you let him, he will become the hand of your vengeance. If you let him, he will shatter your heart.

  She shivered. She dearly hoped that Tristan had been right when he said that fortune-telling was all “rot.” Because with George and Hucker involved, becoming the hand of her vengeance could very well lead to his death.

  And that would definitely shatter her heart.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE CLOSER TRISTAN and Dom got to Rathmoor Park without encountering Milosh, the more they resigned themselves to having to deal with both him and Hucker. While Tristan tooled the horses, Dom loaded their respective pistols, which each stowed in his greatcoat pocket within easy r
each. Tristan also had a blade in his boot, and he knew that Dom kept one somewhere as well.

  When they reached the outskirts of the estate, they had to make a split-second decision. Hucker’s house on the property? Or the manor? Which way would Milosh go?

  “Hucker’s house,” they said as one.

  At this hour, Hucker would have no reason to be in the manor, and he’d already been living as a tenant during the last summer Milosh’s family camped at Rathmoor Park.

  Their hunch proved good when they drew up in front of Hucker’s cottage and heard shouting inside. Through the early light of dawn, they caught sight of a servant running down the road toward the manor, probably going to fetch help. He was already too far away to stop, and anyway, it would take both of them to deal with Hucker and Milosh.

  Cursing, Tristan and Dom leapt from the curricle and rushed through the open door.

  In the front room they found Hucker facing down Milosh with a fowling piece. Apparently Milosh, who held a nasty-looking knife, hadn’t given Hucker time to load, for the older man brandished the gun like a club as the two men circled each other.

  “Where is she, damn it?” Milosh demanded. “Where is my sister? If you don’t tell me—”

  “I don’t know!” Hucker cried. “I swear on my mother’s grave I don’t know what happened to Drina after she left here.”

  When Milosh looked as if he would lunge for the man, Dom darted forward to grab the Romany man from behind. Milosh began to struggle, so Tristan hurried to place himself between Milosh and Hucker.

  “I told you not to come here, damn it!” Tristan spat at Milosh.

  Milosh jerked his head toward Hucker. “I couldn’t let that beast there escape punishment for beating her!”

  “Beating Drina?” Hucker’s face turned thunderous. “If she told you that, she lied. I never laid a hand on Drina. I loved her!”

  Tristan shot Hucker a contemptuous look. “Yes, we could tell by the fact that you got her with child, then sent her out in the cold to suffer alone to bear it.”

  Hucker was already shaking his head. “She wasn’t alone, and she weren’t out in the cold, neither. I sent her to her people! If anyone beat her, it was them.”

  “You know that’s a lie!” Milosh shouted at Hucker. “I asked you about her the next summer. Why would I have done that if she’d made it to ‘her people’?”

  “The Corries ain’t the only Gypsies in England,” Hucker said. “You banished her, so I sent her with his lordship to—”

  When Hucker’s face lost all color, a chill swept Tristan. “His lordship?” he echoed. “My father?”

  “It wouldn’t have been Father,” Dom said coolly. “He was out of the country then. He means George.”

  Hucker wore a look of panic.

  Tristan marched up to him, fists clenched at his sides. “What did my damned half brother do?”

  Hucker lowered the fowling piece, his eyes hollow in his face. “His lordship wouldn’t have hurt her. She was bearing my child, for God’s sake!”

  “He must have done something or you wouldn’t have mentioned him.” Tristan towered over him. “So what the bloody hell did George do?”

  “He . . . he said he would take her to the next encampment of Gypsies.”

  Drina had left the estate with George. Oh, God. “And you believed him?” Tristan asked hoarsely. “You let her go off with that . . . that . . .”

  “I had no choice!” With desperation on his face, Hucker glanced around at the three of them. When he saw their cold expressions, he slumped against the wall. “He gave me no choice. For months, I’d been . . . stealing from the stores of food, taking a bit here and there for me and Drina. I hadn’t been steward very long, and the two of us could hardly live on my salary. With the babe on the way . . .”

  His voice hardened. “I was always careful not to get caught, careful to keep him from knowing about her. But that day, I was worried. I thought she might be in labor, so I weren’t as careful as I ought to have been.”

  “And George discovered what you’d been up to,” Dom said.

  The life went out of Hucker’s eyes. “He spotted me leaving with a game hen under my coat that I was hoping to sell, and he followed me to the cottage. He was so angry, he was. Kept raging about ‘whores’ on the estate corrupting his servants and his—”

  When Hucker broke off, Tristan groaned. George hadn’t been able to stop Father from having his mistress at Rathmoor Park, so he’d taken his anger out on Drina and Hucker instead.

  Hucker’s breathing grew heavy. “He threatened to have me hanged for theft, he did. Said if I didn’t cast her out, he’d turn me over to the magistrate. And what good would I be to her and the babe if I was dead?”

  “Yes, much better to become his man of affairs,” Dom said dryly.

  “More like his lackey,” Hucker growled, “under his thumb for all eternity.”

  “And all you had to do was hand her over to him,” Tristan said, his gut twisting at the thought.

  “It wasn’t like that,” Hucker said defensively. “I begged him to be merciful, to let me escort her to her people. He said he’d do that himself.”

  Tristan snorted. “Why the hell would George be merciful to some Gypsy woman? Surely you didn’t really believe he would take her to a place of safety.”

  Hucker swallowed. “He said . . . he didn’t want her returning, trying to worm her way back into my life. He said he would take her to her people and pay them to keep her away. Then I would be free of her.”

  “And you wanted to be free of her?”

  “No! But he gave me no choice.” Hucker shot Tristan an imploring glance. “I had to send her off with him. It was the only way to save us both!”

  “It didn’t save her.” Tristan glared at the man. “Drina was found beaten on the road to York. She died on the road to York.” He heard Milosh’s low cry of pain behind him and prayed the man wouldn’t mention that Drina had borne a child. “And that is how my wretch of a brother ‘saved’ Drina.”

  Hucker began to shake. “Dead? Drina is dead ?”

  “And good riddance, too,” said a voice from beyond them.

  Tristan froze. Slowly he turned to find George standing in the doorway, a pair of dueling pistols in his hands and murder in his eyes.

  “Well, well, look who has come back to spread lies about me,” George said.

  Bloody hell.

  Tristan slid his hand casually into his coat and closed it around his own pistol, but he didn’t dare shoot—not when George had them in his sights. The minute Tristan showed his pistol, George would fire, and he would be in the right. Tristan was trespassing, and George would claim it was self-defense.

  “Lies?” Tristan said. “Are you denying that you beat poor Drina to death?”

  George cast a furtive glance at Hucker. “I never touched her.”

  “I happen to know for a fact that you did,” Tristan said. “I have a very reputable witness who says he found her wandering the road, half-frozen and badly beaten.”

  “Do you? And he believed the claims of some damned Gypsy woman who probably spread her legs for every—”

  With a roar of rage, Milosh lunged forward, but Dom managed to restrain him. For the first time since his arrival, George turned his attention to Milosh.

  “Ah, if it isn’t the good Mr. Corrie.” George aimed a pistol at him. “The man who probably helped my father’s bastard steal and dispose of my horse thirteen years ago. I daresay if I were to exert myself, I could find out exactly who bought Blue Blazes—and from whom. That would certainly cook your goose, wouldn’t it, Corrie?”

  “If you’d ever been able to determine such a thing,” Dom put in, “you would have done it years ago. You had no evidence then, and you certainly have none now.”

  “Leave it to the barrister to speak of legalities,” George said snidely. “Wait, not a barrister, eh? Just an aspiring one.”

  Though a muscle worked in Dom’s jaw, he showed no o
ther sign of agitation. “I have a thriving business, brother. Didn’t you know?” His tone turned taunting. “Meanwhile, the estate you were willing to lie and cheat for is crumbling down about your ears.”

  “Shut up!” George shifted his aim from Milosh to Dom. “Or you’ll end up in the grave with Tristan and his friend.”

  “Oh,” Tristan said smoothly, “so you plan to kill us? Not very sporting of you. And not even feasible. There are three of us, and you’ve only got two pistols.”

  “Hucker!” George said in a commanding tone. “For God’s sake, use that gun.”

  Hucker lifted the fowling piece. “It ain’t loaded.”

  “Well, go load it then!”

  When Hucker hesitated, George tensed. It was obviously starting to dawn on him that this might prove trickier than he thought. He aimed at Tristan’s heart. “I only need one shot to kill you, don’t I? I found three men trespassing, one of them clearly a thieving Gypsy. They were struggling with my man of affairs, and I had to protect him. Little did I know that two of them were my brothers.”

  Tristan laughed coldly. “Really? You plan to convince a magistrate that you accidentally shot the brother you’ve been trying to ruin all your adult life?”

  “Hucker will support my story.”

  Hucker stiffened and glared at George, but remained silent. He was clearly an unknown quantity in this equation.

  Apparently George thought so, too, for he said, a bit uneasily, “And no one will heed a damned thing Corrie says.”

  Milosh came toward him. “Which is why after you shoot them, there’s nothing to stop me from throttling you. From watching the life drain from you, the way you watched the life drain from Drina.”

  “I didn’t kill her, damn it!” George’s pistol wavered between Milosh and Tristan. “She wasn’t dead when I left her.”

  “No, just nearly dead,” Tristan drawled with one eye on Hucker. “Your beating and the cold finished her off.”

  “Shut up, damn you!” George cried, steadying the pistol on Tristan.

  But before Tristan could pull his own weapon, another voice said from just behind George, “Pull that trigger, Rathmoor, and you are a dead man.”