Her endurance had held up bravely under the strain, although it had made serious dents in Rachel’s usually un-flappable demeanor when it was discovered at the last possible minute that the flowers Rule had sent clashed badly with Mary’s gown.
It was Mary’s patience that was in sore need of reinforcement—and had been ever since Tristan showed up on the doorstep and Sir Henry announced that he and Rachel would travel together to the theater, leaving “the young couple to enjoy themselves without us old people around to throw a damper on things.”
“Oh, Gemini, how romantic!” Kitty gushed, showing her first real animation in days, so that Mary could not find it in her heart to tell the silly girl that it was not romantic in the least—it was depressing.
Before her maid could settle her light shawl around her bare shoulders, for one fleeting moment Mary thought of sacrificing herself to lending comfort to Kitty, who had decided to remain at home that evening since Dexter was at the moment paying his twice-yearly duty call on his Great-Aunt Felicity in Brighton. But the feeling, never heartfelt, faded without regret when Mary caught sight of herself in the foyer mirror and realized that the stunning result of two weeks of dedication should not be left to molder away at home. It would be criminal to deprive the world of the sight of her new, soft-as-butter yellow silk gown because she objected to riding in the same coach with Tristan Rule.
But now, now as she sat in the grand duchess’s theater box, awaiting that lady’s arrival, Mary was having second thoughts. Besides being situated at the very rear of the box where none, save the servant handing around lemonade, could appreciate her splendor, Mary had already crossed swords with Tristan twice during the short drive—and lost to him both times.
It seemed that, while Mary had busied herself with gathering her ensemble for the evening, Tristan had been engaged in his favorite project—digging into Mary’s supposedly illicit past.
They had not been in the coach above a minute before he had—by the simple means of declaring her to be five and twenty if she was a day—goaded her into telling him her correct age of eighteen. Within ten minutes he had the name of her first governess from her after twitting her that he had discovered information that led him to believe she had been left on some orphanage front doorstep with a note pinned to her nappy.
“Are you comfortable?” Tristan asked now as he seated himself beside her. “Once the grand duchess arrives, I’m sure we can secure chairs farther front, but I would not like to push myself forward now only to be asked to move to the rear.”
Mary’s head turned slowly, oh so slowly, in his direction, taking in his elegant dress and well-groomed appearance. “Move the hero of Richmond Park to the rear, my lord? Surely you jest! Why, I do believe there would be a riot in the pit if anyone dared do such a shabby thing.”
Tristan had the good sense to drop the subject, for he knew himself not to be totally innocent of enjoying his new fame. Feigning an interest in the programme he held, he commented, “They’re putting on a revival of Richard Coeur de Lion, with Mr. Barrymore as Blondel. Are you much impressed by historical romances of this type, Miss Lawrence, or are you looking forward to the farce Dead Alive?”
“I look forward to meeting the grand duchess, sir,” Mary replied icily. “Nothing else could have induced me to spend even a moment in your company, as you well know.” Drat it all anyway, she fumed inwardly, did he have to lean so close to her ear to speak to her? He was turning her insides to mush!
“And I would endure the grand duchess and all the crowned heads for a moment spent at your side,” Tristan whispered into her ear, holding to his resolve to keep her confused by romancing her while persisting with his investigation of her past. The only thing that surprised him was that, although he considered his wooing to be a duty he owed his country, he was finding the project had personal rewards he had not considered, one of them being the opportunity to be close to the most beautiful creature in the theater that night. If only he could believe Mary had dressed with such care in order to impress him, he would have surprised himself by being the happiest of men—but his saner self told him otherwise.
The next few minutes passed in strained silence, Mary refusing to answer Tristan’s latest sally, and as the grand duchess arrived only a moment before the musicians began tuning up their instruments, imperiously commanding Tristan and Mary to take seats on either side of her, there was no further opportunity for conversation.
Mary could now see from her clearer vantage point that the theater was full almost to overflowing, and she could barely make out Sir Henry and Aunt Rachel in a box near the stage. The royal box was full to bursting, the Prince Regent and his entourage, which included the Czar, bustling into their seats just as the curtain was drawn up to the singing of “God Save the King.”
Tristan and Mary joined the chorus, as did Prinny and, to the patrons’ pleasure, the czar. The sovereigns seated themselves once more and Mary was just about to follow suit when suddenly there broke out a round of shouting and applause, and the entire audience turned as one to look at the Princess of Wales’s box, where Caroline, Prinny’s estranged wife, was waving merrily to the crowd.
“Here we go,” Tristan half whispered, and Mary saw that the grand duchess, far from being appalled, was laughing quite heartily at the Regent’s dilemma.
Caroline was resplendent in diamonds and wearing a black wig—hardly flattering, but certainly eye-catching, which was most probably her intent. The czar—whom rumor said had taken to lecturing the Prince Regent on the advisability of reconciling with his wife—stood and bowed in Caroline’s direction while everyone held their breath to see what would happen next.
Prinny pushed his not inconsiderable bulk to a standing position and gave a deep, graceful bow—as if acknowledging the cheering of the crowd that had lately taken to hissing him whenever he rode his closed carriage through the streets. Not once did he look in his wife’s direction, and at last that woman had the good grace to sit down.
“Hummph!” The grand duchess sniffed. “We do not like him,” she said quite audibly, leaving no one in confusion as to whom she meant.
Tristan, who privately thought the Regent to be a sorry sight indeed, found himself bristling at the insult. How dare the woman dislike the heir to the throne, no matter what his failings? He actually opened his mouth to defend the man, when Mary’s slight negative shake of her head forestalled him.
She was right, of course. It wouldn’t do to create an incident. Tristan subsided into his seat as King Richard, played by someone named Sinclair, took center stage. It was only as the presentation was drawing to a close that he realized he had deferred to Mary’s judgment—something he had made it a rule never to do. Was he getting soft, losing his edge? Or, he mused ruefully, was Mary gaining some sort of power over him?
He sneaked a look in her direction as she sat forward in her chair, clearly caught up in the finale, and watched as the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her slightly parted lips. Suddenly he wished the grand duchess, the czar, Prinny and his soiled princess, and all the rest of the world at the bottom of the deepest sea.
When the intermission was announced, he fairly catapulted himself out of his chair and over to Mary’s side, requesting her company in the corridor. Without giving her a chance to decline, he prized her out of her seat by the elbow and pushed her in front of him until they had squeezed through the doorway and into the still fairly empty hallway.
“Really, sir,” Mary protested, wresting her elbow out of his grasp, “you have the manners of a ruffian. You did not even tarry to inquire as to whether or not our hostess wished to accompany us.”
“Hang the harridan,” Tris was pushed to say, looking about quickly to locate a private bench where the two of them could talk without being overheard. “Here,” he said, motioning his head toward a shallow alcove on the other side of the corridor, “come with me.”
“Aren’t you going to bring me some lemonade?” Mary asked once they had been
seated as Tristan sat stiffly and as far away from her as the length of the bench would allow. “You’re supposed to ask me if I wish some refreshments.”
“Hang the refreshments!” Tristan nearly shouted, causing more than one interested head to turn in their direction. More softly, he added, “I mean, we already had some in the box, didn’t we? Wasn’t that enough? Besides, I want to talk to you.”
“More questions, my lord?” Mary asked tightly. “Haven’t you gouged enough information from me for one night? When are you going to realize that you are chasing shadows that simply do not exist? I know my past; Sir Henry knows my past—and neither of us fears discovery will put England in danger. Really, sir, you refine too much on the ability of one frail female to—”
“And hang your dubious past!” Rule cut in ruthlessly. “I am more interested in your impact upon me at the moment!”
“My impact upon—” Mary began wonderingly, and then she raised her gloved hands slowly to her mouth as her feminine logic cut straight to the heart of the matter. “Oh, Tris, you are infatuated with me! This is famous!”
“I am not!” Tris denied hotly. “You are nothing more than yet another project I have undertaken in the best interests of my country.”
Mary shook her head, her auburn curls dancing about delightfully. “Oh no, you are infatuated with me. Lucy and Jennie said you were, but I didn’t believe them. Oh, those two—I must give them my congratulations, their intuitions were correct.”
Tristan looked about him, hoping against hope they were not attracting a crowd. “Will you be quiet for a moment?” he nearly begged. “This is serious. I find myself doubting my own conclusions—even my motives—when it comes to you. I’m unaccustomed to doubt, as it has never plagued me before in my career. I’ve always been able to rely on my instincts to guide me. Now it—it’s like I’m stumbling about in a dense fog, trying to feel my way.” He took a deep breath and said heavily, “I’m thinking of withdrawing from public service, telling Sir Henry my services are not longer available.”
Mary pressed a hand to her breast. “Because you find yourself infatuated with me?”
“Damn it, woman, I’m not infatuated with you!” he fairly hissed. “I must just be tired, and this last investigation has proved to be my undoing. What I need to know from you now is: if I agree to cease my investigation and retire to my estate and my badly neglected duties there, will you at least be honest with me so that I can be sure once and for all that your past presents no danger to Sir Henry?”
Leave London? Retire to his estate? Mary’s heart did a little flip-flop in her breast at the thought. All she had to do to be rid of Tristan Rule was to tell him the truth—tell him her father had been French and that Sir Henry was worried her late father’s old enemies might try to revenge themselves upon his daughter—and he would go out of her life forever.
A scant month ago this thought would have served to raise her into the boughs with delight. Now, she realized with quickening pulse, it was the very last thing she desired. He swore he wasn’t infatuated with her—not that the man would know what infatuation was if it reared up and kicked him in the face—but she couldn’t believe it, refused to believe it.
Look at him, she told herself, gazing tenderly into his confused, handsome face. He’s so dear when he isn’t scowling. For all his exploits, all his importance to the government, he is almost childlike in his experience in the real world—in my world. In just the same way he is learning that all is not black and white, that shades of gray exist everywhere. He is beginning to learn about the stirrings of the heart. And I am the first woman to have touched him romantically, for all his heart-breaking good looks and dashing reputation.
Mary began to feel the power women have always felt when they recognized the hold their frail fingers could place on a man’s heart. Tell him everything now? Free him to go hide at his estate until his defenses were restored to their former iron-hard strength? She’d rather go back to Sussex and her rustic keepers!
“I repeat for the very last time, my lord,” she said finally, “there is no great secret about me. I am Sir Henry’s ward—no more, no less. If you wish to run away from a mere Ruthless Rule, it is not I who shall shed a tear as you ride off. But if you wish to stay, you shall have to do your own sleuthing. I shall not gift you with any clues.”
So saying, she rose to return to the grand duchess’s box for the farce. Just as she slipped into her chair, with Rule dutifully, if a bit belligerently, holding it steady for her, she whispered, “And you are too infatuated!”
CHAPTER TEN
MARY WAS STILL IN a most jovial mood the morning following her visit to Covent Garden, and with good reason. The sight of Tristan Rule in a temper, a frequent yet—as she knew herself to be the reason for his chagrin—enjoyable spectacle, had served to lift her spirits throughout the remainder of the theater party, and his grumbling and mumbling as he fairly raced her home through the streets had placed the perfect cap upon the evening.
She was flattered by his obvious infatuation with her, as so correctly predicted by Jennie and Lucy, especially considering the fact that she had at last acknowledged her own feelings in the matter. Tristan Rule, despite her initial protests concerning the way he had cut out all her other beaux by his outrageous behavior, had become very dear to her.
Infuriating he might be, but he was also, as Rachel had said, unfailingly loyal and completely sincere. Indeed, Mary’s retort to Rachel that she once had a puppy with the same attributes came fairly close to the mark when it came to Mary’s interpretations of Rule’s charms. She considered him to be very puppylike beneath his bristly exterior, and had decided he held the proverbial heart of gold hidden deep within the stern, even aggressive man he showed the world.
That Mary found Tristan to be adorable—the exact word she had used to describe him in her private journal—would have sent everyone who knew Rule into whoops of laughter. The world knew him only by the face he presented to them—a hotheaded though valuable man’s man who was about as “cuddly” as a prickly pear.
Either Mary was blinded by infatuation herself, or she was far more intuitive than any woman had ever been when it came to solving the enigma of Tristan Rule—even she couldn’t really be sure. She only knew that Tristan refused to acknowledge the one thing she knew to be fact: he was infatuated with her!
But infatuation was a far step from love, and Mary knew her own mind well enough to realize that it was his love that she wanted. She had been delighted by her ability to send him into a flutter with her teasing, but she knew that she’d soon catch cold if she persisted in pointing out his—as he must consider it to be—failing. And letting him see how she felt about him would be the best way to send him helter-skelter to the hinterlands and his precious estates in fear for his life.
No, the only way to keep Tristan in town long enough to convince him that he could not live without her was to continue heaping fuel on the fires of his suspicion. For that reason she had sent her maid to the Rutherford stables with a note directing Tiny and Goliath to be outside Sir Henry’s kitchen door at midnight, ready to serve as her protectors while she set about laying yet another false trail for Tristan to follow.
Of course, setting false trails only worked if Tristan were aware that she was laying them, which is where Kitty came into the affair—Kitty and her devoted swain, Dexter.
Having asked a servant to tell Miss Toland that Miss Lawrence requested her company in the drawing room, Mary now sat awaiting that young lady’s arrival, still trying without much luck to erase the happy smile that had been with her since Tristan’s farewell at the front door the night before. He had been adorably flustered, Mary reflected now, as he stood there, so clearly torn between shaking her hand and crushing her against him in a tight embrace, that he had ended up by lifting her hand to his lips and nearly kissing his own fingers by mistake before backing down the steps to trip clumsily on the flagway as he forgot to watch where he was going. Ah, he was such a
dear, she sighed, raising the back of her hand to her cheek, as if holding his kiss against herself.
“Mary? Mary! Oh, Gemini, I’m sorry! I do believe I startled you,” Kitty apologized, hesitating in the doorway as if she were about to flee to her chamber in disgrace. “I’m such a bother, aren’t I? My brother Jerome always says I tippity-toe on cat’s feet, scaring him half out of his mind every time I come into a room.”
Mary looked up to see Kitty standing in a puddle of sunshine, her pale golden hair making her resemble nothing so much as an innocent angel, and could not help but wonder to herself how the good Lord stood it, being surrounded by so much naïve sweetness. Not that she didn’t like Kitty, for she did—very much—but Mary needed a bit more spice in her life, a bit more unpredictability. She smiled at her own thoughts—a bit more Tristan, she could have said.
“Nonsense, Kitty,” she told the girl, patting the place beside her, encouraging Kitty to join her on the settee. “I was lost in a daydream, that’s all.”
Kitty nodded as if she understood, as she had been guilty of daydreaming herself, what with Dexter due back in town any moment. “It must have been above all things wonderful to be at the theater last night. Miss Gladwin told me all about it this morning over breakfast.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed, “it certainly was wonderful, though I still can’t understand why she and Uncle Henry declined Tristan’s invitation at the last minute and chose to watch the performance from the box Uncle rented at the beginning of the Season.”
Kitty blushed hotly and lowered her head. “Oh, Gemini, Mary, can’t you guess? They wanted you and Tristan to be alone. Wasn’t that sweet of them?”
Two things occurred to Mary then, the first being that she must make a point of being very nice to Sir Henry for the rest of the day. The second thought was much more selfish—as she realized she had certainly chosen her vehicle well—for Kitty Toland couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.
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