Sir Henry looked at the paper for a moment like a man who had just been offered a snake, then snapped it from Rule’s hand. “What in Hades was Mary doing in Green Park? And how do you know she was?”
“I followed her there,” Tristan answered, running a hand through his hair before turning to stare out the window into the darkness.
“Plague take you, Rule, my ward is none of your business! I told you before that your suspicions of her are nothing but a great piece of nonsense. Shadowing her like some sneaking spy—you show a deplorable lack of confidence in me, Rule, and I vow I cannot like that,” Sir Henry lectured, hunting the top of his dresser for his reading spectacles.
Tristan whirled to face the older man. “I begin to think we are talking at cross-purposes. Didn’t you hear what I said?” he asked, not believing his ears. “Your ‘ward’—your ‘niece’—went to Green Park tonight to deliver a message to somebody. Whether it was spying or blackmail—aren’t you the least concerned for her welfare?”
Sir Henry adjusted his spectacles—the nosepiece almost always pinched, which was why he usually tried to do without—and allowed a small chuckle to escape him. “If I know Mary, and I know her a great deal better than you do, my lad, she had a good reason for doing what she did. She’s now down the hall, safely tucked in her bed, I presume?”
“She is,” Rule said disgustedly. “Goli—er, my operative assured me of her safety. I could not see her back here myself, as I was too busy chasing down the man for whom she intended the message.”
“Showed you a clean pair of heels, did he?” Sir Henry observed, looking up from his work of deciphering Mary’s code. “What makes you think this man is involved? Could have been some innocent passerby you scared half out of his wits. Probably won’t stop running until he hits John O’Groats. Let’s see here—I believe one letter just substitutes for another. Let’s try O for Y.”
Rule, a mulish expression on his handsome face, looked at Sir Henry in astonishment. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! God give me patience! How does she do it? How does she constantly manage to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes? Well, sir, I am not so easily duped. Either Miss Lawrence is the target of some nefarious scheme or you, sir, have nurtured a viper at your bosom!”
Sir Henry looked up at Rule over his spectacles. “Oh, stop being so damned officious, son. And before you start reading me one of your famous scolds, remember, I already told you that Mary has had a rather unorthodox upbringing. She means no harm, I assure you.”
“Don’t tell me yet again about how you left her in Sussex with none but rough-and-ready retired army men and half-witted chaperons to tend her,” Tristan said indignantly. “Tell me instead why she was hidden away down in Sussex in the first place.”
“I for Z, T for J—ah, yes, this is really quite elementary.” Ruffton raised a hand to shush Rule as he scribbled quickly, crossing out letters and substituting others. “I am not yet in my dotage to be taken in by some green girl,” he supplied off-handedly as he worked. “Whatever this message is, I’m sure it’s nothing to do with either blackmail or the security of this great nation. You’ve been pesting her again, I’ll wager, and now she’s funning you to get some of her own back.”
Tristan threw up his hands, not able to believe he had somehow found himself in Bedlam. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say on the matter? A young, defenseless—not to mention witless—girl goes sauntering about London after midnight and you tell me she’s only pulling a prank. You condone this? You even, by your lighthearted treatment of her, encourage such—what is it? Have you broken the code? Sits it serious?”
Sir Henry, who furrowed his brow as the words began to fall into place, now sat back in his chair, his face entirely devoid of expression. “Sit down, son,” he said now. “I don’t believe I wish to involve Perkins in this if you swoon dead away and I have to get you boosted into my bed.”
“I can’t believe it,” Tristan whispered. “I had all but assured myself of her innocence in any plots against the government. My only concern was that her past might somehow be discovered and used for private gain. But it isn’t blackmail, is it? She wasn’t in the park paying off some tormentor, was she?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ruffton opined, trying hard not to smile. “I begin to think she has paid him off quite as much as he deserved. Would you care to hear the contents of the message?”
Rule drew himself up to his full height. “Sir, I cannot, no matter what my personal feelings for either you or Miss Lawrence, shirk my duty to my country. If the contents of that message are vital to the government, you cannot make me hide what I know. Perhaps it would be better if you were to withhold the knowledge from me.”
Now Sir Henry did let go with a small chuckle. “How very—er—noble of you, Tristan, to sacrifice England’s safety for Mary.”
“And for you, sir,” Tris added, indeed feeling a bit noble.
“Of course, for me. It is a comfort to know I have someone willing to commit treason to shield me from the follies of my ward. But before you trot off to the country to fall on your sword in some wood, will you kindly oblige me by sitting down and listening to what the message has to say?”
Rule sat himself down, cleared his throat, and motioned for Sir Henry to proceed.
And proceed Sir Henry did. “It begins: ‘With apologies to Little Jack Horner—
“My Lord Tristan Rule vows he is no fool;
At Deduction he’s top of his class.
Swift judgments he makes, never fearing mistakes,
While quite closely resembling an ass.
The Ruthless milord has accused Ruffton’s ward
Of both spying and lying as well.
In her life he does pry, asking why-why-why why?
While the lady consigns him to hell.
“The ward’s not confessin’; thinkin’ Rule needs a lesson
That will greatly his confidence rattle.
So a ruse she plays out, meant to put him to rout,
And he hotfoots to Ruffton to tattle.
“Now Redoubtable Rule (obtuse but not cruel),
Too late recognizes her gambit.
He’s been chasing his tail, for she’s laid a false trail;
Rues he hotly: ‘She’s bested me, dammit.’”
Mary would have looked at Tristan and privately thought he looked endearingly boyish in his embarrassment. It will never be known what Sir Henry would have thought, for he could not bring himself to look at the young man without fear of breaking into his first fit of the giggles since his years at Eton.
When at last Sir Henry assured himself that he could speak without betraying his enjoyment of his ward’s sense of humor, he offered to do anything he could to ease Lord Rule’s mind further on the subject of Mary Lawrence.
“I would have you lock her in her chamber, but I doubt it will answer the purpose,” Tristan observed with unusual geniality before, his temper at last getting the better of him, he fairly shouted: “Damn it all, Sir Henry, tell me again what a citadel of propriety she is when she swears like a trooper!”
Sir Henry merely shrugged his shoulders. “I told you about her upbringing. Rachel says it is one of my great failings—using pensioned-off soldiers as house servants. But even if I had confined them all to the stables, I fear Mary would have sought them out. Was a bit of a tomboy when I first met her, you know.”
But Tristan wasn’t listening. He was pacing back and forth on the carpet in a flaming fury, his dark eyes flashing fire. “Why did she feel such a crushing need to stage this charade?—for it’s as sure as I’m standing here that this entire evening has been enacted for my benefit. I thought she understood that I no longer believed her to be a spy.”
“Ah, but was that enough for you?” Sir Henry asked, twisting the knife a little bit. “Or did you demand that she tell you all about herself—the same way you’ve been poking and prodding at me with that overly inquisitive nose of yours?”
Tristan sl
ammed his closed fist into his palm. “You won’t talk, either of you!”
Sir Henry looked owlishly at Tristan’s balled fist. “Do you mean to beat it out of me, then?”
Tristan’s anger deflated, just like a balloon when the air is let out, and he sank into a chair, his legs spread out in front of him. “She worries me, Sir Henry. If there’s some scandal in her past, someone may try to hurt her with it—or you through her.”
Sir Henry pulled up a chair to sit directly in front of the younger man. “Now why don’t I believe that my safety—or even that of England’s—is your first concern. Mary’s past is her concern, you know. Hers and mine. But I’ll tell you this much: her parents were old acquaintances of mine, people whose names still have the power to incite the need for revenge in some hearts. When Mary’s mother died, I promised to take the child in and raise her under another name. And I will keep her secret until such time as no more danger exists. For instance, if she were to marry, well, then it would be up to her husband to take on the secret and protect her with his name. Am I getting through to you, son? Lift up your chin from your chest and show me I am not wrong in my estimation of your feelings.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
KITTY WAS IN the small, sunny morning room, engrossed in one of her favorite occupations—embroidering. Since joining the Ruffton household, she had decorated endless scarves, aprons, slippers, caps and stockings for all and sundry, much to the delight of the servants to whom she presented them as gifts, and to the dismay of the rest of the household, who were still trying to figure out how to dispose of the stuff without hurting the dear child’s feelings.
At the moment she had just finished putting the final touches to a pair of garters meant for her beloved Dexter. She held one of the garters up to read once more the inscription she had fashioned with dainty stitches: “Pray keep me tight from morn till night.” Smiling serenely, she then cradled the thing to her bosom, knowing Dexter would be overjoyed with her surprise.
“Daydreaming again, sister mine?” spoke a voice from the doorway, and Kitty whirled in her seat to see her brother Jerome lounging against the doorjamb, his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, Gemini, Jerry, you gave me such a fright! How did you get past Perkins?”
Jerome dismissed the thought of Ruffton’s imposing butler with a toss of his blond head. “He knows I’m family. What did you think he’d do, bar the door?”
Kitty quickly lowered her eyes, remembering how she had heard Sir Henry grumble after Jerry’s last visit. “Let that sort in once and he might take it upon himself to make a habit of it,” he had told Rachel, winking broadly to Kitty to soften his words.
Sauntering over to a nearby chair, Toland dropped his lean body into it and demanded Kitty ring for refreshments. This so flustered the girl, who began saying something about being a guest in the house herself, that Jerome finally cut her off by the simple means of giving voice to a particularly vulgar expression.
Once he was sure he had her attention, he leaned forward in his seat and told her in a low voice filled with malice, “You ignorant chit! I’ve set you up so that you travel in the first circles, knee-deep in London swells, and what do you do? You persist in defacing innocent garments with your ridiculous stitchery and cowering like some half-wit scullery maid when asked to behave in line with your station. Even worse, instead of peacocking about in society like any sensible girl, you go and tumble into love with some penniless loose screw who doesn’t know his hat from his hindquarters.”
And Kitty was cowering, right up until the moment her brother had the nerve—the awful temerity—to insult her beloved Dexter. Then the little kitten reacted like a lioness whose cub was in peril. “You shameless creature!” she exclaimed in her high, childish voice. “You run through Papa’s inheritance, let our estate go under the hammer, and then try to marry me off to some rich man who will pay for your reckless way of living. And if that isn’t bad enough, you have set me up—as you call it—with no less than three families, just to gain entrance to their houses to rob them. Jerry,” she intoned indignantly, “you are a horrid, ghastly man!”
Jerome hoisted himself slowly to his feet and rewarded his sister’s outburst with a languid clapping of his hands. “I’d throttle you for that, sister mine, except that I’ve other fish to fry right now, thanks to your information about Miss Mary Lawrence’s nocturnal habits. And this time I’ll earn enough to keep me plump in the pocket for a long, long time to come. Resign yourself to the fact that I won’t be carting you about any longer. If I don’t see you again—good-bye, dearest Catherine. May you rot in hell!”
He had made it halfway to the door before Kitty could find her voice. “Does this mean you will give your permission for Dexter and me to marry? After all, what difference can it make to you?”
Jerome wheeled about slowly, a nasty smile on his face. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? How remiss of me. Your swain dropped by this morning, brimful of April and May. I had to deny his request for your hand, seeing as how he refused to see the need to reimburse me for raising you. I could have left you to the workhouse when our dear Papa kicked off, couldn’t I, though Rutherford didn’t see it my way. It was something I most particularly regret, but I had no other choice than to decline his offer to remove you from my responsibility. I am your guardian until you reach your majority. Let’s see—that’s a little less than five years, isn’t it? Surely not too long to wait for true love, is it?”
“Oh, Jerry, you’re never going to destroy my happiness like this, are you?” Kitty pleaded, dropping out of her chair to fall to her knees, the pleading supplicant.
His answer was a blood-chilling laugh, and then silence. Somehow she dragged herself to her feet and made her way to her chamber before collapsing on the bed in a torrent of tears.
And in her despondency, she forgot all about Jerome’s hints as to a plot concerning Mary.
SIR HENRY’S LIBRARY DOUBLED as his private office. It was not often that he allowed anyone save Perkins inside it, and the butler was only exempt because even such important surroundings did need occasional dusting to remain habitable.
But now Rachel was sitting poised for battle in one of the oversized leather wingback chairs, obviously very much agitated. She had dared to enter the library without permission, believing herself to be acting within the rights of a person who had been appointed as chaperon to a young, volatile girl. “I say to you again, Henry, I don’t think I can continue bear-leading your ward. I saw her tippy-toeing into her chambers last night past one o’clock, clad in the most outrageous costume it has ever been my misfortune to view. Lucy took the last of my fight from me. It’s time I realized that I am past the age when I can be safely relied upon to keep a strong-willed young miss on a stout enough leash. Henry! Have you been listening to a single word I’ve been saying?”
Sir Henry, who had been sitting behind his desk, his fingertips steepled in front of his nose, lowered his hands to let his smile show. “Of course I’ve been listening. I’ve always listened to you.”
“No, you haven’t,” came Rachel’s sharp rejoinder, for she was feeling quite put upon this morning. “If you had, I never would have allowed Reggie Moore to—never mind. That’s all ancient history anyway. What’s more to the point—what are you going to do about Mary? Don’t you think it’s time you told her the truth before she does something that lands us all in the suds?”
Sir Henry rose to walk round the desk and lean a hip against one of its corners. “Cant, Rachel? Since when have you descended into slang? Perhaps you’re right. All those years spent with the younger generation have corrupted you.”
“Don’t try to fob me off with that sad attempt at wit, Henry; I’ve known you too long for that. Now, since your lack of surprise tells me that you already know about Mary’s actions of last night, perhaps you will allow me into the secret.”
Smiling one of his most cherubic smiles, Ruffton announced: “My ward’s in love with your nephew.”
Ra
chel sat back in her chair and sniffed. “Tell me something I don’t already know, if you please.”
Sir Henry went on undaunted. “Your nephew is besotted to the point of idiocy with my ward.”
Raising a hand to her lips, Rachel gave an exaggerated yawn. “And with this love he has also acquired an attic positively crawling with maggots. Yes, dear, I know. Again I have lapsed sadly into cant. But you begin to bore me, sir. Get on with it.”
So goaded, Sir Henry went on to describe his late-night meeting with Rule, right down to the part where Tristan had refused Sir Henry’s offer of an explanation of Mary’s past, preferring first to win the heart of his fair lady and then hearing the full details of the story from her own lips.
“But she doesn’t know the full story,” Rachel was forced to point out. “Lord, I shudder to think of Tristan’s reaction once he learns who Mary’s father was!”
“Precisely, my dear,” Sir Henry replied. “Which is exactly why I am allowing the boy to be noble about the thing. Once they’ve explored their love for each other a little bit, the truth should lose some of its sting. You know Tristan, Rachel. This isn’t going to be easy for him.”
Rachel shook her head. “You were always the master of understatement, Henry.”
But Ruffton wasn’t really listening anymore. Rachel’s slip of the tongue about Reggie Moore, the twelfth Lord Hetherington, had sent his mind winging back into the past. What on earth did that oily womanizer have to do with anything? Mary had hinted to him that it was time he and Rachel had a talk about the breakup of their engagement—something about the two of them resolving an old misunderstanding—but for the life of him Henry couldn’t remember Reggie being a part of it.
“Rachel,” he said now, taking one of her hands in his, “tell me about Hetherington. You said I didn’t listen to you when you wanted to talk about him. I’m listening now.”
The ruthless Lord Rule Page 12
