Guarding a Notorious Lady (13 page)

Rosalind froze. How had it come to pass that Nicholas had found Tristan this evening? She had asked her brother if Nicholas had gone out with him, but he’d said no.

Tossing back her covers, Rosalind charged across her room, flung open her wardrobe, and put on a proper robe.

She carefully opened her bedchamber door—the last thing she wanted was to reawaken her aunt—and crept down the hall to Tristan’s room.

Dawn was fast approaching, streaking pink and blue light through her brother’s windows.

Standing in the doorway, she regarded his prone form. Was he asleep?

“What do you want, Rosie?”

She nearly jumped a foot. “Are you asleep?”

“Ah, yes. I’m supremely talented and can hold coherent conversations whilst I’m dreaming.” He sighed. “Come on, what do you think?”

“Do not most people, after a night of imbibing heavily, fall into a deep slumber?”

“I suppose most do.” He hiccupped. “However, I am, apparently, not most.”

Rosalind could tell by the tone in his voice that her brother was still quite inebriated. Cranky clearly, but inebriated. Good, then he would answer her questions without any filtering. And there was also a good chance he wouldn’t even remember talking to her later on today after he had slept.

“Did, ah, Nicholas join you in your ‘celebration’ this evening?” She’d already asked the question, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to do so again. Maybe she’d get a different answer.

“No,” he answered impatiently.

She swallowed hard. “Then how did you come about him?”

“Where did you think, Rosie?” Tristan mumbled, sounding exhausted. “He was guarding the front door.”

T
he following afternoon Rosalind swept inside the gold-and-cream dining room and found Tristan seated at the head of the table, his forehead in his hand. A large glass filled with a thick red liquid sat before him, and a stick of celery sat on a linen napkin to his left.

“That cannot possibly taste good,” she said, breaking the silence of the room.

“Rosalind,” Tristan replied a bit desperately, “must you shout?”

“Sorry.” She pressed her lips together as she took the chair to his left.

He waved away her apology with a flick of his fingers.

“I will not ask how you’re feeling, as it is obvious.”

“I would nod,” he said quietly, “but then my head might roll off my neck.”

“I see. Can’t have that.” She twisted her hands in her lap.

Part of her wanted to just come right out and ask Tristan if Nicholas was her guardian. She needed to know whether or not Tristan’s drunken admission was indeed the truth. However, part of her wanted to pretend that the mounting evidence didn’t exist.

Certainly, it was odd to see him in London, but he had inherited a lofty title. He was at least thirty and unmarried. It made perfect sense that he should come to Town for the season and look for a wife.

And he had come to call yesterday afternoon to speak with Tristan—not to scare off her gentlemen callers, although he had forced his way into the morning room and made himself quite comfortable by squeezing next to her on the settee. But then again, if he was her guardian, wouldn’t he have stayed until they’d left? But wait . . . hadn’t he? Or had it been coincidence that his meeting with Tristan had ended soon after her callers had left?

And surely it was pure happenstance that he had heard Rothbury slurring Shakespeare at her window, although Nicholas’s behavior did border on protective, didn’t it?

Lord, she was confused. She did know one thing for certain: if Nicholas was her guardian, she would find out today. All she had to do was change her plans.

“Are you still going to Angelo’s to fence?”

“No,” Tristan groaned. “I’m going to crawl back to bed, actually.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Tristan I know.” Indeed, it did not. He was physically active almost to a fault.

“Yes, but I was not myself last night,” he murmured before bringing the glass to his lips with a grimace. “I suppose you weren’t either—being yourself, that is.” Her brow quirked. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Standing there, making calf-eyes at Nicholas.” He took another sip and shuddered.

“I didn’t make eyes at him!”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Rosie, the shouting . . .”

“So sorry,” she murmured quietly.

“If it wasn’t for my presence, I think you would have thrown yourself at him . . . or kissed him, or something else foolishly dramatic . . .” His mumbled words died away as he brought the glass back to his lips.

“Don’t be absurd.”

He raised a dubious brow. “Are you going to sit there and tell me that you don’t notice it? You, the little cupid, detecting attraction between man and woman before the poor souls even know for themselves?” He shrugged, nearly sending the slushy brew over the rim. “Perhaps that’s it. You can see it in others, but not for yourself.”

She took a deep breath, suddenly feeling befuddled. “What are you saying?”

“I haven’t a bloody clue.” He stared straight ahead, quite like he had fall en asleep with his eyes open.

It was definitely time to put her plan in motion.

Tristan looked ready to be sick at the table or slump face first onto it. Delicately, she cleared her throat.

“I’ve made a change of plans for later today,” she announced.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve decided
not
to attend the Fairfax musicale this afternoon.”

He turned to look at her with a serious expression.

“You’re not?”

She shook her head.

“Why? Don’t you like the Fairfaxes?”

“I do. I simply decided that I wanted to attend the dowager Lady Beecham’s annual garden tea instead.”

He mumbled something that sounded quite like

“The sill iest chits in England can be found there,” but then he cleared his throat and said, “you do know what her little parties are known for, don’t you?” Indeed, the dowager’s gatherings were infamous among the younger set as a wonderful spot to mingle with friends and potential beaus without the pressure of dance cards and marriage-minded mamas. Plus, her gardens were extensive and had many hidden nooks to explore . . . and get lost in if one should desire.

Rosalind lifted a shoulder. “Lots of young women attend.”

Tristan set down his glass. “She has the tiniest chairs in existence, Rosie. I daresay, she eyes everyone’s bottom size before issuing an invitation.” Rosalind grinned despite her mood. “Stop. She does not.”

He nodded knowingly, then grimaced, as the action must have pained his head.

“The dowager offers an open invitation. Guests come and go all day.” She almost laughed to think of Nicholas at such an event.

“Well, go if you must, but I should think you’d enjoy yourself infinitely more at the musicale.”

“That might be so, little brother,” she said with a sigh.

Indeed, but if she was right about Nicholas, her brother would certainly inform him of her change of plans as soon as possible, and of course, her guardian would act accordingly.

And once she saw him at the dowager’s, she’d know the truth once and for all.

N
icholas was willing to wager that surely there was a special place in heaven for those individuals who, when they had walked the earth, endured varying degrees of torture. Certainly heaven would offer some sort of solace for those souls who had suffered the unfortunate consequence of having to listen to an asinine argument between seven siblings.

All of them female. All of them flighty, pretentious, and loud. Each one sill ier than the next. And all of them seated on chairs made for bunny bottoms, not human bottoms. Somehow that facet made having to endure their incessant prattling almost completely unbearable.

“Do you like the cobalt? I like the cobalt.”

“Hmm. Cobalt. I shouldn’t liken
that
to cobalt.”

“What then?” another voice yelled.

“Indigo.”

“Indigo?” This said with such vehement distaste that one would think someone had just disclosed she was going to elope to Gretna Green with Napoleon himself instead of simply describing the color of a new gown.

“No, no. Indigo is too dark.”

Nicholas blinked a couple of times and gulped down his tepid tea in a single swallow. What was it about the color blue that confused these people?

“It’s cerulean. I had a riding habit made up last fall for a party. It was the same color. Our modiste called it so.”

“It can’t be! Cerulean makes you look sall ow. And since we have the same coloring—”

“Me? Sall ow? Fine time to bring this to my attention now! You could have told me this before I wore it to the Montagues’ soiree, walking around with pride, unknowingly looking like I had the plague.”

“You have it all wrong, it’s azure.”

“Azure? Heavens, no. It’s more like—”

“Blue!” Nicholas bell owed from his perch on the chair. And then with his temper in control, he placed his teacup on the ornate garden table between them and calmly added, “The bloody dress is blue.” The walking plague harrumphed.

The other ladies stared at him mutely for a moment, then ducked their heads together in order to peruse the pages of their fashion page once again.

“Lord Winterbourne,” the dowager Lady Beecham suddenly exclaimed in her singsong voice, “I cannot tell you what an honor it is to have you as a guest. It is my hope that more bachelors follow your lead. I do so love to see young people mingling about my gardens.

Why, last year, a group of men played a game of rounders on the lawn. We had such fun watching them play.”

The dowager was a genuinely kind lady, Nicholas conceded. Round and short, her face seemed to hold a perpetual smile, her laughter always at the ready for the slightest quip made by her guests. She seemed to want everyone to enjoy themselves and would feel deeply hurt should that not be the case.

“Would you like another cucumber sandwich?” she asked.

Nicholas eyed the tiny morsels. In truth, he could probably eat two hundred of them before feeling remotely appeased. “Thank you,” he said, shaking his head.

“I’ve heard that Lady Rosalind Devine is coming today. She sent word earlier this afternoon. You’re acquainted with her family, yes?”

He nodded and pasted a smile on his face that he hoped appeared sincere.

Aye, he had a hunch the sharp lassie had an idea that he was her guardian. Why else would she change her plans so abruptly after asking him pointedly if he would be attending the musicale?

Tristan had sent a note advising him of his sister’s new intentions. Nicholas knew he was walking into a trap by her design. No doubt his presence last night had aroused her suspicions.

Christ, he was an arse. He should have left Tristan on the doorstep and let their butler or a footman find him in the morning. He might not be in this situation then.

And yet, he knew she’d find out sooner rather than later. Honestly, he didn’t know how the hell Gabriel thought this would work.

She knew. Oh, dear Lord, she knew, and now she would make him pay. He didn’t know how, and that’s what he feared the most.

He shook his head. What a coward. Afraid of a wee lassie.

He forced a smile at his hostess. “I thank you for your hospitality, my lady,” he replied. “And your gardens are lovely, indeed.”

She nodded, her face brightening even more.

“And if you’ll excuse me,” he said, extracting himself from the torturously small chair, “I should like to take a closer look.”

Actually, what he would like to do was to go back in time and tell Gabriel there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d watch his sister for him. But that wasn’t going to happen.

The Beecham gardens were split into thirds. On the left was an intricate maze comprised of towering yew hedges clipped to depict the crenelated walls of a castle fortress. Next to that crouched an expansive walled garden where pink climbing roses scrambled randomly over the brick and an iron gate marked the entrance. And to the right sprawled a bit of forest, only part of its neatly raked, winding path visible from his position.

Straightening his beaver topper, he headed for the path. It was the best option he had to ensure that no one would be able to hear an indignant Lady Rosalind shouting at him. But as he strode further into the woods, he couldn’t help but realize the absurdity of what he was truly doing—hiding.

“H
ow dare he,” Rosalind said rather wearily.

“How indeed,” Lucy agreed from her perch on the tiny chair opposite Rosalind.

“He tricked me.”

Lucy raised a finger. “Not precisely. He misled you.

Duped you. Withheld infor—”

“All right,” Rosalind muttered testily, then mumbled a quick apology for her tone.

Having arrived moments ago, the two friends were now seated at a table separate from the others.

The dowager viscountess Lady Beecham had given them a warm welcome and then pointedly informed Rosalind that Lord Winterbourne was somewhere on the grounds and seemed quite eager for her arrival.

“I just bet he is,” she had grumbled in response.

Rosalind squinted into the sunlight as she scanned the grounds for some sign of Nicholas.

“Can you believe this, Lucy? I’m so embarrassed I didn’t figure it out right away.” She shook her head derisively. “Stupid girl.”

Lucy nodded in support, then plopped a square of plum cake in her mouth.

Rosalind leveled a stare at her friend. “You don’t have to be so agreeable.”

“Oh! So sorry.” Lucy cleared her throat. “You’re not stupid. You were just distracted.”

“Indeed, I was.”

Rosalind had, at first, hesitated to apprise Lucy of this personal matter, but the truth was, Rosalind needed to confide in
someone
. Her mother was gone, Aunt Eugenia was . . . well, Aunt Eugenia, and Madelyn was in Wales, or Italy, or who knew.

Truthfully, she had forgotten at present. However, Rosalind hadn’t told Lucy the entire story—she’d withheld that she was in love with Nicholas.

Besides, Lucy was a good sport and quite adept about keeping secrets. Well, most secrets. All right, Rosalind had threatened to tell Nevil e Nibbons that Lucy was madly in love with him if she happened to utter so much as a peep.

Nevil e Nibbons had long adored Lucy. Lucy thought Nevil e smelled of old cheese and had wooden teeth; hence, Rosalind’s secret was safe.

Rosalind cast a brief, narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder to where a thin path snaked through a patch of forest. Oh, she couldn’t see the infernal Scot, but she knew he was there. She could feel it right down to where her toes wriggled in her fine English-crafted leather half boots.

Turning her head, Rosalind took a deep, calming breath. “If it were not for the fact that I am a lady, I would not hesitate telling him to—”

“Take a trip to Hades?” Lucy offered with a wobbling half smile.

“No, no. That is not the thing at all.” Rosalind tapped her fingertip to her bottom lip, searching for the perfect phrase that would describe how she was feeling.

Now that she knew he was here—and not at the Fairfax musicale—she knew he was her assigned guardian. How could she not have realized sooner?

Lucy cleared her throat delicately. “I think you should cease blaming yourself for not suspecting.

After all, you asked your brother straightaway and he said no. I daresay you should be cross with him for lying to you.”

But Gabriel hadn’t lied. Again and again Rosalind had gone over their conversation in his study. When she had asked him, his response had been that Nicholas was here on business. That’s it. He’d never said no.

She should have caught that. She should have realized that the reason he was paying her so much attention was that he was guarding her.

“He’s coming this way,” Lucy said with a nod in the direction of the woods.