How the Scoundrel Seduces (13 page)

With any luck, Papa and Aunt Flo would believe Tristan’s explanation of how they’d met. Her cousin, however, was another matter. His suspicions were thoroughly roused now.

She ought to give Tristan a wide berth tonight, for the sake of fostering a closer friendship with Mr. Keane, but how could she? She had to gain the full report on what he’d discovered in Liverpool.

By the time she was done in the receiving line and went on to the ballroom, the dancing had begun and Tristan was already twirling his sister about the room. Thankfully the duke accosted Mr. Keane before he could claim Zoe for a dance, and the two men fell into
a deep and intense discussion, so she didn’t have to worry about her cousin just yet.

Papa came up beside her to stare out over the swirling guests. “I don’t like that rogue being here.”

“Which one?” she asked lightly.

She could see at least five gentlemen whom she would deem rogues. Perhaps Aunt Flo’s strategy was to invite scoundrels in order to provoke Mr. Keane into offering to save her by marrying her. Or perhaps Aunt Flo simply couldn’t distinguish between rogues and other gentlemen as long as they had titles and fortunes.

“I’m speaking of Bonnaud, of course.” Papa clasped his hands behind his back in a military stance. “I can’t believe Keane invited him. Didn’t you try to stop him?”

“I could hardly be impolite. Besides, you wouldn’t wish to look high in the instep around our American cousin, would you? I doubt that Mr. Keane has the same issues with bastardy that—”

“It’s not Bonnaud’s bastardy that concerns me, dear girl,” Papa said. “It’s his past.”

“You mean, his . . . er . . . wild reputation with women.” When Papa looked at her with a question in his eyes, she added hastily, “It’s common knowledge. Everyone gossips about it. Is that what worries you?”

“Among other things.” The Major’s heavily lined brow beetled into a frown. “If he asks you to dance, be sure you refuse.”

“Papa! That would be beyond rude.”

“Rude or no, if I see him dancing with you, I swear I will call him out.”

“Over a dance? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I will not have a man like him dancing with my daughter—not after what he did as a youth in Yorkshire.”

“Oh? What did he do?”

“Well, I only have the information secondhand, but I was told—”

“Roderick!” Aunt Flo cried as she came hurrying up. “Can’t you get Mr. Keane away from Lyons? He ought to be dancing with Zoe, not discussing art. I don’t care if Lyons
is
a duke. This may be one of our few chances for Mr. Keane to see what a fine dancer Zoe is!”

Papa sighed. “I can’t
make
the fellow ask her to dance, Flo.”

“Of course you can. Just use that stentorian voice you regularly inflict upon the rest of us.” Aunt Flo turned her matron’s eye on Zoe. “And you, young lady. Why aren’t you dancing? If your cousin sees how well you pirouette, he might be inspired to do his duty.”

“I hardly think that my pirouette is impressive enough to—”

“Go, go!” Aunt Flo said, shooing her off. “If you keep standing here in the corner away from the young gentlemen,
no
one will ask you to dance!”

“Yes, Aunt Flo,” she mumbled.

This idea that she was just another debutante on the marriage mart, and not a complete fraud, vexed her. It wouldn’t be so hard if she could talk to Aunt Flo
and Papa about it, but neither of them would even acknowledge the truth!

Meanwhile, Aunt Flo kept throwing her at men. But sadly, the man Zoe wanted to dance with was unacceptable, and the man she
should
dance with seemed to have no interest.

She skirted the dance floor, picking her way among the guests. She was so intent on scanning the dancers for Tristan that she nearly ran into him.

“My lady,” he said, bowing.

She acknowledged him with a nod. “Mr. Bonnaud.”

Lord, but he did look spectacular in evening clothes. Those tight trousers encasing muscular calves . . . that wealth of black curls she wanted to tame with her hands. Had it suddenly grown amazingly warm in the ballroom?

A furtive glance behind her revealed Papa still arguing with Aunt Flo, but that wouldn’t last long. Aunt Flo generally won. Zoe had to cut this short.

“Mr. Bonnaud, I’m afraid I must—”

“Would you do me the honor of dancing with me, Lady Zoe?”

She blinked at him. “No!” When he raised an eyebrow, she stammered, “I-I mean, much as I would like to, I—” She noticed those standing nearby listening in. “I told Aunt Flo I would make sure everything is ready for the champagne toast coming up.”

A speculative expression crossed his face. “I understand. Later, then.”

“Yes, perhaps.” How she wished all these dratted people weren’t around them!

He glanced down at the floor. “Beg pardon, my lady, but I believe you dropped something. Perhaps from your reticule?”

She started to protest that her reticule was sitting on a chair somewhere when she looked down and saw a folded piece of paper. “Oh! Yes, I must have . . . that is . . . Thank you, sir.”

As she bent to pick it up, he tipped his head at her and was gone. She unfolded the slip of paper to find the scrawled words,
The east terrace. Fifteen minutes
. He’d been prepared in case she refused him, thank goodness.

Sliding the paper inside her glove, she headed off toward the kitchen in case anyone was watching who’d heard their exchange. But just as she reached the other end of the ballroom she glanced back to see Papa now speaking to her cousin.

She groaned. Clearly Aunt Flo had won the battle, and Mr. Keane was being ordered to dance with her. She’d better escape while she could.

Out in the hall, she paused for breath. Did she dare meet Tristan alone? Might Papa stumble across them?

It seemed unlikely. Papa would find it too cold to go outside, and Tristan had chosen his rendezvous spot well. The east terrace couldn’t be seen from the street and had to be accessed from the library rather than the ballroom. So it was unlikely that anyone would stumble across them by accident.

And thanks to her white lie about the champagne, she had an excuse for being absent from the ballroom—as long as no one mentioned it to Aunt Flo. Now she merely had to pray that Tristan could disappear without comment, too.

Unfortunately, someone stopped her in the hall to ask about the musicians, so by the time she sneaked through the library and out onto the terrace, it was twenty minutes later, not fifteen.

Oh, Lord, he wasn’t here. He’d gone.

But wait—was that tobacco she smelled?

“You’re late. I began to think you weren’t coming.”

The husky words, spoken from out of the darkness, sent a frisson of anticipation coursing along her skin. Drat him. The last thing she needed with her life in a shambles was to feel frissons of anything for the scoundrel, yet they seemed to happen with astonishing regularity.

“I had some trouble getting away,” she said to the glowing tip of his cigar, all that she could see of him. “We don’t have much time, so you’d best get right to it. It wouldn’t do to be caught out here together.”

He emerged from the shadows, and the gas lamp from inside bathed his serious expression in a soft light. “I suppose your ‘papa’ warned you off. Is that why you refused to dance with me?” When she didn’t answer at once, he waved the cigar, painting a swirl of smoke between them. “Let me guess—he told you I was a big bad wolf who ate sweet young virgins like you for breakfast.”

The apt description rankled. “He’s not as narrow-minded as you think.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“You can be very annoying sometimes, do you know that?” She pulled her shawl about her thinly clad shoulders. “It’s freezing out here. Tell me what you learned in Liverpool.”

“Fine.” Dropping the cigar onto the terrace, he crushed it with his heel. “I assume you understood what I was trying to convey yesterday at the park.”

“Yes. That I wasn’t listed in the Customs records as having entered the country with Mama and Papa.”

“Actually, you
were
listed.”

“What? But I thought—”

“Unfortunately, when I saw the entry I realized that the original had been altered and an addition made. So I looked up the fellow who’d worked for Customs at the time, and he confessed the truth.”

When he hesitated, she prodded, “Which was what?”

“Your parents came through Customs without a babe in arms. But a month later, your father returned to Liverpool and paid the gentleman a substantial sum to alter the record. The Customs officer only admitted to it when I told him I was there seeking the truth on your behalf.”

Her head swam. She must have swayed a little, because Tristan stepped up to steady her with a hand beneath her elbow.

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

Somehow she managed a nod.

His eyes bored into her. “You already suspected this. It shouldn’t come as a shock.”

“It’s just that . . . until now, it all seemed rather abstract. Like some fantastical story from a fairy tale about children discovering that their parents were really kings or something.” She met his gaze. “But when you speak of bribes of officials and Customs records . . . it becomes so much more real. True.”

“Ah. I can understand that.”

He stood so close that she could feel his warm breath float across her cheek. But when she saw the sympathy in his eyes, it was suddenly too much for her.
He
was too much for her.

Feeling exposed, she tugged her arm free and moved away from his perceptive gaze to the railing, where it was easier for her to think. “None of this proves that my parents were Gypsies.”

“No. I won’t know that until I do more investigating.”

Staring down into the garden, she clutched the rail for support. “When? How soon can you start?”

“I already have.  I asked around town today and learned that there’s an encampment of Northern Romany clans near Chelsea. Since most of the Gypsies from particular shires know others in their area, I’m hoping that they can tell me about those from Yorkshire. Or that they may
be
from Yorkshire. You never know.”

She faced him. “I want to go with you when you visit them.”

“Not a chance.” His eyes glittered like stars in the
semidarkness. Or ice crystals that no amount of female persuasion would melt.

“Why?” she demanded. “I’m paying you. So if I say I want to go—”

“I take it that you don’t trust me,” he said, his tone harsh.

“No . . . I mean . . . yes, I trust you.” She rubbed her chilled arms. “That’s not the reason I want to go.”

Leaning one shoulder against a pillar, he scrutinized her with the sort of intense look she supposed was necessary in his profession. “Then what
is
the reason?” One side of his mouth crooked upward. “Tiring of your cousin already, are you?”

She huffed out a frosty breath. “That’s not it, either. I just . . . I need to hear every word for myself. What if the Gypsies’ account sparks a memory of something I overheard as a girl? Or what if they reveal details that only I can make sense of in light of my childhood?”

He stared at her. “You don’t understand. I may have to go to several encampments before I glean anything of substance. And how the devil will you get away from this town house to go gadding about town with me?”

“I could do what I did last time. Tell Papa that Ralph and I are going for a walk.”

He snorted. “If your Ralph knows one iota of this, he will go straight to your father. He was clearly conflicted yesterday in the park. If you continue much longer to abuse his confidence, he
will
betray it. He knows who pays him.”

She sighed. “You’re probably right. But there must be some way we can manage it.”

“Sorry, but I’m fresh out of ideas for how to sneak a young lady out of her home without her parents . . . her
guardians
noticing.”

This situation was slipping from her fingers moment by moment. She hated that feeling. She was used to being in control. “Well,” she said peevishly, “I daresay you could think of some way to let me come along if it meant not having your activities of last summer exposed.”

He chuckled. “Is that a threat? Because you may recall what happened the last time you attempted that with me.”

She knotted her shawl in her fist. “I swear, sometimes you can be very—”

“Annoying,” he finished with his usual smirk. “You already said that.” Then his smirk vanished, and he pushed away from the pillar. “But I might be willing to come up with a scheme for taking you with me.
If
I were given the proper incentive.”

“Incentive?” Given the flare of heat in his gaze, she doubted he meant money.

As he came toward her, the terrace seemed to shrink to encompass just the two of them. She gulped down air, trying to calm her agitation.

Trying to still the excitement unfurling in her chest.

Then he held out his hand. “Dance with me, princess.”

8

T
RISTAN WANTED, JUST
once, to feel their bodies moving in tandem. To have her in his arms again. It was a foolish whim, but he wanted it all the same. And he could swear she did, too.