How the Scoundrel Seduces (16 page)

“I don’t know. You tell me.” She sounded snippy, but she couldn’t help it. “You’re the one who said we’re not what you expected. Is that good or bad?”

“The unexpected is never good or bad. It’s just the unexpected, Zoe.” He searched her face. “I
may
call you Zoe, may I not?”

“Of course.” She might have to marry him, after all. “I just . . . hope we don’t disappoint you.” Or at least not enough to run him off.

“Now
that,
I assure you, could never be the case.” When he followed that statement with a heated glance worthy of London’s best rakehells, she wondered if he meant it. Or was just trying it on for size.

Because the whole time they’d been dancing, she’d felt none of the fluttering excitement, the thrilling anticipation, that five minutes in Tristan’s arms had inspired. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure if that was due to her or her cousin.

Or both.

Thrusting that unsettling thought from her mind,
she said, “So, how exactly are we not what you expected?”

“Your father used to be a soldier, right? And I was unaware that soldiers lived so . . . extravagantly.”

“They generally don’t, unless they inherit great lands and property.”

“Ah, but great lands cost a great deal to maintain.”

He kept harping on money. Why? Was he trying to figure out if he could inherit Winborough free of obligation so he could sell it? Or run it into the ground while he enjoyed what “English lords
really
spend their time doing: gambling, wenching, and watching cockfights”?

That possibility chilled her blood.

“This house alone,” he went on, “looks like something far beyond an army major’s means.”

He’d said he was blunt, but goodness, this was
very
blunt indeed. “Clearly, you don’t understand how things work here. Didn’t your father ever explain any of this to you? Winborough leases the land to tenants, and that provides the income for everything: this house, our way of life—” She slanted a glance at him. “My dowry.”

“My father was too busy bemoaning my interest in art and trying to force me into running his mills to explain the English way of life to me,” he said, completely ignoring her reference to a dowry. His jaw tightened. “Fortunately, my sister became the willing recipient of his vast wisdom and took over the running of his mills after his death, so I no longer have to worry about it.”

“Your sister! Do Americans approve of women managing businesses?”

“Not usually.” He smiled. “But that doesn’t generally stop the women from doing it.” The music was coming to an end. “You shouldn’t be surprised, however.
You
help your father run your estate.”

“That’s different. It’s built into the inheritance that way.”

“You really have to meet my sister,” he said amiably as he led her from the floor. “She would like you.”

“Would she?”

“Though I have to warn you”—he bent his head to whisper—“she has no idea of how to dress with dash. Her idea of a suitable gown is one that won’t show dirt when she goes to the mills. My mother despairs. She can’t stop hoping I will one day be a captain of industry.”

That statement gave her pause. Perhaps she’d been looking at this situation the wrong way. If her cousin had no plans to run his late father’s businesses and preferred to live the debauched life of the idle nobility, she ought to offer him just that—a life of ease, painting whatever he pleased. As long as
she
handled the part he hated, perhaps they could get on well together. He could paint in England as easily as he could in America.

Though he’d still have to sit in Parliament. That probably wouldn’t appeal to him. And there was the pesky problem of her not desiring him, handsome as he was.

You don’t really want to sacrifice yourself to Keane for the sake of an estate that isn’t even yours.

She scowled. Curse Tristan for putting such ideas in her head. She was
not
going to shirk her duty to Winborough! She might not be Papa’s blood but she was still his daughter.

Tristan and his heated kisses and caresses couldn’t change that. All he did was try to wreak havoc on her plans! And make her want things she couldn’t have.

Well, no more. She would keep things strictly business with him. Because unless he determined that there was absolutely no reason for her to fear her Gypsy background rising up to destroy her life, she was going to have to marry Mr. Keane . . . Jeremy. She might as well resign herself to it.

♦ ♦ ♦

“L
OOKS LIKE SHE
and her cousin are getting on well enough,” said a voice at Tristan’s side.

Dom. With his gut clenching, Tristan turned deliberately away from the disturbing sight of Zoe with Keane. “Yes, it appears that matters are proceeding according to her damned plan.”

“How did she take the news about her parents?”

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.

Her reaction had shaken something loose in him, reminded him of the terror he’d felt when he’d realized that Father hadn’t made provisions for any of them.

“She took it as well as can be expected under the
circumstances,” he evaded. “She’d already been halfway to believing her aunt anyway. I just confirmed it for her.” And in so doing, pushed her toward marrying Keane. Who didn’t seem averse to the idea.

Tristan gritted his teeth. He didn’t care. Not. One. Whit.

“So I suppose your next step is to—”

“Dom!”

Tristan and Dom turned to find their sister headed toward them with a woman at her side. When Dom muttered an oath, Tristan realized with a shock who it was, even though he hadn’t seen her in almost thirteen years.

Jane Vernon.

Now nearing thirty, with the same lush red curls, brown eyes, and freckled nose as before, she had blossomed from a slender, bookish creature into a shapely woman. Possessed of a grace and poise Tristan wouldn’t have expected, she managed to cover whatever distress she must be feeling at the sight of Dom.

Tristan resisted the urge to laugh. Their minx of a sister had turned into quite the little matchmaker lately, having recently been triumphant in pairing her doctor with her husband’s widowed cousin. But this was going beyond the pale, a fact made painfully obvious by Dom’s rigid jaw.

“Look who I found in the retiring room,” Lisette said lightly. “It turns out that Jane’s mother went to school with our hostess. And I knew that you would both be annoyed if you didn’t get to see her.”

Jane looked everywhere but at Dom. Dom, meanwhile,
couldn’t seem to look anywhere but at her. If a man could be said to swallow a woman whole with his gaze, that was what Dom was doing.

Though the idiot still hadn’t spoken a word.

“It
is
good to see you, Jane,” Tristan said into the painful silence. Some demon possessed him, and he added, with a wink, “I would have braved even George’s ire to call on you if I’d had any idea how very lovely you’ve grown.”

Jane’s grateful smile brought a warmth to her eyes that any man would find engaging. So he wasn’t surprised when Dom turned stiff as a poker beside him.

“Oh,” she said, “but I am still the same ‘Freckles’ you dubbed me when we were young.” With a furtive glance at Dom, she added, “And you’ve turned out rather well yourself, Tristan. Though I’d already assumed as much, given the rumors about you and your women.”

“All lies,” he said in mock protest. “It’s not like you to listen to lies, Jane.” When his fool of a brother
still
remained silent, he added, “And speaking of rumors, I hear congratulations are in order. You’re engaged to marry the Earl of Blakeborough, right?”

“Yes.” This time she looked directly at Dom. “I got tired of waiting for my life to begin.”

Dom flinched as if struck. Then he shifted a hard gaze to their sister. “I know that Max lets you run wild as his duchess, but even you should realize that this is highly inappropriate.”

When Lisette paled, Tristan turned on Dom, ready to defend her. But Jane didn’t give him the chance.

“Well, well,” she said bitterly, “Saint Dominick rears his lofty head at last, always ready to instruct people on how to behave. Careful, Dom. One day that church you’re building around yourself shall become your crypt.”

Dom’s demeanor softened a fraction. “And will you come to my funeral when it does, Jane?”

Color rose in her cheeks. “No. It has become painfully apparent that the dead never rise again. Not even saints.” Turning pointedly away from him, she smiled at Tristan. “It was good to see you.” She broadened her smile to include Lisette. “To see both of you. But my mother will be wondering where I am, so I’d best go find her.”

Then, with a little bow, she walked off.

As soon as she was out of hearing, Lisette turned on Dom. “You are such an arse sometimes, Dominick Manton! Honestly, I don’t know what she ever saw in you.” With a sniff, she headed off toward her husband on the other side of the ballroom.

“She’s right, you know,” Tristan muttered to Dom. “When it comes to Jane, you
are
an arse.”

Leaving his brother to stew in his own juices, he stalked after Lisette. “Hold up, sis!” he called out. “I need to discuss something with you.”

She halted as Tristan came alongside her. With a glance back at Dom, she frowned. “Why does he behave like that? It drives me mad!”

“You mean, because he doesn’t fall in with your matchmaking?” When Lisette glared at him, he added, “You ought to know by now that you can’t spring
things on Dom. He needs time to assess and evaluate and . . . whatever it is he does when he’s examining all the facts. Throwing Jane at him out of the blue is bound to rattle him.”

“That doesn’t mean he has to be cruel to her. Why, until she provoked him, he refused even to speak to her!”

“With words, anyway,” Tristan said dryly.

“You have to talk some sense into him. Otherwise, she’s going to marry that Blakeborough fellow.” Lisette seized him by the arm. “She and Dom
belong
together. Surely you can see that.”

“If they belonged together they’d
be
together, dear heart. Perhaps it’s time you let that dream go.” At her exasperated look, he said hastily, “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She was back to watching Dom. “Oh?” she said absently.

“I need a favor from you. It involves a case.”

Shifting her attention to him, she laid her free hand on her protruding belly barely disguised by her clever gown. “Max doesn’t want me doing too much with the agency, now that the time for the birth is drawing near.”

“It’s nothing taxing. Just shopping. You do still shop, don’t you?”

“I do. But what could shopping possibly have to do with a case?”

“You’d be surprised. It’s like this . . .”

10

T
HE MORNING AFTER
the soiree, the duchess showed up right on time to fetch Zoe. Although Aunt Flo was there to welcome her with great enthusiasm, Papa and Jeremy were still abed. They must have played cards into the wee hours or something.

Zoe didn’t mind that her cousin was absent. She’d been dreading his questions about her outing with the duchess. The man was awfully nosy.

But Papa . . . She still hadn’t had a chance to speak to him about the rumors concerning Tristan and the horse theft. Was there more to it than Jeremy had said? Did she dare ask Tristan about it today?

Probably not. She needed Tristan to do his job well, and he’d hardly be eager to work for her if she accused him of being a thief. It had been difficult enough to wrangle his agreement to include her on his trip to the Gypsy camp.

Zoe and the duchess headed out into the cold, their half boots crunching on the snow that had fallen earlier
in the week. Once they were handed into the Lyons carriage, the duchess turned to Zoe with a broad smile. “What a delightful redingote you’re wearing! I love pink and green stripes. Indeed, I have a gown with a similar pattern, though not in wool. And your bonnet is just adorable. Are those really seashells worked into it with ribbons?”

“They are. I bought the bonnet in Highthorpe, the town near our estate. The milliner there knows I prefer unusual clothes, so she made it just for me.” Zoe patted it fondly. “I’ve never seen one like it.”

“Nor I.” The duchess leaned forward to examine it more closely. “I’m fond of doing ribbon embroidery myself, but it never occurred to me to include seashells. I shall have to try that.”

“I can give you the name of my milliner,” Zoe said, “although I think it’s probably a long way to go for a hat.”

The woman turned pensive. “And it’s in Yorkshire, besides. We don’t go to Yorkshire.”

She said it as if it were a rule. “I thought you and your brothers were
from
Yorkshire?”

“Yes. Precisely why we don’t go there.”

Because of the thieving? Zoe nearly asked. But she wasn’t sure that was anything but vicious rumor. Besides, it would be unwise to offend the duchess.