How the Scoundrel Seduces (18 page)

“I didn’t have a choice, you know. Aunt Flo would have been suspicious if I’d gone out shopping with a duchess wearing my roughest clothes.”

“Believe me, it’s fine. More than fine.” For a moment his gaze held hers, smoldering with just enough heat to singe her. Then he jerked it back to the path. “Because this actually works out better. They’re in such awe of you that they’re eager to say whatever will please the elegant lady.”

She burst into laughter. “No one has ever called me elegant.”

“Why not?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Because I’m about as elegant as a lamppost. Aunt Flo says I am too sturdily built for elegance.”

He shook his head. “We’ve already established that your aunt is a fool.”

“Oh, she doesn’t mean it to be unkind. She also says I have excellent teeth and a pretty nose.”

“Rather like a fine horse,” he quipped.

“Exactly. My aunt would probably prefer putting me up for auction at Tattersall’s to gain me a husband. It would be so much easier than squiring me around to parties.”

“Trust me, if she did that, you’d have enough bids to put the lie to her claims about your lacking elegance.”

The compliment warmed her. “Would you bid on me?” she said lightly.

“In a heartbeat.” This time his heated glance did more than singe. It inflamed her senses.

She forced herself to look away. “Yes, well, you’re used to buying women. Just how many brothels
did
you and my cousin visit last night?” The words were out before she could stop them.

He eyed her consideringly. “That was not my idea, and you know it.”

“Yet you happily went along with it.”

Oh, Lord, stop talking about it, you fool!

But as usual, she ignored all sense when it came to him. “My cousin was still abed when I left, so I daresay the two of you had quite the night.”

His eyes gleamed at her. “You’ll have to ask
him
about that. When I last saw him, he was being welcomed into a brothel with open arms. I figured he could handle the women on his own, so I went home.”

She snorted. “You honestly expect me to believe that.”

“Which part? The part about your cousin? Or the part about me?”

“The part about you, of course. I know my cousin must have been doing
something
to come in so late.”

“He did it alone, I swear. I knew I had to be on my toes for today’s jaunt, so I retired at a decent hour.” With one of his irritating smirks, he laid his hand on the small of her back and leaned in close. “How intriguing that you care. You don’t seem the least concerned that I left your cousin at a brothel, yet you’re determined to find out if
I
was there with him. Jealous, are you?”

Pulling away, she walked a little ahead. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t care what you do with your evenings.”

“If you say so, princess,” he drawled in that self-satisfied tone that so provoked her.

She could feel his gaze on her; he was probably looking at her arse again. “I already know what sort of man you are.”

“Do you really? And what sort is that?”

“A rogue.”

“Yes, indeed.” He said it as if it were a badge of honor!

“And a . . . a seducer,” she snapped.

He laughed outright. “That, too, when I get a chance of it.”

His smug amusement and utter lack of shame were suddenly too much to bear. She halted to look at him. “And a horse thief.”

The blood drained from his face, and his smile vanished.

Her pleasure at having unsettled him fled. Hadn’t she already decided that he was
not
a horse thief? And even if he were, hadn’t she decided not to question him about it until he’d done his job for her?

“Or so I was told,” she added hastily. “Though I’m sure it was only—”

“By whom?” His voice was sharp, distant.

“What?”

“
Who
told you I was a horse thief?”

Botheration. “Well . . . I, um, heard it sort of secondhand, actually—”

“Mr. Bonnaud!” A boy came running up to them. “Mr. Bonnaud! You must come talk to my father’s aunt!”

Still staring at her expectantly, he said to the boy, “About what?”

The boy was breathing hard. “About the man you asked about this morning. Milosh Corrie.”

Tristan’s attention instantly shifted to the boy. “Does this aunt know where Milosh is?”

“Where he works at night. Yes. She was sleeping when you asked about Milosh before.” He tugged on Tristan’s arm. “Come, you must talk to her now. Before she naps again.”

“Of course.” Tristan glanced at Zoe. “Why don’t you stay here while I—”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m coming with you.”

With an exasperated look, he threaded his fingers through his hair. But he must have realized he couldn’t leave her there alone while he wandered Lord only knew where, for he muttered an oath, then gestured to her to accompany him.

The boy was already rushing off, back in the direction from which they’d just come. As they hurried to keep up, she murmured, “Who’s Milosh?”

His jaw went taut. “A man I grew up with. I told you, the Romany used to camp on my father’s land.”

“And will he help us find Drina?”

“He might,” he said noncommittally. “The Yorkshire Romany probably all know each other, and he is of that clan.”

“Oh, that’s good.” But how odd that he hadn’t mentioned this Milosh fellow before.

She prepared herself for a renewal of their conversation
about the horse thieving, but he looked distracted now.

He wasn’t the only one. Her mind whirled with all the information she’d learned today. Seeing how meanly the Gypsies lived made her realize just how lucky she’d been that her parents had bought her.
If
they even had. She began to understand why Tristan had scoffed at the notion.

Despite the children’s poor attire, she’d seen not one instance of cruelty to them. They roamed the camp freely and happily. Everywhere, there were babies—being nursed, being dandled on knees, being sung to. It was hard to imagine those doting mothers selling any of their children.

Within a short while, they had returned to the row of tumbledown houses near the road. When it became clear they were headed for one, Zoe looked over at Tristan. “Why do some reside in tents if there are these?”

“Taking a house in the city, even a mean one, is expensive. Only a few of the Romany can afford it, and usually those who can belong to large families, with lots of able-bodied men able to contribute to the rent.”

They entered to find themselves in a barren room furnished only with bedrolls, cushions, and a fireplace. Several women milled about, preparing food, dealing with children, and cleaning.

The boy drew them over to a wizened old woman huddled before the low-burning fire. She was swathed in shawls of exotic colors, one of them wrapped about
her gray head. Her gap-toothed smile included them as well as the boy, who spoke a few words to her in Romany. She gestured to Tristan to come closer, and they began to converse in her language.

Until now, Tristan had always begun the conversation in Romany to gain the person’s trust but had quickly changed to English for Zoe’s benefit. Not this time. And the longer the conversation went on, the more annoyed she became. She heard the name Milosh several times, but not Drina.

When at last there was a pause, she said, “What does she say about Drina?”

A shadow crossed Tristan’s face. “I haven’t asked yet. I was easing into it.”

He spoke to the woman in Romany again. Her face darkened, and she shook her head no, then muttered a few words and put her head down on her chest. It was not the reaction they’d been getting from others.

Apparently Tristan thought so, too, for he asked her something else, but now she wouldn’t speak to him at all, just kept shaking her head.

The boy faced them, his expression apologetic. “You must go now. Auntie is tired.”

Zoe’s heart dropped into her stomach. “But—”

“Go!” the boy said, with a worried look at his aunt. “She will say no more.”

Taking her by the arm, Tristan began walking toward the door.

“Tristan!” she cried. “She knows something.”

“She says she doesn’t. And badgering her won’t get
us anywhere.” When Zoe dragged her feet, he added under his breath, “I’ll speak to Milosh. If he hasn’t heard of Drina, perhaps he’ll help us convince the old woman to tell us what she knows. But for now, we’re done here.”

Only then did Zoe let him lead her outside.

As they hurried down the path, she glanced at him. “So she
did
reveal where Milosh is.”

“Not where he is now, but where he’ll be tonight. Apparently his whole family—and other Yorkshire Romany—flock to booths in Lambeth every evening, where they tell fortunes and sell gimcracks to the crowds in attendance at the theaters and taverns thereabouts.”

“So Drina herself might be with them. If she’s Yorkshire Romany, that is.”

“She might. Hard to be sure.”

Just then someone called out to them, and they turned to find Lisette heading their way.

“I do hope you two are done,” she said as she approached, “because I have perused as many ribbons as I can bear, and I can bear a great deal of ribbon shopping.” Given that she carried a basket full nearly to overflowing with paper packets and loose ribbons, she didn’t exaggerate.

“I’ll wager we’ve learned as much as we can here,” Tristan said.

The duchess looked up at the sky. “Even if you haven’t, it’s clouding over, and I refuse to get caught out in the rain. Or worse yet, the snow. Besides, I’m
famished. There’s a wonderful cookshop in this part of town, so I was thinking we could go there for a spot of tea and some pigeon pie before I bring Zoe home and you go back to Manton’s Investigations.”

“Well?” he asked Zoe.

She shrugged. “We’ve been all over the camp, and so far we’ve found out nothing. We might as well leave. We can always come back if you can’t learn anything from your friend Milosh.”

When the duchess dragged in a sharp breath and Tristan winced, Zoe knew she had stumbled somehow.

“Milosh Corrie?” Lisette asked, her voice rising to a squeak.

“Yes,” Zoe said. “You know him, too?”

“I did in my youth, though only a little. But Tristan knew him
very
well.” Lisette glared at him. “And clearly, big brother, you have finally lost your mind.”

11

B
LOODY, BLOODY HELL.

Tristan wasn’t sure who was driving him the most insane right now—Zoe for letting slip Milosh’s name, Lisette for remembering who the man was, or the boy who’d brought up Milosh in front of Zoe in the first place.

Now Zoe regarded him with confusion, Lisette looked fit to be tied, and he would clearly have to make explanations to one, if not both.

Assuming Lisette even gave him the chance. She blocked his path, her hands on her hips in her best imitation of Mother at her most infuriating. “I can’t believe you’d risk getting mixed up with Milosh again! What are you
thinking
? You know Hucker has been sniffing around London, hoping to find something on you for George. If he discovers you’re consorting with Milosh—”

“He won’t discover anything, damn it. Surely you know I can elude Hucker when necessary.”

“You didn’t elude him last year, and you nearly ended up in Newg—”

“Lisette!” he said sharply. “I am still with a client.”

His sister blinked. Then her cheeks turned scarlet as she apparently realized the imprudence of mentioning that he’d been headed for prison last year, before the duke had bullied George into dropping the charge of horse theft.

“And I need to talk to Milosh,” he went on, “because of Lady Zoe’s case.” Actually, he wasn’t sure that Milosh would know a bloody thing about that, but he hadn’t found anything here, and it was worth the attempt.

“Who is Hucker?” said Zoe into the strained silence.

“No one.” He shot his sister a warning glance.

With a sniff, Lisette turned on her heel and continued heading for the road and their waiting coach. Tristan fell into step behind her, as did Zoe. God, he didn’t need this right now, when he was so close to finding Milosh.

“Clearly, Hucker is
not
no one,” Zoe ventured.

“It’s a family matter,” he snapped. “Nothing to concern you.”

When Lisette muttered an oath under her breath, he gritted his teeth. Thank God they’d come separately, and he would be shed of his sister shortly.

Zoe glared at him. “Fine, no talking about Hucker. But obviously Milosh concerns me. You said he has something to do with this case.”

“I said he might be able to tell us something. That’s all.”

“So why haven’t you mentioned him before?”

Lisette threw a smug glance at him over her shoulder. “She asks excellent questions, doesn’t she, Tristan?”

“If you don’t shut up, sister, I swear I will gag you with those ribbons.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Lisette flashed him a minxish smile. “If you even attempted such a thing, Max would string you up by your toes. I’m having his child, you know.”

“Yes, and driving us all to distraction in the process,” Tristan grumbled. “He might actually thank me for gagging you.”