The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book) (45 page)

“
I certainly hope not,” she said and then turned her attention to Marcie, whom he recognized from last night’s ball.

It appeared that was all she was going to say on the matter. So be it, then. He had more important matters to attend to, like getting Miss Findley into bed. And if her guardians were going to be absent it would make his task all that much easier.

Patience couldn’t say that tea with Lord Swaffham was all bad. As a matter of fact, other than the awkward moment when he asked after her stepmother, it was quite pleasant. Conversation was much easier with him than she’d expected—he had quite a lot to say, and seemed to know when he was talking too much, at which point he would shift the conversation and ask Patience’s opinion on the matter. It was quite unexpected. All this time, she thought he’d been using charm and flattery to get those girls to fall in love with him. Was it really wit and intelligence he was using instead?

“
Well,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m about drowning in tea now. Shall we go for that drive?”

“
Certainly.” She turned to Marcie, but her maid was already on the task of retrieving Patience’s pelisse and reticule. Patience led the way to the front hall and once fully dressed, they departed from the house.

A well-appointed landau sat on the street outside. As they approached, Lord Swaffham took her hand and helped her and Marcie into the seat before following behind them.

“
Hyde Park, Elliot,” he called to the driver, and then they were off.

It was a perfectly sunny day, if not a bit chilly. Patience wished she could divest herself of her bonnet to get a bit of sun on her cheeks. Mama had always insisted that pale skin made one look more aristocratic, but Patience much preferred a healthy, sunny complexion.

She sighed, wishing she could argue with her mother again. An odd thing to wish for, she knew, but she wished it nonetheless.

The park was busy today; Rotten Row was bustling with members of the
ton
both on foot and in carriages. Parasols and top hats dotted the scenery—all the black and white in stark contrast to the bright green trees.

“
Do you care to walk a bit, Miss Findley?”

Patience looked up at Swaffham. His smile was radiant and made her heart skip a beat. She wasn’t sure if she should fight it or give in to it. After all, she planned to trap him into marriage soon, why not actually allow herself to fall in love with him too?

“
I would be happy to.”

Swaffham instructed his driver to let them out, and once he was on the ground, he turned back to help Patience and Marcie down as well. As he went to shut the door, he let out an, “Oh,” and then went quiet as he retrieved something from the seat.

“
Is everything all right?” Patience asked him.

“
Oh, fine,” he said, offering his arm. “I just dropped something.”

They began their walk, and Marcie very kindly stayed a good twenty paces behind them.

“
Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” Swaffham asked, and Patience nodded in agreement.

Silence fell between them for the first time that afternoon, and Patience suddenly had the distinct feeling that Swaffham was hiding something from her. “Is there a problem, my lord?”

“
Yes. I find it very problematic that you continue to call me ‘my lord.’”

“
Oh.” Patience turned to him. “Then what shall I call you? Swaffham?”

His brow was crinkled in a scowl, though he could have simply been squinting at the sun.

“
You’re not one of my old school chums, Miss Findley. I would very much like it if you would refer to me as Tristan…in private, of course.”

“
Tristan.” She smiled, and then asked, “Tell me, did you ever find the Holy Grail?”

Tristan turned surprised eyes on her. “You are familiar with the legend.” It was more of a statement than a question.

Patience shrugged. “My father has a copy of
Prose Tristan
in our library. I found it quite intriguing.”

“
I wish I could say that I was named after the heroic lover, but the original Tristan in my family, my great-great-grandfather, had that particular honor. I was simply named after my own father, which I can promise is no honor.”

“
Well, it seems we have something in common,” she said, and then to clarify added, “in that we have less-than-honorable fathers.”

“
And what shall I call you?”

Patience wanted to give him leave to use her Christian name, but she worried that allowing too much familiarity so soon would be bad for the sake of the bet. “You may call me Miss Findley.”

Tristan laughed at that. “That’s just fine, Miss Findley. One at a time, so as not to offend your female sensibilities.”

It grated on every one of Patience’s nerves that he thought she was doing it out of some sense of propriety. She didn’t give a fig for propriety—that had always been her mother’s obsession. But what could she say now?

Tristan looked back at Marcie and then quickly faced forward again. “I have something else I wish to discuss with you,
Miss Findley
.”

Patience’s stomach turned a bit. What did he want to discuss that had him sounding so very serious all of a sudden? Surely, he couldn’t know that she was the instigator of the bet, could he?

“
Go on,” she said, though she was praying for an interruption so they might avoid any awkward conversation about the bet.

“
Would you care to tell me what
this
was doing on your person?”

Tristan procured a small, red leather book. On the cover was engraved lettering in an unfamiliar language
and below that, a depiction of what looked to be an Indian god…or goddess, perhaps. It was hard to make out, no matter which way she cocked her head.

“
I’ve never seen that book in my life,” she told him truthfully. Then she snatched it from his hands and opened it up, only to snap it shut again immediately. “Oh, good heavens!”

Tristan let out a hearty laugh, but Patience didn’t think it was funny at all. Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment at what she’d just seen.

“
You blackguard!” she hissed under her breath, even though she would have loved to shout at him. “You knew what was in there, didn’t you? And you let me open it anyway?”

“
I thought it was your book, Miss Findley,” he replied, his laughter finally dying away a bit.

“
Well, it’s not. I can assure you of that.”

“
Then to whom does it belong?”

They both stopped walking long enough to glance back at Marcie and then resumed their walk.

“
What would Marcie be doing with a book like this?” she wondered.

“
Miss Findley,” Tristan said, and she could tell he was trying to choose his words carefully. “Have you any idea where that book comes from?”

She shook her head, confused.

Tristan sighed, as if he didn’t want to tell her. “It’s…it’s a Hindu text. From India.”

It took every ounce of Patience’s willpower to remain calm, but truly, she shook with her fury. How dare that woman bring something so scandalous into her home, after already causing such a scandal for her in Society?

Well, Rangana would certainly get a piece of her mind when she got home, that much was for certain.

Tristan wasn’t prepared for the rage that Miss Findley exhibited. He’d actually never seen someone turn quite such a bright shade of red. In truth, he’d hoped that showing her the book might ignite passion of a different sort, but it seemed her only passion was to wring her stepmother’s neck now. Blast, but she really was a prude, wasn’t she? Findley had not been joking on that account.

“
Now, now, Miss Findley,” he said, hoping to assuage her anger. “You needn’t get so up in arms over this little book. I’m sure she meant no harm by it.”

“
Poor Marcie,” she wailed, as if she hadn’t heard a word he said. “So innocent. She shouldn’t be exposed to such material.”

“
I’m not sure ‘Poor Marcie’ feels the same way.”

Miss Findley turned sharp eyes on him. “Lord Swaffham, I will ask you to hold your tongue on this matter. You are the last person I wish to discuss…
this
with.”

Tristan tried not to laugh—really, he did. But her fury was more comical than anything, and his lips twitched upward despite his best efforts.

Miss Findley huffed, clearly not amused at his amusement. “You think this is funny? You think to laugh at me when I’ve been presented with this…this…
sex book
,” she hissed, scandalized.

Now Tristan was really laughing. “Miss Findley, forgive me, but I do think you’re making far too much of this. Why don’t you slip it into your reticule? Then once you’re home you can unleash your fury on your stepmother, if you wish. But for now, why not enjoy this lovely spring day with me?” He waited, trying to gauge her expressions. Her fury died a bit, leaving a crinkled brow on a face of a more normal color.

“
I suppose you’re right,” she said, giving in. “I’m sorry to have lost control like that. It’s just…”

“
What?”

“
I can just imagine what my mother would say about this.”

“
What was she like?”

Miss Findley looked up at him. Was she surprised he asked such a question?
He
was. He didn’t normally take an interest in people’s private lives, especially when the person in question was simply the subject of a bet, but for some reason he genuinely wanted to know about Miss Findley’s mother.

“
She was perfect, really,” she began as they continued their walk. “Sometimes her perfection—or her desire for perfection from others—could be exhausting. She wasn’t highborn, and with Papa being in trade, she felt she had something to prove. She learned everything she needed to know about Society and etiquette, and she tried her best to pass it down to me. We lived by the rules, always. Scandal was not an option.”

Tristan nodded his head to Lord and Lady Tinsley as they passed by before continuing the conversation. “So I suppose this is all rather upsetting for you—the situation with your father and your stepmother?”