Zoe’s rigid stance gave Tristan a twinge of guilt. He and Keane really were taxing her composure. Brothels, indeed.
He should rebuke Keane for speaking of that in front of a lady. But it might be better to fall in with the man’s request instead, just to show Zoe that Keane would not make her a good husband, in case she hadn’t already figured that out on her own. “Say the word, Mr. Keane, and I’ll give you a tour of the most wicked spots.”
“Why does it not surprise me that you know where they are?” Zoe muttered.
Tristan bit back a smile. “You should expect that of a man who ‘spends all his time with criminals,’ my lady.”
“Speaking of that, Bonnaud, perhaps you could give me a tour of the places where criminals congregate, too,” Keane said. “I’d like to paint them. The seedier, the better. I believe in showing man’s natural savagery.”
The American was turning out to be not at all what Tristan had expected. And probably not what Zoe had expected, either. “I can show you all the natural savagery you crave, sir,” Tristan said. “If you have the time.”
“He doesn’t,” Zoe said firmly. “I have it on good authority that the Society of British Artists has a number of activities planned for him in connection with his exhibit.” She lifted her chin at her cousin. “And don’t forget Aunt Flo’s soiree tomorrow night, sir. You must attend that, or she will be very hurt.”
Keane groaned. “Right.” Then he glanced at Tristan. “Are you attending? That might liven it up.”
It damned well would. Zoe’s family would pitch an apoplectic fit if a half-French bastard who worked in ‘trade’ darkened the hallowed doors of their fine Mayfair town house. “I’m afraid I’m not invited.”
“Aren’t you?” Keane glanced from Tristan to Zoe with decided speculation in his eyes. “Well, then I invite you. The soiree is for me, after all, so I ought to be able to invite a friend, eh?”
Panic showed in Zoe’s face. “I’m sure Mr. Bonnaud is far too busy with his cases to come to a soiree. Aren’t you, Mr. Bonnaud?”
Not on his life. He wasn’t about to pass up a chance to see Keane’s effect on the unsuspecting English public. He couldn’t wait to watch the fellow prove himself to be exactly the wrong sort of husband for her. To see her family’s shock firsthand.
Besides, he still had to give her a report on what he’d found. How better to do that than at a soiree where her family would be preoccupied with their guests? Indeed, getting to know her family more directly would help his investigation.
You know bloody well that’s not why you want to go. You want to thumb your nose at them all. And dance with her.
Ignoring that truth, he said, “I’m sure I can make time for one soiree, princess.”
When her gaze widened in alarm and Keane eyed him with interest, Tristan realized what he’d called her. Damn. He was usually more circumspect.
Zoe tried to smooth it over. “Well then, sir, we’ll be happy to have you attend. Since your brother is invited, it should be an easy matter for you to accompany him.”
“Then afterward we can take that tour of gaming hells and brothels, eh, Bonnaud?” Keane said, though the gleam in his eyes showed that she hadn’t distracted him from Tristan’s slip in the least. If anything, the man had made note of it. “Perhaps your brother can join us.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan said noncommittally, although Dom would rather eat rocks than visit a brothel. He was practically a monk in his habits.
“We should go, cousin,” Zoe cut in with a glance at the darkening sky. “It’s getting late, and Papa will be expecting us home soon.” Turning her mare determinedly back toward the path, she added with a note of false cheer, “Good evening, Mr. Bonnaud. We shall see you tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be there . . . Lady Zoe.” He’d nearly said “princess” again just to “tweak her nose” as Keane put it, but something in her vulnerable stance had kept him from it.
Still, he couldn’t regret his earlier slip. Keane was clearly not for her, so if thinking that Tristan had a close friendship with Zoe would put the man off, so be it.
Tristan had lived daily in the shadow of his father, who’d married out of a sense of duty. It had cost Father’s wife and family dearly. It had cost Mother and Lisette and him even more.
Being the wife of a man whose tastes ran to brothels and gaming hells was no life for Zoe, no matter what it meant for her precious Winborough. Somehow Tristan had to force her to see that, to consider other alternatives.
Because no estate on earth was worth making a bad marriage.
7
ZOE STOOD IN the receiving line at the soiree, wanting desperately to cry. All these people treating her like Lady Zoe, when she was nothing more than someone’s castoff. And why did it haunt her so? She’d known Papa might not be her father and Aunt Flo not her aunt. Still, after Tristan’s surreptitious revelation yesterday had confirmed it . . .
Swallowing her tears ruthlessly, she forced a smile for the next couple in the line, who just happened to be Victor Cale and his wife, Isabella. Did they know her situation now? Could they tell her heart was breaking? Were they secretly thinking that she looked nothing like her family and really didn’t belong . . .
“Thank you for coming,” she said in as normal a tone as she could muster.
“It’s good to see you again, Lady Zoe,” Mr. Cale said. There was no irony in those last two words, thank heaven. So perhaps he didn’t know.
“The decorations are just lovely,” Mrs. Cale added.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, and they moved on.
The Keane town house was decked from stem to stern in cherry blossoms, without a bit of dash anywhere, which had bothered her when Aunt Flo had dictated the décor last week. Zoe had argued for lilacs or painted paper lanterns or anything that might make the place sing. But Papa and Aunt Flo had been determined to serve her up to her cousin like a sacrificial virgin, and only white would do for that—both the décor and her gown.
She’d fought over that, too, but lost, so her red shawl had been her tiny rebellion against marriage to her cousin.
Which was pointless now—she had to marry him. He held the key to saving Winborough; she couldn’t risk the repercussions if the truth got out. He might say he had no interest in inheriting, but he also kept making veiled comments about the money. Besides, his family might force the issue even if he did not.
A shiver wracked her. She wasn’t the true heir. She wasn’t even a Keane. She was Romany.
Which meant she must wrangle a marriage proposal out of her cousin. But how? He didn’t seem remotely interested in settling down with a wife. Or, for that matter, settling down with an estate in England and a seat in Parliament.
She glanced at Mr. Keane, standing between her and Papa in the receiving line, dressed in fine evening wear. Tonight, his only bit of dash was his trousers of a brilliant yellow, though they were certainly enough to give Papa heart failure.
She saw Mr. Keane’s expression, and her stomach knotted. He was clearly uncomfortable. His lips were drawn into a tight line and he kept watching the door, probably wondering how soon he could make his escape.
She was watching the door, too, but for Tristan. His reference to her as “princess” had roused her cousin’s curiosity enough to force her into fielding his sly questions about their “friendship” all the way home yesterday.
Fortunately, Mr. Keane had possessed the good sense not to continue the discussion in front of Papa. And he’d spent most of today on Suffolk Street directing the hanging of his paintings, while she and Aunt Flo prepared for the soiree.
A couple stepped up to Papa—no matter what, he would always be “Papa” to her—and he enthusiastically greeted them as the Duke and Duchess of Lyons. He had apparently met the duke at Parliament, but when the duke introduced Papa to his wife, Zoe didn’t need a copy of Debrett’s to remember exactly who the woman was. Tristan’s sister.
The two were practically twins. Though you
nger than he, Lisette Bonnaud Cale was as lovely as her brother was handsome, with the same inky hair and the same riveting blue eyes.
Zoe’s heart began to pound. If Tristan’s sister was here, could he be far behind? She resisted the urge to lean forward for a glimpse of him. Instead, she smiled politely while Papa introduced the couple to the other members of his family.
The minute the duke heard Mr. Keane’s name, a smile broke over his face. “I’m honored to meet you, sir. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but my good friend at the Society of British Artists sneaked me in to view some of your works right before Lisette and I headed here. Unfortunately he wouldn’t let me purchase any, or I would now be the proud owner of Asylum.”
Her cousin’s eyes lit up. “You didn’t find the subject too dark and oppressive? That’s what the American critics said of it.”
“No, but then I have reasons for that,” the duke answered enigmatically. “I liked that the viewer had to look closely to detect the difference between the insane and their keepers.”
“So you spotted the manacle on the youth.”
“Half-hidden by his trousers? Yes! I spotted it straightaway!” The duke became so animated in his speech that the duchess laid a hand on his arm as if to steady him.
Seeming to rein himself in, Lyons covered her hand with his. “I found it clever how you use light and shadow. How you suggest that the asylum’s keepers are as mad as the inhabitants. And I quite admired the irony of the title—that the asylum should be a refuge for the mad, but isn’t.”
“No one ever grasps that,” Mr. Keane said. “For that alone, I will give you the painting, sir.”
“Nonsense, let him purchase it,” drawled a voice behind the duke. “Max can certainly afford it.”
She froze. Tristan was here and speaking most familiarly with the duke, who merely laughed.
Aunt Flo, who stood on her other side, gave a shocked gasp. “Who is that impudent fellow?” she whispered.
“Bonnaud!” Mr. Keane exclaimed. “You came. Excellent.”
“Is that Rathmoor’s French by-blow?” Aunt Flo hissed in Zoe’s ear. Thank heaven the room was too loud for anyone else to hear.
Zoe bristled. If the truth ever got out, this was the sort of nasty thing people would say about her. Did her aunt even realize that?
“Yes,” Zoe hissed back. “He’s a by-blow. So is his sister, yet you don’t seem to mind her being here.”
“Of course not. She’s a duchess,” Aunt Flo said matter-of-factly, as if that blotted out the circumstances of the woman’s birth. As Zoe despaired at making her aunt understand how very wrong that all was, Aunt Flo surveyed Tristan critically. “I must say, he’s dressed very well for a by-blow. Simple but smart. I wouldn’t have expected it.”
That brought Zoe up short. He was, wasn’t he?
He wore a splendid suit of black superfine with touches of velvet. There wasn’t an ounce of dash in his matching black velvet waistcoat or his white shirt and simply tied cravat, yet the overall effect was, as Aunt Flo called it, “smart.” So smart it made her mouth water.
A pox on her love of a well-dressed man.
Aunt Flo’s fingers dug into her arm like claws. “Nicely attired or no, I did not invite him. What’s he doing here?”
Judging by Papa’s expression, he was wondering the same thing. But he clearly wasn’t about to remark on it in front of the duke. The fact that Lyons seemed perfectly comfortable with Tristan set the course for how everyone else was expected to treat him. Since the duke accepted him, Papa and Aunt Flo would be forced to do the same, thank heaven.
Besides, they couldn’t ignore the fact that Mr. Keane was clearly pleased by his arrival. Her cousin shook Tristan’s hand vigorously.
“Good to see you again, sir,” Tristan said.
The duke gaped at him. “How on earth did you meet Mr. Keane before even I had a chance to do so?”
When everyone turned an expectant eye on Tristan, she groaned. Her family would wonder that, too. And if they learned the truth, she was sunk.
Tristan’s gaze locked with hers. “We met at the park yesterday. I was with a group of young gallants who knew Lady Zoe, and they introduced me to her and her cousin. Eh, Keane?”
She could have kissed him. Now, if only her cousin would support the lie . . .
“Exactly,” Mr. Keane said with a sardonic smile. “Though I must confess I instantly forgot the names of the other gentlemen after hearing your trenchant observations about the English, Bonnaud. You are still going to give me that tour of London sometime, aren’t you?”
“As I said yesterday, I’m at your disposal.” With a glance back at the line lengthening behind the duke and his family, Tristan added, “Come, Max, let’s go find Victor. I believe he and Isa have already arrived.”
“We’ll talk later, sir,” the duke told Mr. Keane before allowing himself to be drawn off.
As the next person moved up to Papa, Mr. Keane bent to whisper, “You said you met Bonnaud at a party. I take it there’s more to the story?”
With her heart clamoring in her chest, she smiled up at him. “You must allow a girl to have some secrets, cousin.”
Something glinted in his eyes before Papa introduced the next person, and Mr. Keane’s attention was diverted. As she turned to see where Tristan had gone, she caught him frowning at her.
Why should he have cause to frown? She was the one having trouble keeping all her secrets straight. Though she couldn’t really blame Tristan for showing up at Hyde Park. He’d only done what she’d asked him to do, after all.
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.”
How the Scoundrel Seduces Page 9