How the Scoundrel Seduces

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Heaven save her, it was true. How terrifying. Because he clearly didn’t feel the same. Or not as deeply, anyway. “I doubt that it matters, but—”

  “You want to know if you’ve misplaced your affections,” Lisette said softly. “If you’re being a terrible judge of character.”

  With tears clogging her throat, she nodded.

  Lisette gazed out the carriage window. For a long, agonizing moment, she appeared to be considering something. But just when Zoe was sure the woman would refuse, she turned back to Zoe and set her shoulders.

  “Very well,” Lisette said with a hint of defiance. “I’ll tell you.”

  13

  THE CLATTER OF hooves on cobblestones, the grind of scissors being sharpened, the lilting cries of sellers hawking primroses and matches and milk—all of it penetrated the duchess’s carriage, and none of it drowned out the chilling tale of Tristan’s break with George Manton.

  Zoe listened with her fists clenched and her blood rising. “How did your half brother get away with it? Didn’t anybody protest?”

  “No one was about to stand up to the newly minted Viscount Rathmoor.” Bitterness crept into Lisette’s voice. “Not the townspeople who called Tristan ‘the French whore’s bastard,’ or the servants who knew better than to cut off their own noses to spite their faces.”

  “But Dom stood up to him.”

  “Dom tried,” Lisette corrected her, “and George cut him off completely. Without money, Dom had no choice but to quit his studies as a barrister. He was forced to rely on his own resources, and his best one proved to be his friendship with Jackson Pinter.”

  “Sir Jackson Pinter?”

  The duchess nodded. “They met when Dom was studying a legal case that Sir Jackson was involved in. So when George destroyed Dom’s hope for a future, Dom asked Sir Jackson for a position as a Bow Street runner. He made his living that way until only a few years ago, when he established Manton’s Investigations.”

  “And you and your mother and brother went to France.”

  “Fled is more like it.” Lisette stared out the window. “Dom sneaked us off the estate to Flamborough Head. From there, we boarded a smuggler’s skiff for the Continent.”

  A sudden lurch in the pit of her stomach made Zoe clutch the squabs. “You crossed the English Channel in a skiff  ? It’s a miracle you even survived!”

  “It was a sailing skiff, so not as tiny as you might think, but the journey was rather harrowing.” Lisette smiled faintly. “From that day on, Maman refused to set foot on anything that traversed water. She said she’d rather drown than spend hours repeatedly losing the contents of her stomach.”

  “What about Tristan?”

  “He was so angry at himself for putting us in that position that he stopped at nothing to protect us, took any number of reckless chances on our behalf. He nearly beat one of the smugglers to a bloody pulp for attempting to steal a kiss from me.”

  “Of course he did,” Zoe said. “You were only fourteen, right?”

  The duchess nodded. “When we neared the shore off Biarritz and the smugglers threatened to toss us out unless we gave them the rest of our money, Tristan held the captain at knifepoint until his men pulled the skiff in to the beach and let us off safely.”

  Her eyes grew misty. “He was outnumbered four to one, and they were armed. So after they allowed Maman and me to get off, he made them go back out to sea well away from us before he jumped into the water and swam for shore in the midst of a tempest.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “The dratted fool was banged up so badly by the rocks that he could scarcely run when the smugglers made for land again, still eager to steal the remainder of our funds.” Lisette shook her head. “Fortunately, the storm was still going on, so we eluded them, though it was a narrow escape.”

  Tears stung Zoe’s eyes over what all of them had suffered, but most especially Tristan. Her dear, tormented Tristan. No wonder he hated “her kind.” No wonder he thought her half-mad for trying to unearth her Gypsy family. She’d gained the world despite her ignominious birth; he’d lost everything because of his.

  And because of a foolish theft of a horse. “So if Tristan really stole that Thoroughbred, why is he here and not in gaol?”

  “It’s a long story, but the gist of it is that in exchange for Tristan’s having found my husband’s cousin, Max made sure that George withdrew the charges. Of course, that won’t stop our blasted half brother from trying to destroy Tristan some other way. For example, by using Milosh.”

  Now that Lisette had explained who Milosh was to Tristan, Zoe was torn between anger that Tristan had used her situation to find Milosh, and worry over why he had chosen to do so. What could he possibly be planning?

  “Does George know that Milosh is the one who bought the horse all those years ago?” Zoe asked.

  “There’s no way to be sure. Milosh and his family left the same night we did. That wouldn’t have seemed odd—everyone knew that Papa was the only one allowing them to camp on the land and that George would kick them off as soon as he could. But with Milosh being a horse trader, George might have put it all together.”

  “Still, if there’s no more theft warrant, how could your half brother use Milosh to hurt Tristan?”

  Worry lit Lisette’s features, so much like Tristan’s. “If George has guessed that Tristan sold the horse to Milosh, then he could have Milosh arrested, especially if he sees Tristan taking up with the man again. George could claim he dropped the charges because he’d figured out that Milosh, not Tristan, did the stealing.”

  “But there’s no evidence, nothing concrete to tie Milosh to the horse. Or surely his lordship would have had the Gypsy arrested years ago.”

  “George doesn’t need evidence. He’s got Hucker to lie for him, and any number of servants. What’s more, he knows that Tristan would never stand for Milosh taking the blame for his crime. Tristan feels bad enough that Dom suffered for it. He would do whatever he must to save Milosh.”

  Zoe dragged in a sharp breath. “Like what?”

  “Who knows? Probably admit to the theft. Or . . . I don’t know, challenge George to a duel or something. They truly despise each other.”

  She was beginning to get that impression. “Then surely Tristan realizes all of what you’re telling me. So why is he taking such risks to see Milosh?”

  Lisette shrugged. “Because of your case, I assume.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he has some reason he’s not telling either of us. Before you and I even reached the camp this morning, he was looking for the man.” Zoe stared out the window for a long moment, her heart in her throat. “It’s far more likely that he used my case as an excuse to hunt up Milosh for his own purposes.”

  The duchess smoothed her skirts. “Perhaps at first. But I watched him with you today. The way he acted, the way he looked at you—”

  “I’m sure he looks at all women the same. He is a rogue, after all.”

  “Yes, sometimes.” Lisette searched her face. “But don’t let my big brother’s blustering fool you. There’s more to Tristan than he lets on.”

  “Oh, trust me, I know.” Zoe hardly saw the buildings they hurtled past on their way through town. “Still, when it comes to women . . .”

  “He’s never taken up with a lady, you know. His . . . er . . . preference has always been experienced women who are using him as much as he’s using them. And I have never seen him look at a mere client—at any female—as if the world might stop spinning if he couldn’t have her.”

  I’ve never done this with a woman like you before. Never wanted to. I only know . . . I don’t want it to end.

  Curse the man. Why must he crawl under her skin at every turn?

  “Not even in France?” she asked, thinking of all the lovely Frenchwomen he must have met.

  Lisette snorted. “Especially not in France. Good Lord, he had no time for women there.”

  Zoe’s gaze shot to her. “Why not?”
/>
  “He spent it working.” The duchess’s lips thinned into a tight line. “When we first arrived, we all did. I took in piecework, Maman trod the boards, and he worked at the Toulon shipyards during the day and took a job as a watchman at night. He scarcely slept for days on end.”

  An unsettling image of Tristan wielding a hammer at a shipyard half-asleep flashed in her mind. “Toulon? I thought he was in Paris.”

  “Not until a few years later, after La Sûreté Nationale hired him. We stayed in Toulon with Maman’s family to save money.” Lisette’s voice tightened. “He took every case they threw his way, determined to earn enough so that Maman and I wouldn’t have to work anymore, especially once she fell ill. It was only after she died and I moved in with him that he stopped his frenzy.”

  Zoe glanced out the window to keep Lisette from glimpsing her agitation. The duchess painted a picture of Tristan that differed vastly from the one Zoe had been clinging to.

  He fought for his family like her. He sacrificed for his family like her. And no doubt he hurt when someone refused to trust him.

  Like her.

  Somehow she must find a way to talk to him again. She couldn’t let him go on thinking she distrusted him because of his bastardy or anything else.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Lisette patted Zoe’s hand.

  “I will be.” As soon as she could speak to Tristan.

  There must be a way to sneak out of the house and get to Tristan before he went off to see Milosh. She didn’t know what his purpose was in meeting up with his old cohort, but it couldn’t be good. She had to warn him about everything Lisette had said.

  And she had to tell him that she understood. That she didn’t blame him for any of it. That she trusted him.

  Until she did, she couldn’t rest easy.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “ARE YOU SURE you won’t need me for anything this evening, Mr. Bonnaud?”

  Taking the kettle off the hob, Tristan carried it over to the kitchen table and sat down to dismantle his pistol. “I’ll be fine, Shaw, thank you.”

  Skrimshaw cast the pistol a pointed look. “When Mr. Manton left this evening, he did not tell me you were on a case.”

  “I’m not. This is personal.”

  “Ah. And dangerous, I take it?”

  Tristan began to clean the gun’s parts with boiling water. “Didn’t Shakespeare say, ‘To be prepared for war is one of the most effectual means of preserving peace’?”

  Skrimshaw’s already florid features turned positively scarlet. “No, sir, he did not. That was said by that American colonial named George Washington.”

  Tristan barely smothered his laugh. Tormenting the man was such great fun. “How odd. I could have sworn it was Shakespeare. Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.” Shaw rolled his eyes. “The only reference to war from the Bard that I remember is ‘He is come to open / The purple testament of bleeding war.’ ” Skrimshaw watched as Tristan poured sand in the pistol barrel and shook it. “I hope that you do not intend to open any such thing while your brother is away.”

  “Me? Never.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. If Tristan found out anything from Milosh tonight about George, he would happily open a “bleeding war” with his damned half brother. Because he meant to make George rue the day he’d burned that codicil and cast them out of their homes.

  Tristan rinsed sand from the barrel with hot water, then set about rubbing dry all the cleaned parts.

  Skrimshaw eyed him uncertainly. “Perhaps I should not go to rehearsal.”

  “Nonsense.” Tristan glanced at the butler’s worried expression and forced a laugh. “I am merely preparing myself to venture into Lambeth. You know how rough it can be in that part of town. Truly, it’s nothing more than that.”

  Skrimshaw’s face cleared. “Ah. Well, in that case, I shall be off. If you have need of me, I’ll be at the theater.”

  With a nod, Tristan waved him on his way. He took out the trotter oil to rub down the barrel. The more he rubbed, the more the motion reminded him of his hand guiding Zoe’s this afternoon as she stroked him to—

  He broke off with a curse. Damn the wench. Thanks to her, he was getting hard just cleaning a gun.

  But he couldn’t help himself. Closing his eyes, he remembered her as she’d looked half-naked, her skirts pulled up, her bodice open . . . and him with his hands all over her. God, how beautifully she’d come apart at his touch. It had been the most erotic experience of his life. He would give anything to repeat it, to hear her soft, mewling cries, feel the sweet, wet silk of her—

  The barrel clattered on the table, rousing him from his waking dream.

  Scowling, he reached for the pistol lock so he could work trotter oil into it. Yes, she’d come apart . . . and moments later had accused him of using her. Of not doing his job.

  Of destroying her hopes for a comfortable marriage to Keane.

  So now I get to know what I’ll be missing, and be even more miserable marrying the only choice of husband open to me.

  Jaw clenched, he oiled the other pistol parts. All right, perhaps he had set out to prove that she deserved better, but he couldn’t regret that.

  I can’t marry the man whom I do desire, can I? He doesn’t want a wife—and even if he did, it wouldn’t help my situation.

  Tristan groaned. She’d meant him. And she was right.

  The last thing he needed was some female sitting up waiting for him when he was late. Worrying about him. And caring about him and needing him and wanting him with that all-consuming hunger that made a man’s breath catch in his throat and his body harden and his soul finally feel at home . . .

  Damn her! Now she was getting inside his bloody thoughts and twisting them all around. This was madness. He hadn’t meant for things to go this far with her. He hadn’t meant to start caring about her or, for that matter, what she thought of him.

  Yet he did. It bothered him how ready she was to believe he was a conscienceless thief. It annoyed him to have her accusing him of taking her case for ulterior motives.

  He sighed. That shouldn’t annoy him, since it was mostly true. He did wish to “hide the truth” and follow his “own plan.” And he supposed he was somewhat guilty of ignoring her search for her Romany mother so he could focus on his own search for Milosh.

  But bloody hell, he’d had good reason! Not that he would ever say that to her. There was no telling how she would react if he confirmed her suspicions that he’d actually stolen that horse. She, who grew outraged whenever he suggested that her father might have had a mistress!

  He was probably right to have told her he’d give her case to Dom. Dom wouldn’t try to seduce her. Dom would be methodical and careful.

  Dom didn’t speak Romany.

  Gritting his teeth, he reassembled his pistol and filled his powder flask. It didn’t matter. After talking to Milosh tonight, Tristan would speak to every Northern Romany he could find. The least he could do for Zoe was track down Drina. If he had no success, then he and Dom would work together until her mother was found.

  He just wouldn’t go anywhere near Zoe in the meantime.

  A knock came at the front door.

  “Shaw!” he shouted, then remembered the man had left for the theater.

  Grumbling, he laid down his pistol and headed for the door. It was 7:00 P.M., late for someone to be appearing on their doorstep but not entirely unheard of.

  He swung the door open, then gave a start to find a hooded figure in an all-enveloping cloak. Beyond the fellow, Tristan could see a tethered mare with what looked like a sidesaddle on her back.

  A sidesaddle? His gaze shot back to the “fellow,” who lifted his . . . her head just enough for him to see her face. God, it was Zoe. Here. And without Lisette or even that pup Ralph for company.

  Jerking her inside, he shut the door. “Have you gone utterly mad? This neighborhood is no place for a lady alone.”

  She pushed the hood off her head, and
he saw her reddened eyes and nose.

  His heart dropped into his belly. “What’s happened?” He grabbed her shoulders. “Is it Keane? Is it your father?”

  “No! Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve been crying!”

  “Oh. That.” She wouldn’t look at him. “That’s only because . . . well . . . I feel dreadful about this afternoon. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was wrong of me.”

  She’d come all this way for that? “Not a bit. You were mostly right. I shouldn’t have pushed you, and I certainly shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation to pursue my own purposes.”

  “But now that I understand why you did, I feel awful about the things I said to you. I had no right to accuse you without knowing all the facts.”

  His pulse stopped. “What facts?”

  “About why you stole the horse.” Her gaze met his. “Lisette told me who Milosh is to you. And what your half brother did to you. All of it.”

  He gaped at her. Then he exploded. “Bloody, bloody hell.” Releasing her, he turned to pace the foyer. “I swear I will take my sister over my knee next time I see her!”

  She eyed him warily. “Do you make a habit of such nonsense?”

  “Of course not,” he grudgingly admitted. “But I’m sorely tempted to try it. Perhaps then she wouldn’t betray my confidences to clients.”

  “Clients. I see.” She hugged herself. “Is that all I am to you then? A client?”

  God in heaven, how was he to answer that? He scrubbed one hand over his face. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Isn’t it?” Her tone grew arch. “I know I’m unfamiliar with general business practices, but I don’t imagine they include kissing and fondling one’s clients.”

  “Especially since most of my clients are men,” he quipped.

  “Don’t joke,” she said in an aching voice. “Not about that.”