Tristan leaned back on the uncomfortable chair and recited informatively: “You were an apt pupil in penmanship and the use of maps, although you persisted in drawing Italy to look more like a riding boot than your governess thought permissible. You despised needlework although your sampler was more than passable in my opinion. As a horsewoman you have few equals, even if you earned the undying animosity of several of the local gentry by running your horse across the trail of the fox in a deliberate attempt to save the poor hunted creature.”
Mary smiled a bit at the remembrance of that little bit of foolishness, but then her indignation returned. “And that is all, my lord? Surely you have left out the time I poured honey down Miss Penelope Blakestone’s bodice at a picnic because she was making sheep’s eyes at young Jeremy Stone when she knew full well that I was deep in love with him myself.”
“You were thirteen at the time, so I disregarded it,” Tristan put in smoothly, making Mary wish she had a handy pitcher of honey hidden in her reticule at that very moment.
Closing the fan with a definite snap, Mary rose to her feet, causing Tristan to scramble a bit as he strove to unwind his long legs and follow suit. “You are a rude, snooping, mischief-making monster!” Mary cried, clearly unable to carry on any pretense that she cared not a snap for his ridiculous investigation of her past. “How dare you pry into my life that way! What earthly reason could you have given all those people when you went about snooping into something that was never your concern? How can I ever show my face in Sussex again after what you have done?”
“Do you want to?” Rule asked tauntingly.
Mary’s eyes narrowed dangerously as she looked up into his unrevealing face. “No, damn you, I don’t want to! But that’s beside the point. I should tell Sir Henry what you are about, that’s what I should do, and then we would see just who would be laughing, you cad.”
Tristan took her elbow in a firm grip and began guiding her over to his Aunt Rachel, who was sitting with the dowagers and looking utterly bored with the whole spectacle of Almack’s. “You’ll tell Sir Henry nothing, Miss Lawrence—you haven’t done so yet, or else I should have been called into his office for a thorough dressing down long since. It would seem he sees you as purity itself, and protects you like you were his own.”
“Well, then? If Sir Henry, who, you’ll have to agree, knows everything about me, is not concerned or fearful of allowing me in polite society, why can’t you just accept me as I am?”
“Sir Henry’s judgment may be clouded by something or someone out of the past. I am objective. Even if you are innocent of any wrongdoing, your mere existence may give someone power over Sir Henry, power that could even force that patriotic man into actions detrimental to England. The mere fact that your ‘uncle’ refuses to confide in me makes me suspect something very deep and dangerous.” Tristan drew Mary to a halt and turned her to him one more time. “Now are you willing to tell me your name. For Sir Henry’s sake?”
“Mary, Queen of Scots!” Mary Lawrence snapped before jerking her elbow loose and completing her journey over to Rachel on her own.
IT WAS VERY LATE, and the dance floor was crowded with couples eager to wedge one more dance into the evening, when Mary, still observed by Lord Rule, walked unescorted onto one of the wide balconies outside the main room.
The small raggedly dressed man who crept stealthily out of the shadows approached the girl on quiet feet and the two exchanged a few furiously whispered words before a much-folded paper changed hands, and the man, the paper now stuffed inside his shabby coat, slid back into the shadows.
Mary was just placing one slippered foot back into the main room when Tristan Rule vaulted nimbly over the balcony railing to land on the balls of his feet in the soft underbrush that edged the small garden. Hanging back discreetly out of sight, Rule watched as the small man reappeared under a dim gas lamp, then made off down the street in the direction of Piccadilly. Waiting until he could mentally reach the count of ten, Rule then started after the man, intent on following wherever he led.
While Lord Rule, using talents he developed during long years in His Majesty’s service, ducked into doorways and hid behind drainpipes as he followed the small man deep into the bowels of Jack Ketch’s warren, Mary Lawrence was taking her leave of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, first taking care to thank Jennie Wilde for the loan of her man Ben for the evening.
CHAPTER SIX
MARY WAS SITTING ALONE in the breakfast room the next morning, still savoring her first victory over Ruthless Rule. Jennie had sent around a note earlier, describing Ben’s elation at having eluded his pursuer after leading him a merry dance until the wee hours of the morning.
This single success had naturally led the volatile Mary into considering other relatively harmless pranks aimed at keeping Lord Rule out of sight while she tried to make the best of what was left of the Season. Already she realized one flaw in last night’s plan: she should have had Ben appear much earlier in the evening, then she could have avoided their confrontation on the dance floor altogether. Ah well, as a fledgling conspirator, she couldn’t believe she had done that poorly overall.
Now that she knew exactly why Tristan was dogging her—believing her very existence to be a danger to Sir Henry and the national security—she knew she could proceed without fear of her adopted uncle’s censure if he should ever discover what she was about. After all, if Sir Henry had wanted Tristan to know her history, he would have told him long since. Besides, she assured herself as she buttered a second muffin, it wasn’t as if she were really a danger to Sir Henry—being French was no longer considered a sin in London. Actually, she couldn’t understand Sir Henry’s insistence that she hide her heritage from the world.
The matter of the plot to rescue Napoleon from Elba, the plot Tristan had told her was his reason for suspecting her in the first place, was really none of her concern. Wiser heads than hers, notably Sir Henry’s, would certainly scotch any such attempts before they could be born. Napoleon was defeated, soundly and forever. After all, wasn’t all London gearing up for a gigantic round of celebrations even now? Surely all London couldn’t be wrong—no matter what that ridiculous Lord Rule said to the contrary.
Having eased her conscience all around, Mary was just about to rise from the table and go in search of Rachel, who had been closeted in her rooms tussling over a minor snag in the tale of her hero and heroine, just then at each other’s throats over a silly misunderstanding that was throwing up boulders in the path of True Love, when she was surprised to see Dexter Rutherford enter the room, a sheepish expression on his face.
“Dexter,” Mary greeted him, “I see the operation was a success. You have actually succeeded in separating yourself from Lord Rule. My congratulations to your physician, and may I please have his directions as I too am in need of his services.”
Dexter stopped dead in his tracks, examining his person as if looking for signs of recent surgery, before coloring brightly and chuckling weakly. “Oh, you’re funning me, aren’t you? I admit to admiring Tristan—he’s a capital fellow, you know—but it ain’t as if I’m living in his pocket.”
“That’s a relief, seeing as how the man seems to be trying to live in mine. Having you in there too just might make me list more than a little to one side, don’t you think?” Mary teased the young man before waving him into a chair. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, or am I mistaken and it is Aunt Rachel you have come to see?”
Dexter ran a nervous finger around his suddenly too-tight cravat (a glorious creation that flattered his valet no end). “Ac-tu-ally,” he squeaked, “it was the two of you. It seems I find myself in need of some reputable females to act as companions for a young lady I’m seeing.”
Mary shook her head. “Not that I’m doubting that you have a problem, Dex, but what about Lucy or Jennie? Surely they’re reputable.”
The young man became fairly agitated, twisting in his chair as if he had just discovered a nettle in his breeches. “Th
ose two—good God, as if I need those busybodies poking into my life, matchmaking, and twitting me unmercifully! No, I’m not that stupid that I’d lay my head on that block! I thought about getting m’friend Bertie Sandover’s sister to help, but she’s known me forever and threatened to tell Kitty everything about me—can’t have that, can I?”
“Kitty?” Mary prompted, barely suppressing a giggle at the thought of the turmoil Jennie and Lucy could cause once they scented a romance in the air. Poor Dexter, he’d have to be truly desperate to let either of those ladies in on his plans.
Now Dexter’s complexion turned a deep, fiery red. “Kitty Toland,” he gushed, lowering his head. “She’s only seventeen and the most beautiful woman in England—in the entire world! Her brother, Jerome Toland, is not averse to my suit, you understand, but he says Kitty must only see me if she is accompanied by trustworthy companions. I thought and thought, and at last I came up with you and Rachel.”
“Any port in a storm, eh, Dexter?” Mary could not help but tease, enjoying herself more than a little bit at the young man’s expense.
Dexter’s expression became pained as he realized he had really put his foot in it—again. Why was it that he had inherited none of the suave, debonair talents of his cousin Julian? “I know I’m saying this badly—it’s a habit of mine, you know—but you know what it is, it’s that I think I’m in love. Never thought it would happen—kind of damps you, actually, but there it is, and I confess I’m not really sure how to do anything anymore.”
Mary rose and walked around the table to place a commiserating arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Ah, poor Dexter. What a beast I am for teasing you when you’re so obviously in torment. Of course Rachel and I will help you however we can. Why don’t we adjourn to the morning room and you can tell me all about your Kitty Toland. Such a pretty name, Kitty.”
“Ac-tu-ally, it’s Catherine.” Dexter informed her as they walked arm in arm down the corridor to the morning room. Once there he proceeded to tell her more—definitely more than Mary decided she ac-tu-ally cared to know—about this paragon of a female who had snared his bachelor heart.
Beside her youth, Kitty was the very worst sort of female for Dexter to have come across, for she was also a Total Innocent. The young Lothario was well and truly smitten, and had been from the moment his roving eye first encountered the shy, blond beauty from Cornwall.
“She doesn’t know anything, Mary, nothing at all. It’s like setting a baby loose in a stable full of stallions to see her surrounded by all the dandies and rakes who’d like nothing more than to ruin her. She has little fortune, you understand, and for some reason that seems to make her fair game for all the randy—er—well, never mind,” he ended hurriedly.
“That’s all right, Dex, I believe I understand,” Mary said, easing his discomfiture. “Rachel, hinting broadly of my vast dowry—compliments of Sir Henry—scotched any such ideas by some of the more pressing of my admirers early in the Season. Now I am only beset by penniless fortune hunters, but then no one can have every little wrinkle smoothed out for them, can they?”
“Jerome is trying so very hard, too,” Dexter pressed on, clearly thinking in one track and not even bothering to comment on Mary’s problem. “He’s her guardian, you know, the parents having died of some disease caught from putrid drains, or something. They’re shockingly to let, which is why Jerome’s run of luck at one of the private gaming hells was so fortuitous. Instead of then gambling or wenching—sorry, Mary—it all away, he hied himself straight to Cornwall to bring Kitty to town and launch her so that she could find herself a proper husband.” He turned to look at Mary intently. “It would be a bleeding waste to give her to some bumpkin farmer, really it would. She’s a jewel—a diamond of the first water—truly she is. I can only marvel that she likes me even a little bit.”
“I must meet this paragon,” Mary mused, almost to herself.
“Oh! How happy I am that you say so,” Dexter fairly shouted, hopping to his feet. “I’ll bring her round this afternoon so that the three of you can get acquainted. You’ll love her,” he promised, already sprinting toward the hallway, “you’ll absolutely adore her!”
Mary laid her head against the back of the chair, smiling broadly. “Absolutely, you lovesick looby.” She chuckled happily before rising to seek out Rachel and tell her of their expected visitor. “After all, why should Jennie and Lucy have all the fun?”
WHILE MARY AND RACHEL were giggling like schoolgirls over the thought of a smitten Dexter waxing poetic over a beautiful child from the wilds of Cornwall, Tristan Rule was just rising from the bed he had lain in only a few, frustrating hours. What a profitless evening his had been—chasing through the slimy gutters and over the sooty rooftops of the worst section of London in pursuit of some crafty jackanapes who had had the temerity to elude him in the end.
Had Mary been passing instructions to the man—or had the man been collecting payment in exchange for his silence? Was Mary a conspirator, or the victim of blackmail? Oh, his head ached from all the questions that were rattling around inside, none of them with easy answers. If only Sir Henry were willing to take him into his confidence. Already he had wasted precious time believing Mary to be a French spy, giving the true conspirator free rein to continue with his plans.
Now that he knew she was not involved with the plan to free Napoleon, Rule felt real relief, but discovering that Mary Lawrence didn’t exist until ten years ago had opened up an entirely new, different, kettle of fish that didn’t smell that much better than the last one. There was something particularly distasteful, even dangerous, about Mary’s past, something so volatile that Sir Henry, who had never hidden anything from Tristan before, was insisting on playing all his cards very close to his chest.
If someone besides Tristan, someone with either blackmail or treason on his mind, discovered even the little bit that Tristan had unearthed on his quick journey into Sussex, there was no end to the amount of trouble Mary Lawrence’s presence in Sir Henry’s house could mean for England.
Throwing back the tangled covers, Rule leaped to his feet and stomped over to the washstand to pour a pitcher of cold water over his tousled black locks. Rising from his punishment sputtering and shivering, shaking his head like a dog coming out of an icy stream, he rang for his man and then grabbed up his robe, tying the silken sash around his waist with a vengeance. “Damn that green-eyed minx for not trusting me!” he swore to the room at large, flinging himself into a chair, his black stare serving to unnerve his valet more than a little bit as that man entered the room, a steaming cup of coffee balanced before him on a silver tray.
“Women!” Tristan sputtered, eyeing his man as if daring him to say something, anything, in that gender’s defense.
“Indeed, m’lord.” The servant gulped, already backing toward the door. “An’ sure Oi am that we’d all be the better fer it if we could but live widout ’em.”
“I can,” Tristan gritted before taking a large gulp of the too-hot coffee. “Damn it all anyway—I will!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ON THE THIRTIETH OF MAY the first Peace of Paris was signed in that city, giving yet another excuse to the celebration-mad populace of London to don their finery and make absolute cakes of themselves by eating, dancing and imbibing to the top of their bent and beyond.
One of the more sedate parties, a modest Venetian breakfast for no more than six hundred of the host and hostess’s closest and dearest friends, was held near Richmond Park. That this breakfast did not commence until three in the afternoon, and was not expected to wind to a close much before the wee hours of the morning, meant little. The mood of the invited guests was jovial, even jubilant, the seemingly endless supply of strong drink notwithstanding.
Mary was in attendance, accompanied by Miss Kitty Toland, whom she and Rachel had agreed to chaperon, a circumstance that meant that Dexter Rutherford was also a member of their party. Indeed, as Mary had whispered to Rachel a few moments earlier in the
carriage, it would have taken one of Congreve’s rockets being strapped to his hindquarters and the fuse lit to blast Dexter away from his ladylove.
But then it was nice to have a gentleman in their party, since it was he who took charge of matters such as securing a comfortable, shady spot under a tree and then chasing after servants to secure some nourishment before they all wilted from hunger. Not that Mary would have had too much trouble convincing one of her flirts to play fetch and carry for her, but it had become so fatiguing to have to explain her association with the dangerous Tristan Rule to her apprehensive swains that she was just as glad not to have to go to the bother.
She had hoped that Rule’s absence from her side for the past four days had scotched all those rumors she knew to be flying fast and furious about the ton, but she hadn’t counted on the lack of starch her beaux had evinced when faced with the prospect of being thought to be poaching on Ruthless Rule’s preserves. “It’s like I have a sign hanging from my back that says ‘Private Property—Trespassers Beware,’” Mary had complained to Rachel more times than that weary woman wished to remember, “and I don’t know who angers me most—that dratted man or the silly fools who act as if he were some sort of furious Greek god who just might start hurling lightning bolts at them or something if they dare to cross him.”
Even more infuriating, at least to Mary’s mind, was the fact that she actually had found herself looking for the pesky man, and wondering just where he was that he had left off spending his time making her life as miserable as possible. Sir Henry had mentioned something or other that hinted of Rule being out and about the King’s business, but no amount of prompting could nudge the older man into saying a thing more. “Probably out minding mice at crosswalks or some such important task,” Mary had said, sniffing inelegantly, causing her guardian no end of amusement.
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