The ruthless Lord Rule

by Kasey Michaels

  For reasons Mary did not choose to investigate, this unconscious flaunting of his physical person served to touch off a spark of anger deep inside her that temporarily banished her earlier concern for his safety.

  As Tristan mounted the bank to stand not three feet away from her, she tilted her determined chin toward the afternoon sun and remarked sarcastically, “Ah, if it isn’t the knight errant. Good thing you left your suit of armor at home, sir, else you’d be rusted into a statue before you could enjoy all the hosannas of your many admirers.”

  What the deuce was the matter with the girl now? Tristan asked himself in righteous confusion. Anyone would think I stopped the curricle just to upset her. And to think I rode half the night just to open myself to more of her insults!

  Bowing deeply from the waist, a move that caused one dark, wet lock of hair to fall into a roguishly becoming curl on his forehead, Tristan replied coolly, “On the contrary, Miss Lawrence. If I had worn my armor, I would not be here at all, but would still be trapped beneath the surface of the pond, the curricle riding on my back.”

  His dark eyes then raked her up and down as if he had weighed her up and found her sadly lacking. He took two steps before saying, “If you’ll excuse me now, please? I think I shall be returning to my castle to have a tapestry commissioned commemorating my latest heraldic deed.”

  Then Mary was left quite alone, her mouth hanging open, as she watched Tristan being led away, Dexter’s arm draped protectively about his shoulders while two dozen or more hangers-on trailed along behind.

  “Never mind her, Tris,” she heard Dexter say. “Women don’t understand these things like we men do. All they can think of is us getting our heads broken or something. She didn’t really mean anything by it, I’m sure of it.”

  Mary couldn’t quite hear Tristan’s answer, but she certainly understood the tone. She had opened her silly mouth and put herself firmly back into Tristan Rule’s black books. Now he would never see her as anything more than Sir Henry’s ill-mannered ward—and as a possible threat to England’s security.

  He’d never see her as a woman. And that made Mary sad…it made her very sad indeed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “HE’S DOING THIS just to infuriate me, you know. Oh, don’t shake your head, Jennie, for you know I’m right.”

  Jennie Wilde was hard-pressed to conceal her smile as she watched Mary flutter about the Bourne drawing room like a kite in a stiff breeze. “Inviting you to share a theater box with the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg infuriates you, Mary? And what, pray, would make you happy? Having him appear at the theater with some other young woman on his arm?”

  “Yes—No! Oh, Jennie, you know what I mean. It’s like that Lorenzo Dow fellow said: ‘You will be damned if you do—And you will be damned if you don’t.’”

  “I believe the man was speaking about religion, Mary, not a festive night at Covent Garden,” Jennie supplied, tongue-in-cheek. “But I cannot see how you can turn a simple invitation into something even remotely devious.”

  Mary flitted about a moment or two more, then came to roost on the settee across from where her friend was reclining at her ease. “The grand duchess is rewarding Tristan’s courage in stopping that curricle last week—all the town knows it. Her theater box will be the cynosure of all eyes for the entire evening. And Tristan knows I would sooner shave my head and wear rags than miss such a spectacle.”

  “I understand what you are saying so far, Mary.” Jennie nodded, picking up her knitting. “But where does the revenge come in?”

  Mary rolled her eyes heavenward, unable to believe that Jennie—who was usually so awake on all suits—could be so dense. “For goodness sake, Jennie, Tristan knows if I appear as his companion for such a public display that everyone and his wife will have us as good as married!”

  Jennie laid down her knitting to peer intently into Mary’s worried green eyes. “And to think, my dear, the main presentation of the evening is to be an allegorical festival entitled ‘The Grand Alliance.’ My goodness, anyone would think the authors had you and Tristan in mind, rather than England and our allies.” Shaking her head in mock dismay, she went on: “Perhaps you have been trotting too hard, Mary. Really, the ideas you get into your head amaze even me!”

  Mary was not so self-involved that she could not see the humor in Jennie’s words. Wrinkling up her pert little nose, she retorted, “Oh, pooh—I guess I am going a bit overboard, aren’t I?” Then she became serious once again. “But, Jennie, I already told you how horridly I behaved to Tristan last week after he’d made his daring rescue. Surely he can’t be rewarding me for such a terrible attack on his character? Have I told you that he has come to visit Aunt Rachel and Sir Henry nearly every day without so much as inquiring about me? Now, does that sound like the man is perishing for the sight of me—or that he would be desirous of my company? No,” she answered for herself, “it does not. He knows full well how he has curtailed my social life, and he is purposely using this invitation to throw yet another damper on my fun.”

  “I think I’m beginning to get the headache,” Jennie mused, lifting one hand to her temple.

  “That’s what Aunt Rachel says every time I bring up the subject,” Mary responded, shaking her head. “You all think I’m reading entirely too much into this invitation, don’t you? Very well, I’ll accept it. But remember this, Jennie, I do so only under duress.”

  “And because you wish to sit beside the grand duchess at the theater and queen it over all society for an evening,” Jennie added facetiously, picking up her knitting once more. “Look at this, Mary. It’s a sweater for Christopher—he looks so well in blue, you know, just like his father.” Resting the half-done sweater once more in her lap, Jennie closed her eyes. “Lord, how I miss that little scrap of mischief. We’re off to Bourne at the end of the week, thank goodness. I vow I don’t believe I can wait to have Christopher dribbling down the front of my best gown again!”

  Jennie had Mary’s full attention now. “Leaving! But—but you can’t! Tristan’s still snooping about in my past like some Bow Street runner. I may yet need your Ben to help me throw a rub in his way.”

  “I’ve already discussed that with Kit and Lucy,” Jennie told her soothingly. “Ben is to remain in London along with our grooms, Tiny and Goliath. Lucy has agreed to house them and keep them at your disposal if the need should arise.”

  “Tiny and Goliath?” Mary questioned. “I don’t believe I’ve—er—had the pleasure.”

  Jennie grinned happily, always enjoying a conversation that had to do with the successful conclusion of one of her campaigns to find niches for every stray who crossed her path. She then gifted Mary with a full description of her valuable, if a bit outrageous grooms—a description that cheered Mary more than a little bit as she and her maid departed the Wilde town house and instructed the coachman to drive them to Bond Street and the modiste Mary knew to be capable of producing the most suitable gown for a gala evening at the theater.

  TO SAY THAT TRISTAN RULE WAS not enjoying his current status of hero would be reading far too much into his title of Ruthless, for Baron Rule was as human as the next man when it came to flattery.

  Oh, he might have made a fine outward show of disdain and disinterest concerning the glowing reports of his bravery in the daily newspapers; he may have declined to purchase any of the flattering cartoons circulating about the city; he may even have tossed Dexter Rutherford out on his ear when that enraptured youth showed up on his doorstep dressed head to toe in black in emulation of his hero, but that did not mean he wished everyone would just forget the incident and let him get on with his life.

  To be truthful, after long years spent laboring for his country in secrecy—never thinking of public reward—Tristan was finding the adulation of his peers to be comforting indeed. His reputation as Ruthless Rule added much to the stories now circulating throughout the metropolis, and Tristan found it a source of no little amusement to hear that he was personally r
esponsible for military victories and governmental coups that would have necessarily placed him in three European capitals at the same time.

  Not the least of the accolades accorded him was the personal invitation of the grand duchess to share her box at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden on the evening of June 13. That the grand duchess was using him to draw some of the attention away from the Prince Regent, whom she cordially loathed, was not lost on Tristan, but as he also had little love for “Swellfoot,” this did not dampen his enthusiasm.

  The icing on the cake—although Rule would not have phrased it so—was the grand duchess’s gracious inclusion of personal guests of Tristan’s own choosing in the party. Even now, as he sauntered down Bond Street—out on the strut, as Dexter and his cronies would have so inelegantly put it—Tristan could not help but smile at the look of confusion mixed with snippets of suspicion and ill-concealed delight in Mary’s eyes when he first offered his invitation. Indeed, her consternation in the face of snipping off her own nose to spite her face went a long way toward Tristan’s getting a little of his own back for Mary’s insults the day of the Venetian breakfast.

  And now, tucked securely in his waistcoat pocket, lay that same Miss Lawrence’s hand-written acceptance of his invitation that had been delivered directly after luncheon. After a visit to his tailor—and a very much out-of-character interest in every aspect of the construction of a new suit of evening clothes—Tristan went on his way to a meeting with Lords Bourne and Thorpe, to ask their help in the investigation of Mary Lawrence’s background.

  “Here he is now, Julian,” Kit called out, nudging his friend in the ribs, “the man all London has taken to its breast. How condescending of him to agree to be seen with us in public. It will do our combined consequence no little harm to be seen with the Redoubtable Rule, you know. Should we bow, do you think?”

  Tristan could not help but overhear, which he was meant to do. “Redoubtable? That’s one I haven’t heard,” he said as he fell into step with his two friends. “Julian?” he asked, turning his head to address Lord Thorpe. “Have you nothing to add—or has Kit poked enough fun at me to suffice?”

  Julian Rutherford may have had more than his share of starch for a great deal of his life, but association with his madcap wife, Lucy, had made serious inroads on his hauteur. “My dear fellow,” he drawled now, taking Tristan’s elbow, “far be it from me to poke fun at your expense. By the by, is it true you will be performing your recent stunt twice nightly at Astley’s, where the outlay of a trifling three shillings will allow all the ragtags and lowlifes to ooh and aah at your magnificence?”

  By now they had walked as far as St. James’s and were entering Boodle’s, where they had planned to share a few bottles before the dinner hour. Tristan did not respond to Julian’s teasing until they were all cozily ensconced around a table at the “dirty” end of the room, as Kit had gone riding earlier and was still clad in his buckskins. “Rumor, my friend, only rumor,” he assured him. “I find myself content with putting Miss Mary Lawrence through her paces, actually. Lucy was right, Julian, inviting Miss Lawrence to make up my party for the theater has that lady jumping through the hoops quite in line with my directions.”

  Julian raised one finely etched eyebrow. “Lucy has been aiding and abetting again, has she? Kit, does that thought rankle with you as much as it does with me?”

  Kit, who had given his permission for three of his servants to remain in town at Mary’s disposal, moved uncomfortably in his seat for a moment. “Both our ladies seem to be putting their pretty noses into something that is not their business, don’t they? Yet, Tris, I must tell you, I cannot be best pleased with that smirk you are wearing at the moment. Right now I believe Miss Lawrence to have been sadly betrayed—considering how she is laboring under the misapprehension that our wives are completely in her camp. Could it be that they have a plan of their own in the works?”

  Julian took a sip from his wineglass. “Of course they do, my dear man. I’ve been hearing wedding bells ever since those two conniving females first set eyes on Tristan and Mary together on the dance floor.”

  Now Tristan spoke up. “No, no, Julian, you have it all wrong. Lucy is aiding me in my attempt to uncover the secrets of Miss Lawrence’s past, that is all. In a way, you might say she is doing a service to her country.”

  Kit choked on his wine at Tristan’s gullibility. “Did you hear that, Julian? Your wife’s just doin’ her duty. Perhaps she’ll get a medal. God—to think two little slips like our wives could have succeeded in pulling the wool so firmly over our hero’s eyes. Sickens a man, don’t it?”

  “Are you saying that Jennie and Lucy are still bent on marrying me off?” Tristan asked, a steely look coming into his eyes.

  “Quick, ain’t he?” Kit quipped, taking another drink.

  Julian sat back against his chair, one hand to his chin as he considered the thing. On the one hand, Jennie and Lucy were helping Mary in her attempt to confuse and infuriate Tristan, while on the other hand, they were aiding and abetting Tristan in his search into Mary’s past. Both ploys were only decoys—with the ladies taking dead-set aim on leading the two unsuspecting souls straight to the altar. “Kit,” he said at last, kicking the legs of his chair front once more and placing his elbows firmly on the table, “I think we should do our utmost to aid Tristan in his determination to uncover Miss Lawrence’s past. What do you say to allowing your servants Ben, Goliath and Tiny to remain behind with me in London after you return home to Bourne at the end of the week? That way they could be at Tristan’s disposal if ever he should need them.”

  “But—” Kit began, knowing that he had already agreed to leave the three men behind to aid Mary. Then a slow smile played about his lips as he considered the havoc the three servants could cause if they served both Tristan and Mary without either of the plotters being the wiser. Oh, Julian, you’re a deep one, Kit mused to himself—besides, why should the ladies have all the fun? “I agree totally, Julian,” he said at last, keeping his tone as serious as he could make it. “Tristan may have need of their services in case things get sticky.”

  Tristan, believing things to be falling neatly into place, raised his glass in salute. “Thank you, gentlemen. I should have come to you at the first, and not relied on my scatter-witted cousins. It takes men to sort things out intelligently, doesn’t it?”

  Julian and Kit merely smiled and lifted their glasses.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MARY WAS NOT THE FLUTTERING type, but she gave a grand imitation of that empty-headed sort of female in the days preceding the theater party. From spending three hours in front of her mirror arranging and rearranging her hair in different styles—to the frustration of her maid, who knew a hopeless case when she saw it, and Mary in a severe topknot was a hopeless sight indeed—to hounding Rachel about matters of protocol and the correct addressing of a grand duchess while seated behind her in a theater box, to badgering Sir Henry into trimming his beloved side whiskers in order to look more top-o’-the-trees, Mary was beginning to wear very thin on everyone’s nerves.

  Only Kitty was immune, even though she resided in the second guest chamber directly across the hall from all the hustle and bustle. For Kitty was in love, and all she needed or wanted—or, for that matter, acknowledged—in her world was one Dexter Rutherford.

  It was, therefore, with great haste and breathless anticipation that she raced down the stairs and into the drawing room when Rachel told her—with an air of abstraction due to Mary’s latest bout of hysterics over uneven hems—that she had a morning visitor.

  Kitty skidded to a halt inside the doorway, her smile frozen on her lips, and whispered, “Oh, Gemini, it’s you!”

  “Not who you were expecting, am I, sis?” the puce-clad exquisite drawled as he minced across the room to take his sister’s limp hand and raise it to his lips. “I hear you and that Rutherford dolt are about to make a match of it. Dare I remind you that your needs must gain my permission before launching your
self on the sea of marital bliss?”

  “Oh, Gemini, Jerome, say you won’t deny us!” Kitty pleaded, her large blue eyes already filling with tears. “After all, it was you who introduced Dex to me.”

  “And me who got you situated so cozily in this nice, deep gravy boat, if you’ll recall,” her brother added, taking out a scented handkerchief and lifting it to his nose. “And what I have been so magnanimous in giving I can just as easily take away—can’t I, puss?”

  “You—you wouldn’t!” Kitty exclaimed, feeling her knees grow weak. She looked at her sibling, so alike in looks and yet so vastly different in temperament, and realized that, yes, he would. “What—what do you want, Jerome? Surely it won’t be like that last time? Surely you won’t ask me to steal for you again? Oh, Gemini, I think I’m going to faint.”

  Jerome pushed Kitty down into a chair and leaned over her, his hands pressed on either side of the cushions next to her head. “You’re not going to faint, you silly chit, you’re going to listen. I’ve taken care of you so far, haven’t I? Now forget that little episode in Bath and concentrate on what I’m about to tell you.”

  Kitty listened, her hopes for a future with Dexter Rutherford by her side crumbling into dust at her feet as Jerome outlined his plans.

  ACCORDING TO THE PROGRAM clutched in her nerveless fingers, the Monday evening production at Covent Garden was “in compliment to our illustrious visitors,” which included Czar Alexander of Russia and King Frederick of Prussia, among others. To Mary, however, it felt as if the entire evening had been staged in order to try her endurance—not to mention her patience.