Sir Henry swallowed down hard on the sudden lump in his throat. Finding Rachel’s hand, he gave it a quick squeeze, whispering huskily, “I told you she was special. From the first moment I saw her, I knew. If Rules dares to hurt her, I’ll have him stripped to the bone—I swear it.”
“Tristan’s your protégé too, my dear,” Rachel reminded him softly. “He’s had a shock, realizing he’s tumbled into love with the daughter of nothing less than one of England’s premier enemies of modern times. If St. Laurent had spied only for the French, serving his native country, it wouldn’t be quite so bad. After all, what was Tristan himself, if not a spy? But a double-dealing secrets merchant who feigned loyalty to both countries while lining his pockets at the expense of the troops his misinformation as good as sent out to be slaughtered…well, putting that behind him is going to take a bit of doing.”
Lucy and Julian, who had been discussing the possibility of intercepting the runaways and “negotiating” Toland’s approval so that Dex and Kitty could be married from Hillcrest, Thorpe’s country estate, hadn’t paid much attention to the older couple’s withdrawal from the general conversation.
As for Mary, she had once again descended into a brown study, believing everyone else in the world to be lucky in their love, while hers had been beset on all sides by unfortunate timing, sad coincidence and outright bad luck ever since she and Tristan had first met.
Rachel and Sir Henry had seen their love triumph over time and misunderstandings. Lucy and Julian had faced down ugly rumor and a possible charge of murder to find a love that had enriched them both tenfold. Jennie and Kit had taken a forced alliance and turned it into a voluntary joy. Even Kitty and Dexter, as madcap and ill-advised as their elopement might be, had taken the first steps toward the happiness they were sure awaited them.
Only I, Mary mused ruefully, could have managed to be nearly seduced, proposed to, and then deserted, all in the space of a single afternoon. If Kitty and Dexter were playing out a Theatre Royal comedy, were she and Tristan resembling characters in a Haymarket melodrama?
Did they possess the patient love of Sir Henry and Rachel, the dogged determination of Lucy and Julian, the gift for giving displayed by Jennie and Kit or the blind faith and trusting hearts of Kitty and Dexter?
Would Tristan be able to separate the Mary he had fallen in love with from the man he rightfully despised, or would he be defeated by his lifelong belief that people were either black or white, allowing for no softening shadings of gray? Could he put a rein on his quick temper and tendency to judge long enough to see that Jules St. Laurent, whether dead or alive, had only the power to hurt that Tristan chose to allow him?
Would she be able to forgive Tristan for his condemning attitude when faced with her true identity; his instinctive withdrawal from a woman he had just professed to love, but whose capacity for loyalty he might now always question? Could she cast off the shame she felt at having to own to such a father and leave her past behind her where it belonged, or would it always be there, lurking just below the surface, ready to raise its ugly head whenever she and Tristan quarreled, which she knew they would?
A sudden commotion in the hallway brought all five of the occupants of the room back to attention as Perkins entered to say that there was a “person” without demanding two pounds six for the rental of his hack or he would fetch the constable.
“A hack?” Sir Henry repeated, rising to his feet so that he could better reach in his trouser pocket for his purse. “Who in thunder engaged a hack?”
“I did, as a matter of fact,” came a voice from the hallway, before Dexter Rutherford poked his head around the corner wearing his most winning smile and waggling his fingers in greeting. “Julian, do the pretty, will you? This oaf says he’ll confiscate Kitty’s satchel else. Hurry, do—there’s no need setting the fellow’s back up any more than it is.”
“Dexter!” all five voices sang out at once, three in relief and two (the baritone members of the company) in exasperation.
“Kitty!” the three women then chorused as a woebegone little creature crept timidly into the room, her wide blue eyes red-rimmed with fatigue.
“Come here and sit down, dear,” Lucy urged kindly, taking the younger girl’s hand in hers and tugging gently. “You look burnt to the socket. What did that dreadful boy Dexter do to you? I swear he hasn’t the wits of a flea. A hack, indeed! That cockle-head is foolish beyond permission.”
“You found Kitty’s note, I expect. It’s either that or you’re having a party and failed to invite me,” Dexter remarked buoyantly, coming fully into the room once Julian had paid off the hack driver and secured Kitty’s satchel. “Don’t apologize. Kitty and I had ourselves a high old time of our own there for a while, bowling along lickety-split toward the north.”
“And then you had second thoughts?” Mary prompted, thinking she was fast becoming an expert on such things.
Dexter laughed as he sat himself down at his ease on a small pillow he had dropped to the floor beside Kitty’s chair. “I was never mad for the notion, you understand, but there was nothing else for it, so we were off. Second thoughts, you ask? It was nothing like. What sort of frippery fellow do you take me for—whisking a lady off to Gretna and then turning tail before we’re halfway to the place? I have more bottom than that, let me warn you, even if there’s many who’d try to tell you different.”
“Whoever your detractors be, they may have my vote as well,” Julian quipped nastily as he reentered the drawing room. “Did you really think to ride all the way to Scotland, a three-day journey at best, in a broken-down hackney coach? Best plug up your ears, cousin, I do believe the stuffing’s coming out of your brain.”
“Oh, Gemini!” Kitty spoke up in her high, childish voice. “This is so prodigious unpleasant! You’re all angry, aren’t you? I told Dexter you would be.”
“She’s quick, I’ll give her that,” Lucy quipped, her cheerful grin taking the sting out of her words.
“It’s all Jerry’s fault, you know,” Kitty persisted, willing to take on wild lions and tigers—or even a roomful of frowning people—to protect her dearest Dexter. “He was just being perverse, refusing his consent to our marriage. He doesn’t really care a fig about me one way or the other. So what else were we to do?” she ended, looking to Sir Henry beseechingly.
“You might have thought to come to me, coz,” Julian put in helpfully. “From what I’ve heard, Toland could have been bought off very easily, and then there would have been no need for your dramatic run to the border.”
Dexter pulled himself up to his full height, although it added little to his consequence as he was naturally rather short and slight. “You would have me buy his consent, Julian? That’s so—so—”
“Low-bred?” Lucy suggested, winking at her husband, who had the sensitivity to wince. “Nonsense, Dex, it’s done all the time, and in the highest circles. But why, if you haven’t had a change of heart, have you returned with ‘the deed’ still undone?”
“It wasn’t for lack of determination, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Dexter vowed, earning himself a watery smile from Kitty. “We ran short of the ready, as a matter of fact. I forgot I had paid some ridiculous sum on account to my tailor yesterday. It’s so seldom I do silly things like that—is it any wonder it slipped my mind?
“Noticed it fast enough when I went to lay down m’blunt for our dinner at some pokey wayside inn, I’ll tell you,” he added feelingly. “Took my last groat to pay the fare, and the ham was stringy! The world’s inhabited by thieves, do you know that? But that’s not important. What matters is that now we won’t be able to elope until my next quarter’s allowance. Unless you’d care to advance me a hundred pounds, coz, in which case we’ll be on our way again at first light and cause you no more bother.”
Rachel pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress her mirth, as Julian’s incredulous expression after hearing Dexter’s meandering explanation—and most especially his last words—bordered on the
comical. Just as Thorpe opened his mouth to deliver, Rachel was sure, one of his famous set-downs, she spoke up, saying briskly, “We’ll discuss all this again in the morning when our thoughts are less muddled. Poor Kitty here is all but asleep where she sits. Mary, help Kitty to her chamber. Dexter, go home, dear—and take a bath. You reek of the stable.”
“That doubting Thomas hackney driver didn’t believe I’d make good on the fare and had me tending his broken-in-the-wind nags for him at our last two stops. Said he’d be hanged for a Chinaman if he wasn’t paid one way or the other,” Dex explained happily enough, noticing a stray piece of hay sticking out from under his lapel and disposing of it in a nearby candy dish. “I’ll go if you say so, Miss Gladwin, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning to see Kitty.”
“You will be in my study at precisely nine of the clock tomorrow morning,” Julian contradicted heavily, “to discuss your plan to set Miss Toland’s and your betrothal moving along more orthodox, acceptable avenues. Is that sufficiently clear, cousin, or shall I repeat it for you?”
Dexter winced as if in pain, knowing full well he was in for a verbal drubbing on the morrow that would doubtless leave him reeling. Nobody could rip you up quite like Julian, and he did it without ever once raising his voice. If he weren’t so frequently the recipient of his cousin’s blistering lectures, Dex might actually be able to enjoy them, for they were delivered with all the skill of a bona-fide master of the art of insult.
“Can’t we just pretend you’ve already pointed out the error of my ways and forgiven me after listening to my heartfelt apologies and instead concentrate our efforts on bribing Toland into seeing things our way, since I have your word for it that such seemingly shabby tactics are within the bounds of propriety?” Dexter proposed magnanimously, willing to grasp at any straw.
“Dex-ter,” Lucy warned, realizing the limits of her husband’s patience had been stretched nearly to the breaking point. Poking fun at the foibles of high society at Julian’s expense would not be Dexter’s best choice if he wished to take up a new hobby. She motioned her head toward the doorway, and Dexter was quick to take her hint. “Good night, dear. We’ll look for you in the morning.”
Dexter grinned. If Lucy were to stand his ally, perhaps the interview wouldn’t be too painful. “You’ll be there?” he asked, his voice hopeful.
“I will,” Lucy answered at the same time Julian declared, “She will not.” Dexter escaped while the two of them stared at each other, primed to do battle.
“Well,” Mary observed lightly, having hurried back to the drawing room after delivering Kitty to her maid, unwilling to miss any more of the proceedings than she could help. “It would seem Dexter has found himself a champion, Julian. You can scarcely tear a strip off his hide with your wife standing there hovering over him like a broody hen with one chick.”
Julian merely shook his head in the negative, winking at Mary. “Then I shall simply accuse my cousin of seeking petticoat protection. He’ll then ask Lucy to leave, just to prove me wrong, and then I shall give that young fool a lesson or two that will serve to remove the spring from his step for a space. Eloping to Gretna with only a few shillings in his pockets. My God, the mind boggles!”
Mary laughed appreciatively as Lucy, knowing her ace had just been firmly trumped, stuck out her tongue at her smug husband. “I shall retire gracefully from the field this time, Julian, leaving you your small victory.”
“You have to do that once in a while,” she then told Mary blithely as she gathered up her shawl and evening purse. “It boosts a man’s self-esteem. I try to make it a rule to let him win at least once in our every ten encounters.” She grasped Thorpe’s arm in both her hands and smiled up at him coquettishly. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
Julian tipped up Lucy’s chin with his index finger and dropped a light kiss on her mouth. “By the time you and Jennie are through tutoring Mary, poor Tristan is going to wish there was a nice, quiet war left somewhere for him to fight. Come on now, brat, we may as well go home. I’m no longer in the mood for dancing.”
“Yes, my dearest, anything you say,” Lucy agreed meekly before throwing kisses to Mary and her aunt and allowing her husband to lead her away.
“It bears repeating: how I ever survived the rearing of that imp of the devil is beyond me,” Rachel said, sighing. “Come, Mary. We’d best go check on our returned prodigal. Henry?”
“I’ll be here, Rachel. Waiting.” Ruffton’s voice was full of promise as he reluctantly released her hand.
There are a total of three newly betrothed females in the Ruffton household this night, Mary told herself as she slowly mounted the stairs. Kitty will most probably be already asleep and dreaming, confident her Dexter is equal to any problems that stand between them and their eventual marriage. Rachel, for her part, will doubtless soon be creeping back down the stairs to snuggle in the drawing room with her beloved Henry until Perkins coughs discreetly and sends her off to her dreams of wedded bliss.
And what of the third affianced bride? Mary thought self-pityingly. Oh yes, she will be left all alone in her bedchamber with her unhappy thoughts, doubtless the only newly betrothed female in all of England who will be crying herself to sleep this night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE GLOWING TIP of his discarded cigarillo drew a brief red arc in midair before disappearing into one of the high, unkempt weedy patches in what Rule’s head grounds-keeper had dared to refer to as the “informal garden.”
He had been away playing at master spy too long, he told himself yet again—while Rule’s Roost, his late father’s pride and joy, had been left to the care of others. Pushing his body away from the ivy-choked brick wall he had been leaning against, he stepped more fully into the small patch of pale moonlight that was the only illumination in the cloak of darkness that served as cover for either the garden’s or Rule’s shame.
He had been at the Roost for three days, putting off the visit to his largest estate until last. By the time he had finished inspecting his horse-breeding property in Sussex and his orchards near Linton, he had thought he’d been prepared for the conditions he might find in Surrey, but the estate was in poorer trim than he had envisioned even in his worst predictions.
Oh, the farms themselves were well enough, as were the mills and the forestry holdings that had been his father’s pet projects. Even though his inheritance had been thrust on him when he was still quite young, Tristan had shown the good sense to keep all his father’s personal choices in their same positions of authority on the estate—bright young men who spoke of the “science of agriculture”—and his steady income over the years had given him no indication of anything being amiss.
Not that he would have tossed away his responsibilities to Sir Henry and the government even if he’d known anything had been wrong, he told himself now, shrugging his shoulders as he recognized the truth.
But the houses! And the grounds! How could he have been so blind? He knew his father’s household retainers were already getting past it before he left home—after all, they had all been contemporaries of his father, or even older. One by one Tristan’s housekeepers and butlers and gardeners had withered silently away, leaving the Roost and his other two houses to the indifferent mercies of young, mostly untrained servants whose main functions seemed to be equally divided between keeping their bellies full and doing as little work as possible.
Yet the worst, the very worst of it was not the overgrown gardens or the dusty furniture or the stained marble flooring or even the soot-blackened portraits. It was the fact that everywhere he turned, every place he looked, he immediately thought, Mary could set this place to rights in the wink of an eye, and enjoy every moment of it into the bargain.
While he sat in the small dining room, picking at his solitary supper, he imagined Mary sitting at the opposite end of the table, laughing and teasing him, badgering him into eating all his vegetables.
As he mounted the first step of the wide, curving sta
ircase that hugged the wall as it rose gracefully to the upper rooms he could see Mary descending slowly, taking care to lift the hem of her gown, coming to join him as they waited for the arrival of their dinner guests.
When he rode out across his lands, his heart filled with the pride of ownership, it was with the thought of Mary riding at his side, listening to his dreams for the future—dreams that included the enrichment of his properties, in order to provide a legacy worthy of the children that would someday ride these same fertile fields.
And when he opened the heavy oaken door to the master bedchamber he was careful not to let his gaze stray to the wide bed, where night after night he envisioned Mary lying against the plumped-up pillows, her auburn hair unbound and tumbling over her bare shoulders, her smooth white arms outstretched, a welcoming smile on her face.
Tristan covered his face with his hands, his eyes tightly closed, trying to blot out the scenes that appeared so clearly, even in this dark, shadowed garden. “A week,” he muttered, anguish in his voice, “seven bloody-by-damn days! And it doesn’t get better. It gets worse!”
“I MURDER HIM, I MURDER him not,” Mary recited dully, stripping the petals one by one from the inoffensive bloom she held in her hand. “I murder him, I murder him not. I mur—”
“Oh dear,” Lucy interrupted blithely as she peered around the partially opened door of the bedchamber and caught Mary in the act. “Aunt Rachel told me you had progressed from the doldrums to the heights, but I did not realize you were making plans to do away with poor Tris.”
Mary tossed the denuded flower away from her and turned to smile at her friend. “You may rest easy. I shall murder him not, at least according to that posy’s prediction. Not that the thought doesn’t have some mild appeal.”
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