When Tristan arrived at Hawthorne House the next morning at precisely ten o’clock, he was dressed in a conservative blue coat and gray trousers, an elaborate cravat, and polished Hessian boots. Georgiana watched through her window as he came up the drive and rapped on the front door.
She still couldn’t quite believe that he was there to call on her. Even when she’d hated and despised him, the sight of those blue eyes and that dark, curling hair just brushing his collar had made her heart beat faster. She’d told herself it was anger, and that she’d sought him out on every occasion to insult and injure him for the same reason. Now, she wasn’t quite so certain.
What did that say about her, though, if she could remain attracted to a man who’d hurt and humiliated her? Did she only think he’d changed, or had he really done so? Was his calling on her another trick that would leave her heartbroken forever this time, or was he sincere?
“My lady, Lord Dare is here to see you,” Pascoe said, from her sitting room doorway.
She turned to the butler. “Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Pulling on her gloves and retrieving her parasol, she took a last look at herself in her dressing mirror and made her way downstairs. Tristan was in the morning room, pacing as he always seemed to do in her aunt’s house.
“Good morning.”
He stopped. “Good morning.”
As their eyes met, that familiar heat ran through her veins, and it was only with difficulty that she kept from striding up to him and pulling his face down for a kiss. That was new; in the past after her blood heated, she had wanted to stride up and put a fan across his skull. Perhaps that was part of the attraction: Wanting Tristan Carroway was dangerous. Liking him was even more hazardous.
“How is your…” He glanced behind her, at where Pascoe was lurking. “How are your injuries?” he amended.
“Much better. I’m only a little stiff, and a few interesting colors in some places.”
Tristan grinned. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better. Are you ready?”
She nodded. “Mary will accompany us.”
“Very well. Are we to have an armed guard, as well?”
“Not if you behave.”
His smile deepened. “Then perhaps you should send for one now.”
Her pulse fluttered. “Oh, stop it. Let’s go.”
Mary waited for them in the foyer, and they descended the front steps and turned toward Grosvenor Street. Georgiana rested her hand on Tristan’s arm, wishing she didn’t have to wear gloves and that they could hold hands. She liked to touch his bare skin, and the scent of soap and leather and cigars that he always seemed to have about him intoxicated her.
“What?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “What do you mean, ‘what?’”
“You’re leaning. I thought you wanted to tell me something.”
Georgiana blushed, straightening. “No.”
“Ah. Well, I want to tell you something.”
“Enlighten me,” she countered, hoping he couldn’t tell how very rousing she found his presence.
He gazed at her, his expression softening into a smile. “Edwina’s cat has taken over the household. This morning, Dragon killed the fleur on Bradshaw’s dress uniform hat and carried it into the aunties, as proud as if he’d killed an elephant.”
“Oh, no. What did Bradshaw do?”
“He doesn’t know, yet. Milly took one of the knickknacks off that gawdy ostrich hat of hers, cut it down, dyed it with ink, and sewed it to Bradshaw’s hat.”
Georgiana chuckled. “Are you going to tell him?”
“He’s the keen-sighted naval officer. If he doesn’t notice, it’s his own damned fault, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re terrible! What if one of his superiors should notice?”
Tristan shrugged. “Knowing Shaw, he’ll make it the new height of naval fashion. They’ll all be wearing women’s hats and baubles by autumn.”
He glanced away as a coach passed them, and she took the moment to study his profile. “Is that really what you wanted to tell me?” she asked.
“No. But I imagine you receive compliments on your emerald eyes and sun golden hair all the time. I’m trying to be more original than that.” He slid his eyes back to where Mary followed a few steps behind them. “Compliments about your fine breasts, though, probably won’t help my cause.”
Heat ran down her spine. “And what is your cause?” she asked in the same soft voice.
“I think you know what it is,” he answered, “but I’m still trying to gain an admission from you that you really do trust me.”
“I—”
“Dare!”
A jolly voice came from in front of them, and she started. Lord Bellefeld emerged from a clothiers to shake Tristan’s hand.
“I’ve heard the most extraordinary rumor,” the rotund marquis rumbled, bowing at her.
She thought Tristan stiffened. “And what rumor might that be?” he drawled. “I’m the object of so many of them.”
“Ha! Indeed you are, lad. The one I heard is that you’re in pursuit of this lovely young lady, here. Is it true?”
Tristan grinned at her, something in his eyes making her heart flip-flop. “Yes, it is true.”
“Excellent, lad! I’m off to put ten quid on Lady Georgiana, then. Good day.”
Her blood froze. Almost before she’d realized it, she’d ripped her hand from Tristan’s arm and grabbed the marquis by the shoulder. “What—” Her voice shook, and she had to start over. “What do you mean, you’re putting ten quid on me?”
Bellefeld didn’t look in the least perturbed. “Oh, there’s a board up at White’s over who Dare’ll end up married to. At the moment it’s two to one that he’ll be leg-shackled to that Amelia Johns female by the end of the Season. You’re longer odds, but now I have inside information.” He winked at her.
The blood drained from Georgiana’s face, and she clutched Bellefeld’s jacket to keep herself from collapsing in a dead faint. “Who…who else is on the board?” she managed.
“Eh? I don’t remember all the names. Some chit named Daubner, and a Smithee or something. Almost a half dozen, if I recall. Ain’t that right, Dare?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Tristan said after a moment, his voice oddly flat. “No one told me.”
Finally, Bellefeld seemed to realize that he’d said something inappropriate. Flushing, he backed away. “No one means anything by it, I’m sure,” he said. “All in good fun, you know.”
“Of course,” she said, releasing him. He stampeded away, but she stayed where she was. She couldn’t turn to face Tristan. She wanted to run screaming back home and never look at anyone again.
“Georgiana,” he said quietly, and she flinched.
“Don’t you…dare—”
“Go home with Mary, if you please,” he said in a black, angry voice she’d never heard before. “I have something to attend to.”
She forced herself to look at him. His face was gray, as hers probably was. Of course he was upset; he’d been found out, his little plan discovered. “Going to put some money on me?” she forced out. “I wouldn’t, if I were you—some inside information. And no, I don’t trust you. I never—never—will.”
“Go home,” he repeated, his voice shaking. He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned and strode away in the direction of Pall Mall. Probably to change his wager to some more amenable chit.
“My lady?” Mary said, approaching. “Is something wrong?”
A tear ran down Georgiana’s cheek, and she wiped it away before anyone could notice. It would never do if they thought she was crying because of Tristan’s departure. “No. Let’s go home.”
“But Lord Dare?”
“Forget him. I already have.”
She marched home, Mary trotting to keep up with her. Her bottom hurt, but she welcomed the pain; it gave her something else to think about. He’d done it again. He�
��d seduced her, bedded her, and betrayed her. And this time she had no one to blame but herself.
Thank goodness she’d found out before she completely lost her heart to him. A sob ripped from her throat as Pascoe opened the front door. No, it didn’t hurt, because she didn’t care. Anything between them had been merely lust. She could put lust out of her mind.
“My lady?”
“I’ll be in my rooms,” she said as she hurried past the butler. “I’m not to be disturbed, for anyone or anything. Is that clear?”
“Y…yes, my lady.”
The “board” at White’s was actually a misnomer. It was a ledger book, where anyone admitted to the exclusive club could write down a wager with anyone else. Most of them were private wagers between two parties. On occasion, one appeared that garnered greater interest, or was made among a number of gentlemen.
As Tristan stalked into White’s, shoving aside the doorman who tried to inform him that luncheon wouldn’t be served for another hour, he made straight for the main gaming room and the ledger book sitting on its raised dais at one side. He’d run out of curses on the way over, but repeated a few choice ones as he caught sight of the book and the half dozen men standing around it.
“Dare, you dog,” one of the younger ones said, grinning, “you can’t wager on yourself, you know. Bad—”
Tristan coiled his fist and slammed the lad in the jaw. “Move,” he said belatedly, as the fellow crumpled to the ground like a wet rag.
Footmen appeared from every direction as the rest of the spectators shuffled hurriedly out of his way. Without sparing them another glance, he flipped the heavy book to face him. “‘On the prospect of the marriage of Tristan Carroway, Lord Dare,’” he read to himself, “‘the female contestants are listed below. Please make your wager according to your choice.’”
No name claimed responsibility for the placement of the wager, but the list of females and their varied supporters already took up two full pages, and the wager had only been recorded yesterday. “Who did this?” he snarled, whipping around to face the growing mob.
“My lord, please come away and join me for a private drink,” Fitzsimmons, the club’s manager, said in a soothing tone.
“I said, ‘Who did this?’” he repeated, fury boiling up from deep in his gut. The look on Georgiana’s face when Bellefeld had spoken had nearly killed him. She had begun to trust him; he could see it in her eyes. And now she never would again. He could swear his innocence to heaven, and she would always believe he’d been responsible in some way, or at least that he’d known about it. Someone was going to pay for this—and with luck, someone would get bloody for it.
“My lord—”
“Who?” he bellowed. Grasping hold of the pages, he ripped them from the ledger.
A gasp went up from the gallery. No one removed pages from the wagering book. It simply wasn’t done. Glaring down at the offending document, he tore it in half, and then in half again, and again, until it scattered like confetti from his fingers.
“Lord Dare,” Fitzsimmons said again, his voice harder, “please come with me.”
“Like hell,” he snarled. “This wager is over. Is that clear?”
“I’ll have to ask you to lea—”
“I won’t be back—unless I hear of another wager concerning Lady Georgiana Halley. If I do hear of one, ever, I will burn this place to the ground, so help me God.” Before any of the more burly footmen could move in to escort him out of the club, he strode forward and grabbed Fitzimmons by the cravat. “Now, for the last damned time, Fitzsimmons, who placed this wager?”
“It…Your brother did, my lord. Bradshaw.”
Tristan froze. “Brad…”
“Yes, my lord. Now please release m—”
Letting him go so quickly the man stumbled, Tristan stalked out of the club and hailed the first hack in sight. “Carroway House,” he growled, slamming the door closed behind him.
The midmorning traffic was heavy, which gave him more time to contemplate just how much damage Bradshaw’s wager had done. Of all the things he’d thought he might have to face with Georgiana, another wager hadn’t been one of them.
When the hack stopped he jumped down, threw a shilling at the driver, and strode up to the house. For once Dawkins was at his post, and nearly received a bloody nose when Tristan shoved the door open faster than the butler could pull it aside.
“Where’s Bradshaw?” he growled, flinging his greatcoat and hat to the floor.
“Master Bradshaw is in the billiards room, I bel—”
Tristan was up the stairs before Dawkins finished speaking. The billiards room door was halfway open, and he shoved it wide so hard, a painting in the hallway crashed to the ground. “Bradshaw!”
His brother straightened, a billiards cue in his hand, as Tristan hit him. They both went over the table and landed hard on the far side. Tristan was on his feet first, and slammed his fist into Bradshaw’s jaw.
Bradshaw rolled under the table and came up on the other side, snatching up his billiards cue as he stood. “What in damnation is wrong with you?” he demanded, swiping his hand across his cut lip.
Tristan circled the table, too angry even to speak. Bradshaw kept pace with him, keeping the table between them. Dawkins had apparently alerted the household that something was afoot, because Andrew and then Edward appeared in the doorway. Robert arrived a moment later.
“What’s going on?” Andrew asked, moving into the room.
“Get out,” Tristan spat at him. “This is between Bradshaw and me.”
“What is?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Bradshaw panted, wiping blood away again. “He’s gone mad. Just ran in here and attacked me!”
Tristan lunged over the table at him and caught a glancing blow from the billiards cue. It knocked him off-balance, and he crashed into Bradshaw’s shoulder instead of his chest. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, except that he wanted Bradshaw to hurt, because he hurt, and because Georgiana had been hurt.
“Make him stop!” Edward shouted, running forward.
Robert grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Let the big boys deal with this,” he said, and gave Edward to Andrew. “Take him downstairs.”
Andrew flushed. “But—”
“Now.”
“Damn.”
Robert stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him, locking out the servants and any other onlookers. “Stay out of this,” Tristan warned, shoving Bradshaw again.
“I will. Why are you killing him?”
“Because,” Tristan answered, aiming another blow that Bradshaw ducked at the last moment, “he made a wager.”
“I make wagers all the time,” Bradshaw exclaimed. “So do you!”
“You wagered about Georgiana, you bastard!”
Bradshaw stumbled over a chair leg and went down. Scrambling backward, he grabbed up the chair and held it in front of him. “What are you talking about? I made a wager about who you would end up married to. That’s all, Tris. For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?”
“She doesn’t trust me—that’s what’s wrong. And now thanks to you, she never will. I want you gone from this house today. And I never want to set eyes on—”
“She blames you for the wager?” Robert interrupted from the far side of the room.
“Yes, she blames me for the wager.”
“Is this about the other wager?” Bit pursued.
Tristan whipped around to face him. “When did you decide to speak? Leave off, and get out.”
“If you send Shaw away,” Robert continued, folding his arms, “he won’t be able to explain anything. So which do you want: him gone, or an explanation for Georgiana?”
Considering his chances with her, it was a close decision. Damned Bit was making him think, though, making him slow down and look at what he was doing. Bradshaw held the chair out, keeping the legs pointed in his direction. He was breathing hard, his eyes on Tristan’s face.
; Tristan glared back at him. “Georgiana,” he bit out. “She thinks I had something to do with the wager.”
Bradshaw lowered the chair, but kept hold of it. “So I’ll tell her you didn’t.”
“It’s not that simple. My knowing about it is nearly as bad as my initiating it. Dammit, Bradshaw!”
“Then I’ll tell her you didn’t know, and that you tried to kill me when you found out.”
It probably wouldn’t matter to her. It was probably too late. “Get dressed,” he ordered, and stalked out of the room. As he passed Bit, he reached out to grab him by the shoulder, but his brother dodged the contact. He didn’t feel ready for the additional frustration of dealing with Robert today, but neither could he leave the miracle unaccounted for. “Explain,” he said, continuing down the hallway to his bedchamber.
He’d ripped his sleeve, and Bradshaw had landed at least one blow. He needed to look semicivilized, or Georgiana would never listen to him.
Bit followed him. “Explain what?”
“Why you decided to get so chatty, that’s what.”
Silence accompanied them down the hall. Annoyed again, Tristan turned to face his brother.
“Is this a game, Bit?”
Robert shook his head, white-faced, the line of his mouth tense and straight. For the first time, Tristan realized that the intervention had cost his brother something. He faced forward again and continued into his bedchamber.
“Tell me when you feel like it, then. But go make sure Bradshaw hasn’t escaped.”
“He won’t.”
Taking deep breaths, Tristan tried to slow down the rampage of his emotions and recall some sense of logic. Much as he hated to admit it, Bit was right; if he was to have any hope of regaining a degree of Georgiana’s trust, he needed Bradshaw to explain what had happened. And then he needed to do something he hadn’t done in a very long time. He needed to pray, to anyone who would still listen to him.
Chapter 18
So will I turn virtue into pitch;
And out of her own goodness make the net
The Rake Page 20