by Nikki Poppen
“Sommes! Sommes!” Tristan bellowed for the butler as he strode purposefully through the hall, his shoes crunching on the glass. He reached the front drawing room where the other vases were located and noticed immediately nothing was out of order in that room, but a quick look at the vases revealed what he had suspected: the cards were gone. Someone had taken the bait and there had been a struggle, which explained why the vases were broken in the hall and not in the drawing room. A good thief would make it look as if nothing was out of place. He wouldn’t deliberately leave a mess. The longer it took anyone to realize anything was missing, the better the thief’s chance of going undetected. Someone must have caught the intruder on his way out.
“My lord, we’ve had a bit of an accident, as you can see” The housekeeper, Mrs. Stanton said behind him in the drawing room doorway. “We’re all in the kitchen. I came up as soon as I heard you call.”
The usually efficient woman seemed shaken. Tristan thought perhaps the breakin had been only a short time ago. “Very well, Mrs. Stanton. Is everyone all right? I’ll come down to the kitchen immediately and talk to all who were here,” Tristan said in his best authoritative tone.
“That wouldn’t be proper, my lord. We’ll come up momentarily,” she insisted. “Mr. Sommes was hurt in the altercation. He noticed the burglar first and tried to stop him. Meg’s in the kitchen tending him now.”
“I will come with you. No need to stand on propriety tonight, Mrs. Stanton,” Tristan said firmly, walking towards the stairs that led down below Mrs. Stanton, like most who argued with Tristan, had lost.
The small Gresham household employed a meager staff of ten: the housekeeper, a groom, a tiger, a downstairs maid, a tweenie, his valet, a footman, a cook, a cook’s helper and the ever-reliable Sommes around whom everyone hovered anxiously. Their employer’s presence in the servants’ domain caused them an extra amount of anxiety. They tugged nervously at forelocks and made awkward curtsies until Mrs. Stanton clapped her hands and instantly settled them around her long work table.
“Attention, all of you,” she instructed sternly. “Keep your wits together so you can help his lordship understand what took place here this evening.”
Tristan listened with all his keenly honed concentration for over an hour to each of the different accounts regarding the theft. As with most situations of this type, there were disagreements over the facts and varying degrees of accuracy when it came to telling the tales. The only facts that seemed to be certain were that the theft had occurred around ten o’clock. The thief had entered from the gardenfacing window in the study, made his way to the drawing room and then into the foyer where Sommes had appre hended him. Most telling of all was Sommes’s insight that he believed the thief was attempting to leave by the front door.
That was when the fight had taken place. Sommes had tried to stop the intruder. Sommes had landed a few blows of his own, but clearly had taken the brunt of the fight: a black eye and bruised jaw. Whoever had hit him had been a bruising pugilist. In the skirmish, vases had been knocked over and in the end as the man darted away, he’d slowed Sommes’s progress by shattering the remaining vases in his path.
Sommes was the only one who had got a good look at the intruder, but the physical description offered little help. The man had been tall, slender in build but strongly made from the impact of his punches. He had dressed all in black and had covered his hair with a dark kerchief and another wrapped around his face, leaving only his eyes visible. Sommes speculated the hair peeking from beneath the coverings was blondish, but in the dark it was impossible to be sure.
Tristan drummed his fingers on the table. “Anything else, Sommes?”
“He moved gracefully, as if he might be a fine dancer, my lord,” Sommes offered hesitantly. “He had a way about him that made me think he might be an aristocrat.”
Tristan nodded. Halsey had already told him that much. It bothered him that the man knew precisely where to look for the vases. The man had entered by the study window and yet hadn’t stopped to look through the study for other secrets or telling correspondence. He had gone straight to the vases, taken the cards and tried to leave by the front door. Tristan supposed that made sense. Going back to the study required backtracking into the depths of the house and posed more chance of being discovered. There were risks, too with going out the front door. Perhaps no one on the inside would notice, but someone on the outside may be suspicious of such a character exiting the home of a wealthy nobleman. Unless that person was someone others would take no notice of if they were passing by because they would expect to see him at Tristan’s residence.
“Sommes, tell me again how this man was dressed.” Tristan asked, his mind whirling with suppositions. “Do you remember what style or cut? Could you tell the fabric?”
Sommes looked thoughtful. “Evening clothes, I am fairly certain, my lord. The jacket was cut nicely, I think, welltailored. It didn’t rip when we brawled. Good material, maybe a fine wool.”
A cold clenching took up residence in Tristan’s stomach. All the intruder would have to do was simply take off the obscuring kerchief and blend into the evening with other party goers. “Is there anything else?” Tristan asked.
Somme spoke up again. “I am sorry about the cards. I don’t know why someone would want them, but they’re obviously of value. Thank goodness the intruder didn’t get them all.”
Tristan startled at that. “What do you mean he didn’t get them all?”
“Why, your friend, Baron Wickham was here earlier tonight. He asked if you were at home but you’d already left for the club. He took a few of the cards with him. I didn’t think you’d mind seeing as how the two of you are fast friends.”
Tristan rose, not sure what to make of the revelation. Had Alain taken the cards as a sampling and then decided they were legitimate and come back for the rest, knowing he was gone? He didn’t like the confirmation that the burglar was tall and blond, dressed in evening clothes. The description could fit Alain. Although, he reminded himself sternly, the description could fit any number of men. The fly in the ointment was Alain’s appearance at the town house that night and the fact that Alain had shown marked interest in the cards earlier.
Tristan took a bag of coins from his jacket. “Mrs. Stanton, see that everyone is compensated for their discomfort this evening. I thank you all. I think it is time we were abed” He nodded at his valet. “Jackson, I will not require your services tonight. Get yourself some rest”
Tristan sat up in his chamber, filled with restlessness. He needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day. He would have to report discreetly to Halsey that the bait had been taken. He had to make the rounds to the clubs and see if anyone was sporting a facer. The description of the burglar had unnerved him. Although the description fit Alain more than adequately, he cautioned himself not to overreact. The description was minimal at best and could be used to describe a hundred other men of the ton, even the impeccable Lord Driscoll.
Well, he knew without a doubt the intruder wasn’t Lord Driscoll since he’d returned from his liaison and spied Isabella and Driscoll in a cozy conversation. The sight of the two of them had infuriated him. Mostly, Driscoll infuriated him because Driscoll was so likeable. There was nothing wrong with him other than his being besotted with Isabella. A gut wrenching thought crossed Tristan’s mind. Did Isabella return Driscoll’s affections?
Tristan reached up to his neck and pulled his hair loose of the cord that held it back. He massaged his neck with his right hand and flexed his left, exercising away some of the stiffness.
Tristan walked to the window casement and looked out on the deceptively peaceful city. Cities were never peaceful. Evil roiled about at all hours of the day. He knew. He’d been a part of it. All for a good cause, of course. Tristan snorted at the naive argument he’d made to himself countless times on other evenings just like this. When had things become so complicated? Halsey had been wrong when he’d said this last assignment would be simple.<
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There was nothing simple about it. His best friend was a potential suspect, an unknown woman was parading about as his secret admirer, Beatrix’s presence complicated matters with Isabella, his home had been violated and the longer he took to catch the double agent, the greater his chances were that Isabella would be won by another. And why not? Why would she prefer a man who could not tell her the truth and exposed her to danger when she could have the imminently suitable Lord Driscoll?
Suddenly, Tristan laughed out loud. “Buck up, Gresham, you nodcock. Isabella doesn’t know you love her.” Well, that was one thing he could remedy. He’d have to tell her and soon despite his earlier resolution to put his declaration aside until the assignment was complete. He saw now that he could not risk waiting further.
Isabella sat amidst her guests at her late morning athome, hard pressed to keep her thoughts on the conversation swirling about her. Thankfully, most of her guests were regulars and knew each other well. Today, her guests’ inclinations to seek each other out for good company was a boon. Her mind was still overwhelmed by the events of the last evening. Between Avery’s near proposal and Tristan’s outrageous behavior, it was little wonder she didn’t detect the arrival of her latest guest.
George Condon, fourth earl of Middleton, stood in the doorway of the salon and surveyed the room, his keen shooter’s eye serving him well in quartering the room and taking notice of who was present. He was not disappointed in the attendance. As a fellow horse lover and general sportsman, he’d guessed correctly. Lady Westbrooke had drawn to her all the riders and horse breeders of any account who needed an oasis in the dead of winter where they could talk at will about their mutual passion. Men as well as women peopled the event, as he’d hoped. They were the perfect audience for his topic of discussion, the nearly wild stallion, Hellion, he was scheduled to auction at Tattersall’s.
He’d brought Hellion up to town in the hopes of instigating a bidding war by showing him off. It was a potentially costly gamble. Keeping any horse in town was a pricey luxury and Hellion was an expense he could ill afford these days. But he understood implicitly that appearances were everything. He’d never get top dollar for Hellion if anyone guessed the true dire nature of his financial circumstances.
If he could last the month none of it would matter. In a few weeks, his one outstanding business transaction would be complete. His funds would be flush again and no one would be the wiser to his deceits. Unfortunately, Hellion would have to be sacrificed in the meantime to plump his pockets. Hellion was a magnificent animal but there would be other horses, finer horses, available to him later. He could not dwell on his temporary monetary set backs.
He had come to Lady Westbrooke’s with a mission in mind. It was time to go to work, starting with his hostess. George Condon tugged on the lapels of his olive morning coat, knowing that he looked his best. His best was still quite handsome at forty-two, his blond hair hid well any signs of gray and his sporting appetites had kept his figure trim. Confidently, he strode over to greet his hostess.
“Lady Westbrooke, you have achieved quite a turn out,” he complimented suavely, taking her hand.
She smiled blandly. “Where else are such like-minded people to gather and wait out the days until spring?”
“My thoughts, precisely,” he replied easily, helping himself to the recently vacated chair next to her.
“I hear you’ve brought Hellion up” The marchioness’s eyes sparkled in anticipation, like a child waiting for a treat.
“I thought it would give my more interested buyers a chance to look him over before the auction,” Middleton offered mildly, as if he hadn’t anything on the line with the upcoming sale.
They spoke about horses and then Middleton stood up, preparing to mingle. He introduced his second point of business as benignly as the first, casting a casual glance around the room. “I don’t see Gresham. Is he expected?”
“Gresham is his own man,” Lady Westbrooke replied vaguely in a tone that surprised him since he knew she and her brother had been friends with the man for years.
It was an unfortunate piece of luck that Gresham was absent and that Lady Westbrooke did not know his plans. When she offered nothing more regarding Gresham, Middleton took his leave. “I shall just have to track him down then. Again, thank you for your invitation.”
Isabella watched Middleton retreat into the crowd. She knew why he was here. It was a prime place to promote his stallion. She scanned the room, doing an efficient check to make sure her guests had all they needed. She caught her butler, Regis’s, eye and subtly beckoned him. “What is it, Regis?”
“This note arrived for you, my lady.” He held out the silver salver and presented Isabella with an ivory envelope.
“Thank you, Regis. Wait a moment for my reply.” Isabella turned the envelope over and recognized the seal as Tristan’s. A burst of excitement sped through her and her fingers trembled as she broke the seal. She was giddy like a schoolroom miss and for no good reason. His note had nothing to do with the encounter in the conservatory, how could it? She read the polite but short note twice. Tristan wanted her to drive with him in the park that afternoon at three o’clock. He had something important to tell her. She thought of Driscoll’s “important news” the prior evening. She didn’t know how much more “important news” she could take.
“What shall I tell the gentleman?” Regis inquired after it was clear she was finished reading the note.
“Tell him yes” Whatever Tristan wanted to share with her, she did not have to worry about it being a marriage proposal. But instead of feeling relieved, Isabella felt strangely disconsolate.
ccWhat gorgeous horses! They look like prime goers. Where did you get this rig?” Isabella exclaimed with a mixture of delight and trepidation as Tristan handed her up into the canary-colored high-perch phaeton pulled by a pair of matching grays ten minutes after three o’clock. Whatever anxiety she’d felt about encountering Tristan after the disturbing meeting in the conservatory fled in the wake of her appreciation for the rig and horses waiting outside her town house.
“I have it on loan from a carriage manufacturer who sent it on the train from Manchester. I am thinking of buying it. Such a fancy rig isn’t much use to me in the country, but I will need something to drive around town whenever I come up” Tristan saw her settled in the high leather seat and bounded around to the left side, springing into the space next to her in one impressive movement. “What do you think of it, Bella?” he asked, excitement evident in his voice as he clucked to the horses.
“It’s very high up,” Isabella said uneasily once she realized the precarious nature of the bench seat. She pulled her Lyons’ shawl about her as Tristan turned the horses into traffic. “I will need some time to get used to it.”
“Ha, Isabella, you’re full of contradictions!” Tristan laughed. “You think nothing of riding hell bent for leather but find yourself squeamish over a carriage ride.”
Isabella let go of her grip on the small rail next to her seat long enough to playfully swat at Tristan. “That’s entirely different. When I am on a horse, I am in complete control. The horse and I know exactly what to expect from each other.”
Tristan expertly tooled the phaeton towards the entrance to Hyde Park. “Well, you know what to expect from me. I am as tame to your hand as any horse in your stable. I would not let you fall, Bella, if that’s what you fear.”
Isabella felt his eyes on her briefly as he spoke the last words and she heard the wealth of unspoken meaning in the words. There was much she wanted explained in that last statement but the park at that crowded hour was no time to broach such an intimate subject. Instead, she steered the conversation back to the phaeton. “I own there is an excellent view from up here. Is the carriage why you’re in such good spirits? I assume it must be the important news you mentioned in your note this morning.”
“No, the carriage is only part of it. I knew you’d like seeing it and trying out the horses, but it is
n’t why I requested your company. I am in high spirits because I have made some decisions. I want to share them with you, with your permission, of course. I thought we’d drive down by Rutledge’s Pond and shake off some of this crowd”
They were silent as Tristan drove them deeper into the park where the gatherings of people were thinner. In a few weeks, the park would be full of the beau monde, but with March barely underway, it was still manageable to find some privacy. Occasionally, Isabella would wave to an acquaintance or exchange smiles with those they passed in carriages pulled to the verge to visit with others. Isabella was glad for the silence and for the relatively few social niceties she was expected to perform as they drove. She was busy pondering what decisions Tristan might have made. The decision she feared most was that he had somehow settled on a bride.
“Here we are,” Tristan exclaimed, throwing his reins to his young tiger that ran to hold the horses’ heads. He came around to Isabella’s side and swung her down. In an easy motion that belied their years of friendship, he tucked her arm through his.
Isabella laughed up at him. “I have not seen you in such good spirits since you’ve returned home. I am glad for it, although I am excessively curious for the reason”
Tristan patted her hand. “Come down to the pond with me, Bella, so we can talk without being overheard. I have much to tell you. Truth be told, I am amazed myself that I am in such high spirits after what happened last night.”
Last night? Warnings sounded in her head. Did he know? Had he guessed so easily? Cautiously, Isabella ventured her question. “What happened last night?”
“I returned home to find that I’d received a nasty visit from a burglar.”
“How awful, was anything taken? Was anyone hurt?” Questions flowed in a torrent from Isabella. Impulsively, she pressed his sleeve. “Tristan, you weren’t harmed were you?”