A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  Annica stopped her frantic rummaging and turned to face the man. What an impish sense of humor he had! “Waiting, Hodgeson? Why did you not tell me?”

  “Begging your pardon, milady, I just did.”

  “Oh. Well, please offer my apologies and tell him I shall be down in a moment.” She began stuffing tablets, a palette, brushes, rags and paints into the portfolio. When she glanced up to find Hodgeson still standing inside the door, she took it as a sure sign the man had something to say. “What is it, Hodgeson?”

  “Lord Auberville, milady.”

  “Yes?”

  “He has the eyes of a hunter, milady.”

  Annica blinked, recalling the penetrating blue gaze. She was certain very little escaped Tristan Sinclair’s “hunter eyes.” “I agree, Hodgeson. I’m certain it served him well in the military and diplomatic corp. By all reports, he was accounted a hero at Trafalgar and several times since. Is that all?”

  The servant shifted his weight uncomfortably. “For the present, milady.”

  “Thank you, Hodgeson.” She inclined her head.

  Finished with packing her portfolio, she tied the lavender ribbon of her ivory bonnet beneath her chin and took a final glance in the looking glass. A pattern of small lavender flowers danced across the ivory muslin dress, which was tied in back with a lavender bow. Lavender slippers peeked beneath her narrow hem. Annica smiled at her reflection, pleased with the result. In the next moment she frowned, wondering why she had taken such care with her costume.

  “Just to show him I’m not always dirt splattered and disheveled,” she said to her reflection.

  Portfolio under one arm and easel under the other, she started down the stairs. She was almost to the foyer when the easel slipped from under her arm and clattered to the bottom of the steps. Instinct made her lunge to catch it, but the toe of her slipper caught in the narrow hem of her gown.

  “Drat!” she exclaimed as she toppled forward.

  Tristan caught her by the shoulders before she tumbled to the floor. “God’s eyes, madam! Did you not have sense enough to ask for help? Did you think you could carry all this yourself?”

  Annica could feel the heat rise in her cheeks even as an indignant reply formed on her tongue. “I am quite capable, milord. I seldom require help.”

  “Disaster does not require a helping hand. You tempted fate by attempting too much.”

  Annica looked up into his handsome, outraged face, surprised to see a flash of true concern. Somewhat mollified, she allowed him to straighten her bonnet as she watched the play of other, not-so-easy-to-read emotions cross his face.

  “Are you reckless, Annica Sayles, or merely stubborn?” he asked when she stood her ground.

  “Perhaps a little of both,” she admitted, trying not to think of the warm glow in her middle at hearing him speak her name so intimately.

  “Ahem.” Hodgeson held out her lavender shawl.

  Tristan stepped back and faced the servant with a cool smile.

  “Do not forget, milady. You are expected at the Parson affair this evening,” Hodgeson reminded her. “Lady Ellen and Lord Gilbert will be accompanying you.”

  Annica knit her brow at this. Hodgeson was behaving quite strangely. “Yes, Hodgeson. Thank you. I shall be prompt.”

  Tristan retrieved the easel and portfolio from the floor and followed her out the door. Settled in the carriage, he made himself comfortable across from her as the horses started off at a brisk trot.

  Annica noted the strange light in his eyes again when he took a folded sheet of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket and presented it to her.

  “What is this?”

  “A contract.”

  “For what?”

  “For you, Lady Annica. Have we not reached an agreement regarding the illustrations? This document spells out the terms—how much is to be paid, to whom, how many illustrations are to be provided, the deadline for delivery. It’s a standard contract to protect both of us from any misunderstandings. You do not object to that, do you?”

  “I suppose not.” She read it carefully, agreeing with the terms until she came to a default clause. “What is this, my lord? It reads as if, once I begin the first sketch, I forfeit my right to cancel, save for a death in my immediate family.”

  “That is correct,” Tristan admitted.

  “While you, on the other hand, retain the right to terminate our contract at any time?”

  “Upon payment in full to St. Anne’s Orphanage for fifteen sketches, whether delivered or not,” he explained.

  “What if I choose not to complete the illustrations?”

  “You do not have that option. Sorry, Lady Annica, but as time is of the essence, I must have a guarantee that I’ll be delivered of fifteen sketches on time. All the sketches must be from the same artist, to preserve the integrity of the work. Once you have begun, I need an assurance that you will carry through. Even if you change your mind or grow bored with the project.”

  “I am not a fickle person, Auberville. If I give my word, you may be assured that I will carry through.”

  “Then you’ll have no objection to signing the contract.”

  Neatly maneuvered, she could only nod and do so. Auberville was well within his rights, and only asking what was reasonable—what he’d ask of a man in the same situation. She should be flattered, she supposed, that he was treating her as he would any male artist. Then why was she feeling trapped?

  Arriving at Kensington Gardens, Tristan led her down a path to a small groundskeeper’s potting shed. He set up her easel and opened her portfolio while she experimented with the best angle and light for a small potted shrub with soft pink blossoms.

  He paced the confines of the shed while she applied herself to her task. Her concentration was not so complete that she was unaware of her companion. He reminded her of a restless beast, and the little shed was teeming with his animal presence. But when he stood behind her to watch her work, his absolute stillness was even more disconcerting.

  “Do you have any comments, milord?” she asked after an hour.

  There was a soft sound behind her as Tristan shifted his weight and leaned closer. She could feel his warm breath along her cheek, and the intimacy unnerved her.

  “I am not disappointed, Lady Annica. Your work is not only accurate, it has a wistful charm,” he said.

  “Is it satisfactory, then?” She cleared her throat, hoping her voice would hold steady.

  “Ah, yes. I’m very pleased,” he purred.

  “Just a quarter of an hour more,” she told him, changing brushes. “I shall apply the finishing touches at home.”

  “You have a deft stroke, Lady Annica. Your feeling for depth and shadow is startling. You do not merely record, you define.”

  His voice was an intangible embrace. Heat washed over her, and she wondered if she were blushing. She hadn’t done that in a very long time. How did he manage to keep her off balance?

  “Have you ever done portraiture?”

  “Just simple sketches of my cousins, Gilbert and Ellen.”

  “I’d be curious to see the world through your eyes, Lady Annica,” Auberville said in a low voice. “I comprehend that your vision is quite beyond the ordinary.”

  She faltered. Her hand began to tremble and her heartbeat accelerated. Distance! She needed distance! “Lord Auberville, could you stand away? You…you are affecting my light.”

  Tristan moved around her to lean against the potting bench, her canvas between them and his arms crossed over his chest. “Is my conversation distracting as well?”

  “No, my lord. I often find silence more distracting than noise. Perhaps because I am not accustomed to it.”

  He cast her a thoughtful smile. “A result of your family?”

  “They are a noisy lot,” she admitted.

  “I’ve missed that,” he said. “The ticking of a clock was my only companion as a lad. I escaped that suffocating environment at the first opportunity. I envy you yo
ur family, Lady Annica.”

  “You do? I’ve always craved enough peace and quiet to even hear a clock tick. As fond as I am of them, I find it difficult not to be driven to distraction by Uncle Thomas’s vagueness, Ellen’s complete docility, Gilbert’s adolescent masculine superiority and Aunt Lucy’s constant attempts to ‘polish’ me.”

  “Polishing, eh? You appear to be quite polished, Lady Annica. ’Tis I who lack that particular refinement. My father did not concern himself with such things.”

  “Mothers are the usual polishers, Auberville,” Annica murmured, warm from his praise. She applied a yellow-green variegation to the underside of a leaf.

  “I scarcely remember my mother. She left when I was very young.” His tone was flat and dull, forbidding further questions.

  She sighed and wondered what hurts he must be harboring. “Hmm. While I do not know you well, I would guess that you are polished to a high luster. But if you wish for more, allow me to offer Aunt Lucy. She adores polishing. She’d be glad of the chance to redeem her reputation after her dreadful failure with me. Despite that, I give her my highest recommendation. Ellen and Gilbert are turning out rather well.” Annica wiped her brush on a rag and selected a smaller brush.

  “Why do you do that, Lady Annica?”

  The lowered voice caressed her, surrounded her. “W-what?”

  “You are unkind to yourself. I gather you do not like Lady Annica Sayles much.”

  She was astonished at his perception, then angry at his presumption. “Whatever I think of myself, Auberville, is my own affair. Shall we talk about you instead?”

  He grinned, watching her face. “Was that so close to the truth that it caused you discomfort?”

  “Did you enjoy your service in the Royal Navy, Auberville?”

  He laughed, not in the least contrite, that she could tell. “Mostly.” He picked up a small potted plant, examined it and placed it back on the potting bench.

  His male energy was unsettling and she sought for a subject to distract him—for her sake more than his. “In what way did you serve?”

  “I was a lieutenant with Vice Admiral Collingwood aboard the Royal Sovereign. After Trafalgar, my superiors discovered that I had a natural bent for strategy and diplomacy. Before I knew it, and likely because my father interceded to remove me from combat duty, I’d been assigned elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  Tristan’s lips twitched as if he were enjoying a private joke. “The Diplomatic Corps in the Mediterranean. The Barbary Coast has always been a pain in the…Royal Treasury. Though the fact was kept fairly quiet, our government engaged in negotiations with a group of pashas. Paying tribute was not an option any longer, and having our ships attacked regularly did not improve the king’s temper. We needed to reach a mutually beneficial agreement. Negotiations were long and arduous. That, my superior officers felt, was my true talent—I never give up, Lady Annica, and I know how to obtain my objective.”

  She experienced a shiver of excitement up her spine. Being the focus of Tristan Sinclair’s attention would be a very interesting position, indeed. “Were you successful?”

  “Mostly.” A darkness settled over his expression.

  “What satisfaction it must have given you to have had such a far-reaching effect on world events. Lives were altered because of what you accomplished, my lord—for the better.”

  Tristan stepped forward to look over the top of her canvas. His voice lowered again to a soft purr. “I suspected the world would look different through evergreen eyes, Lady Annica. Thank you for redeeming what I have thus considered a mediocre life.”

  She realized that her innocent comment had revealed more of her own feelings than was wise. She busied herself with putting her brushes and rags away and carefully placing a cover sheet over her work.

  Tristan collapsed her easel and followed her down the path past the orangerie. “I have worked you too long, Lady Annica. May I make amends by taking you to tea at Vauxhall Gardens?”

  She glanced at the sun, low in the sky. “Thank you, Auberville, but I must hurry on home. Hodgeson will be quite put out if I am any later than I am now.”

  “Ah, yes, the Parson rout, is it not? I am invited there also. But tell me, do you always do your servant’s bidding?”

  “I do no one’s bidding,” she snapped. “And, for all his prickishness, I am quite fond of Hodgeson. He is more than my manservant. He saved my life many years ago, and that has given him certain privileges. After my parents…well, Hodgeson agreed to stay on. He has always looked after me. He feels responsible for me now, I suppose.”

  Tristan nodded as he helped her into his carriage. “Well, Lady Annica, that is one sketch finished, and fourteen to go. Do you still think you are equal to the task?”

  She favored him with an angelic smile. “I never give up either, Lord Auberville.”

  Indeed, giving up was the last thing on Annica’s mind as she prepared for the Parsons’ rout that evening. She chose a marine-blue silk gown dotted with a tiny pattern of golden fleurs-de-lis. Gold satin slippers peeked beneath the narrow hem, and gold ribbons were woven through her dark hair like a molten stream. The low cut of her décolletage barely saved her modesty—some were bound to say it had not saved it at all—but it showed her curves to excellent advantage. The silk folds caressed and skimmed her body as she moved, enticing the viewer with hints of the supple, willowy figure beneath.

  Annica glanced in her looking glass, pleased with the results. The bright jewel tones complemented her dark coloring, and she knew she would turn heads tonight. In the next moment she frowned, wondering why that prospect suddenly pleased her when it had never mattered before. She had taken pains with her costume twice in the same day! Could this have something to do with—

  “Ahem.” A voice spoke from her doorway.

  She turned to find Hodgeson regarding her with his usual wooden expression. “Yes, Hodgeson?”

  “The carriage has been brought around, milady. Your cousins and Miss Wardlow are in the foyer. I’m certain they will not mind waiting while you put on your chemisette.”

  Annica turned back to her looking glass. The cut of her gown was admittedly low, but if she filled it in with a chemisette, she would lose the effect she had so carefully created. Perhaps a necklace? No, Hodgeson was just being a nurse-maid again. She smiled and shook her head. “I rather like it this way.”

  “Hmm,” Hodgeson said. “Will you be seeing his lordship this evening?”

  “Oh. I believe he mentioned that he has been invited to the Parsons’, too, but we made no plans to meet there.”

  “I see, milady. Will you be needing a wrap?”

  “My silk shawl, please. Where is my abigail, Hodgeson? She seems to disappear of late just before I am ready to leave. You should not have to do these silly little things for me.”

  Hodgeson went to her wardrobe and found her shawl as she applied a few drops of rose oil behind her ears. “I shall speak with her, milady. When do you plan to return?”

  “Not until well after midnight. Gilbert and Ellen will be home sooner, but Charity and I may go on to other entertainments. Tell Mary she need not wait up. I am capable of removing my clothing without help.”

  “Since there is so little of it,” Hodgeson muttered under his breath.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I was commenting upon the fine weather, milady.”

  “Yes, well, thank you, Hodgeson. You are correct. ’Tis a fine evening, and I will not be needing anything heavier than my shawl,” she said.

  And the pocket pistol in my reticule.

  Chapter Three

  Toying with the knob of his gold-crowned sword cane, Tristan stood in the doorway of the Parsons’ ballroom, watching Geoffrey Morgan waltz with Lady Annica. She laughed at something he said and her head tilted prettily to one side. The light silk of her gown clung to the curves of her hips and legs, clearly revealing her lithe figure and easy grace. Her dark curls tumbled in a riot around a c
oronet of gold, studded with sapphires, that matched her blue-and-gold gown.

  The dance ended and Morgan halted abruptly, forcing Annica to cling to his arm when he released her. They turned to leave the dance floor, and Tristan caught his breath. The low sweep of her neckline threatened to reveal all, and he found that he had mixed emotions regarding that possibility. He would kill to have Annica naked to his eyes, but he’d kill to prevent her being seen thus by any other man.

  Good Lord! What was this odd possessiveness? It was only natural to have such feelings. She was, after all, in his employ, and he was considering making an offer for her. Yes, that was it. Proprietorship. That was all.

  Grace Forbush joined Annica’s small group near the French doors leading to the gardens. Tristan smiled when she caught sight of him and signaled him over. He’d known her since childhood and had a great respect for her intelligence and integrity. If Annica was Grace’s friend, that was high praise.

  “Tristan Sinclair!” she greeted him. “How good to see you again. Or should I say Lord Auberville? I was sorry to hear about your father, my dear.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Forbush. You are looking well.” He smiled and took her offered hand as he leaned down to accept a formal kiss on his cheek. “And you may call me whatever pleases you. Old friends should not stand on ceremony.”

  “I understand you have become acquainted with my dear friend Annica.” Grace turned to nod toward Charity and asked, “Have you met Miss Wardlow?”

  “Charmed, Miss Wardlow,” he said with a slight bow.

  Charity bobbed a quick curtsy. “Lord Auberville. I am pleased to meet you. ’Nica has told me how very amusing you—ouch!” She turned to Annica with a puzzled frown.

  Annica’s eyes sparked as she snapped her fan open and fluttered it nervously. “M’lord.” She acknowledged him with a nod. “How are you this evening?”

  “Well enough, Lady Annica.” He bowed and lifted her hand to his lips, fighting the urge to turn it up and kiss the more sensitive palm. No doubt such an action would shock the little bluestocking. There would be time for that later. Instead, he lingered over her hand just a fraction of a moment too long to be decent, but not quite long enough to be scandalous.