“Very good, sir,” the butler said, his tone once again devoid of anything but calm deference.
There was another bit of rustling, then a crackle as the offending letter hit the fire. That sound finally snapped her back into herself. Her present position could only be construed as eavesdropping. And Danielson would no doubt be leaving the study any moment—as the approaching footsteps announced loud and clear.
Rosalind bolted for the nearest door, a seldom used sitting room, hiding herself inside. And just in time, for from her vantage she could make out the butler as he exited the study, followed not a minute later by Tristan.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Rosalind emerged from her hiding place. But as she hurried on by the study door and on to the library as she had originally planned, she caught sight of the low burning fire in the grate.
And the half-burned paper within.
Curiosity getting the better of her, she changed direction and darted inside. The letter the butler had been ordered to burn was still there, part of it having been spared from the fire. As she bent closer to get a better look, a fresh flame caught on the paper and the missive was quickly engulfed. But not before she caught a glimpse of a name.
Josephine
Who was Josephine? Why had Tristan ordered that all letters from her be burned?
And why was jealousy sitting sour in her stomach?
Furious with herself, she hurried from the room. It served her right, spying on Tristan. She was despicable.
Overwhelmed by a wave of self-disgust, she was in the front hall before she knew it. Blowing out a harsh breath, she spun about on the ball of her foot, intending to backtrack to the library, to find a book, and to hide herself away in her room so she could evade further mischief.
A knocking on the front doors, however, halted her in her tracks.
She half expected the butler to appear. He seemed to materialize at every other time he was needed, as if magicked into being. Now, however, it appeared the man was not about. She bit her lip, staring in uncertainty at the doors. Again came the knock. Shrugging, she hurried forward and pulled the heavy door open.
“Mr. Carlisle!” she exclaimed with a delighted smile. “What a pleasant surprise. Have you come to visit Lady Belham?”
Mr. Carlisle blinked at her before grinning. “Miss Merriweather, so good to see you. Are you playing at butler today?”
“It seems so.” She waved him in, closing the door behind him. “I suppose I should take your outerwear then. Your hat, sir,” she intoned in a deep, sonorous voice, holding out a hand imperiously.
He chuckled. “Ah, I see you have found your calling. For I never knew a butler with such impressive poise.” He handed over his hat and coat, which Rosalind deposited on the hall table.
“I’m afraid Lady Belham is out. Which I suppose I should have told you before taking your hat and coat,” she admitted sheepishly.
“You may have,” he agreed, “though I would have quickly told you I would be glad to visit with you if you’ve a mind to entertain me. And so we would be in the same place we are now. Assuming you would agree to sit with me awhile.”
Rosalind grinned. “That sounds absolutely lovely.”
The butler arrived and took in Mr. Carlisle without his outerwear before turning to Rosalind. “Would you like a tray brought up to the drawing room, Miss Merriweather?”
“Thank you, yes please, Danielson.”
Bowing, the butler moved off. Rosalind stared after him.
“I feel strangely like a child playing at being an adult,” she murmured.
Mr. Carlisle chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean. When I first returned home and had to deal with my father’s servants, people who had known me since I was in frocks, I felt much the same.”
Rosalind started off for the stairs, Mr. Carlisle falling into step beside her with a natural ease. “And does your father continue to improve?”
“Thank God, he does,” the man said with feeling. “So much so that he wants me to spend more time at social events and the like. I begin to suspect that he feigned the whole illness in order to get me to come home and secure the family line.”
They entered the drawing room and found a cozy spot near the window to sit. “Do you really think that?” Rosalind asked.
He chuckled. “No, I don’t. I suppose it is not well done of me to even suggest it, for he was suffering greatly when I arrived.” He sobered for a moment before brightening. “But he is so improved, I have every hope he may one day return to full vigor. Now that he is well, however, I have noticed his suggestions that I marry and set up a nursery have increased. He used to mention it once a day. Now it is hourly.”
Rosalind chuckled. “And how do you feel about such things?”
“Oh, I’m all for it,” he said. “Though I would very much like to find someone to care for. I was in love once, you see, and would like to feel that again.” His expression turned appalled. “Goodness, I don’t know why I told you that.”
Rosalind gave him a gentle smile. “You can be assured, I will keep your secret. I’m quite good at it.” For a moment she was lost in thought. Her fingers found the locket at her throat, brushed over the smooth turquoise stones, before she forcibly dropped her hand back to her lap.
“Was that at one of your father’s properties in the country?” she asked.
“No, when I was still a young man and living in London.” He sat forward, suddenly earnest. “I loved her with everything in me, Miss Merriweather, would have given her the moon had she asked.”
Rosalind, though taken aback by such a statement, felt all the heartache behind it. “What happened?”
“She loved another.”
The words were simple, and simply said. But there was a wealth of emotion behind them.
A maid arrived then with a tray, and immediately Rosalind went to work preparing the tea.
“I always feel utterly useless waiting to be served,” Mr. Carlisle said while she busied herself. “We kept a skeleton staff in the country and so I have learned to do for myself. I find I actually prefer it, keeping busy and all. Why don’t I fill our plates in the meantime?”
“I would like that very much,” Rosalind replied. As he went to work, stacking biscuits and bits of fruit on the small bone china plates provided, Rosalind snuck considering looks at him. Truly, the man was the most pleasant, accommodating person. He was a true gentleman. Not at all like that Lord Kingston and his wicked smiles. Would that Tristan had chosen such a person for Miss Weeton, and not a rogue of the first order.
A thought hit her then, like a lightning bolt. But wait, why couldn’t Miss Weeton be paired with Mr. Carlisle? And wouldn’t it be the best way to foil Tristan’s plans? Goodness knows her attempts at befriending the girl had failed miserably. There was no chance she would get in the girl’s confidence to warn her away from Lord Kingston.
But Miss Weeton could be given an alternative.
“Mr. Carlisle,” Rosalind said as nonchalantly as she could manage, considering the excitement that was bubbling up inside her. “I think your father is right, in that you should begin looking for a bride.”
He stilled, a buttery shortbread suspended from his fingers. “Do you really?”
“Certainly,” she said, placing the teapot down and pouring a generous amount of milk into the cup as Mr. Carlisle had indicated he liked. “And I do believe you will find someone to care for again. It is simply a matter of putting yourself out there and making yourself available.”
He passed her one of the plates, piled high with delicacies, then accepted the cup from her. “Do you really think so?”
“Oh yes, most definitely. As a matter of fact, I think it’s best to start right away. To give yourself the best chance for success, of course.”
He sipped at his tea, considering her. “You know, Miss Merriweather, I think you may be right. But where in the world do I start?”
“Oh, I don�
�t know.” She pretended to consider the matter deeply for a time before blurting, “Perhaps the theatre? Tonight?”
“Tonight?” His brows drew together. “Do you truly think so?”
“Certainly.” She sipped at her tea as he chewed on a biscuit thoughtfully. “The theatre is the perfect place to see and be seen, you know. Or so I’ve heard. You do like the theatre, I presume?”
“Oh, most definitely,” Mr. Carlisle replied with feeling. “I have not been in some time. It was a favorite pastime of mine before I left London. There is nothing quite like immersing oneself in the pageantry and art of a performance.” He looked wistful for a moment.
Truly, she could not guide the man more easily if she tried. She might have felt guilty at manipulating him in such a way if she wasn’t absolutely certain what she was doing was right. “I have every hope that I can convince Lady Belham to attend the theatre, and I’m sure she would love to have you there.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes. Most definitely.”
And as he declared his delight at the prospect and they made short work of the delicious spread the cook had provided, Rosalind found she was looking forward to the proposed evening with as much, if not more, excitement than her friend. It was due to thwarting Tristan’s plans, she told herself. But deep inside she knew, with a kind of fatalistic dread, that she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Chapter 18
What in blazes is Rosalind doing here?
Tristan stared across the expanse of the theatre, stunned. He perhaps should not have seen her so quickly. The performance had not yet begun, and the theatergoers were busy making sure they were seen. Every box had movement, people squawking and preening and fluttering like so many colorful parrots.
But he had seen her the moment she entered the box. She was a beacon. Even from this distance he could behold her in painful detail, her brown hair catching the light from the sconces, wearing a deep amethyst gown that was no doubt one of Grace’s cast offs. The dark color had an incredible effect on her skin, turning it the palest porcelain. As he watched, transfixed by the sight of her, she was helped into a seat by…Hugh Carlisle?
What the devil was she doing with him? An uncomfortable feeling settled between his shoulder blades, making the hair of his nape stand on end. He tightened his hands into hard balls on his thighs. It took him a moment to realize what he felt was jealousy.
Damn it, he had no right to feel jealous. Even so, he could not help the question swirling around in his brain: Was Carlisle courting her? And why the hell did he care if the man was? If anything, it should be a cause for celebration. Being a companion could not be easy. She deserved happiness, a home of her own, children.
But the very thought of her with Carlisle nauseated him beyond belief. No, it wasn’t that it was Carlisle in particular, for Tristan had nothing against the man. He seemed a good sort, jolly and polite to a fault. The kind of fellow ideal for matrimony, who would remain faithful and provide a good life for his family.
What had him feeling sick to his stomach was Rosalind with anyone. A troubling realization, indeed.
Before panic took hold, however, he spied Carlisle helping a second person to their seat. Grace.
The reason for Rosalind’s presence became clear. She was there with his cousin, who was related by marriage to Carlisle. Of course that explained it. Relief such as Tristan had never known coursed through him. Which was much more worrisome than the jealousy, to be honest. Rosalind was not his, he told himself fiercely. He’d best get it through his head.
“Who are you staring at with such a glower?” Rafe asked, looking out over the crowd with a curious expression.
“No one,” Tristan muttered.
But his friend was anything but dense. “I say, is that your cousin across the way? You should invite her over. My box is able to hold their party as well.”
“No!”
Rafe started, looking at him in surprise. And no wonder, for in his horror at his friend’s suggestion, he’d been much louder than he’d intended.
“Ah, that is,” he continued, trying for an easy smile, “it is so much more pleasant with a smaller party at these kinds of things.”
The surprise on Rafe’s face transformed to amusement. “Where is my friend and what have you done with him? For the Crosby I know would never say such a thing. Why, I’ve known you to stuff a dozen or more people into this box and still look for more to join us.”
Which was all too true. Yet that kind of wild socialization seemed to no longer hold the same draw for him. “It’s merely the natural progression of life, I suppose,” he said. “We’re past those days.”
“Bite your tongue,” Rafe admonished. Even as he teased Tristan, however, his eyes searched for and found Miss Weeton on his other side.
The girl, talking to her mother, caught them looking at her and turned as pink as the lace of her gown. Tristan smiled to himself as Rafe began a low conversation with her. The girl was flustered as she ever was. Tristan had quickly learned that she was not easy with people, more specifically with men. Yet when she looked at Rafe there was something more, a softness in her eyes not typically present.
As for his friend, he had worried at first the man wouldn’t respond to Miss Weeton. He was a lively fellow after all, always found at the center of whatever social celebration was being had.
In the past year, however, he’d appeared discontent more than not, and increasingly restless, as if he were looking for something but unable to find it. Was the man searching for a wife? Several telling remarks indicated he rather was. Then along had come Miss Weeton, with her dilemma and shyness. Put the girl before Rafe, he’d reasoned, and his friend would see her in a whole new light, would see past what society saw, to the gem within. And Miss Weeton could not fail to be enchanted by Rafe. He was not one of the darlings of London society for nothing, after all, and could put anyone at ease with his good-natured, easy-going ways.
Thus far he’d been proven correct. For in the course of the past week Rafe had grown utterly enchanted with the lady. And Miss Weeton too was responding to his friend in a wonderful way that was quite unlike her usual reticence. If things progressed as they were, Tristan would see another conquest in the form of an engagement announced within the fortnight.
He vowed then and there to pour his focus and energy into matching Miss Weeton to Rafe and ignore Rosalind’s presence. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to do.
• • •
By the time intermission arrived, however, Tristan wanted to bash his pathetically optimistic past self over the head.
For no matter how he tried, he could not avert his gaze from Rosalind. She seemed bound and determined to keep her head turned his way as well.
He might have thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Perhaps it was simply coincidence that had her looking his way every time he happened to peer across at her. Yet he could not ignore the fact that she seemed far more interested in his side of the theatre than was necessary.
Especially when he caught her peering at him through a pair of quizzing glasses, of all things.
It was a relief when intermission came. At least now he did not have to pretend interest in the stage. Sighing, he openly turned his head to look Rosalind’s way.
She wasn’t there.
In fact, her entire party was missing from their box. He frowned. Surely she wouldn’t come over to theirs.
As if to mock his assumption, the curtain parted at the back of the box. And then she was there, and he forgot to breathe.
How was it, he thought dazedly, that one small, unassuming woman could so completely overwhelm a space?
Rafe stood, bowing with a flourish. “So good to see you all here in my humble box. Though I cannot hope you are visiting in order to see me, as I have someone much more appealing here tonight.” He looked to Miss Weeton. Once again, the girl flushed. Yet Tristan did not miss the small smile t
hat lifted her lips as she looked to her lap.
There was a nearly indiscernible sound from Rosalind’s direction. He looked at her as the others exchanged greetings. She was fairly shooting daggers at Rafe before she grabbed onto Carlisle’s arm and moved farther into the box, dragging him along with her.
“Miss Weeton, so good to see you again,” she said, approaching the girl where she sat. “You remember Mr. Carlisle, of course?”
“Ah, yes.” Miss Weeton eyed Rosalind with trepidation—and no wonder, after the long line of accidents Rosalind had tortured the girl with over the past week—and cleared her throat, her fingers twisting about each other. “Mr. Carlisle, it’s a pleasure.”
As the man bowed, Rosalind spoke. “Mr. Carlisle was telling me the most fascinating story of a play he saw performed in Leeds years ago. Mr. Carlisle, you should tell Miss Weeton. I’m sure she would be most interested.”
“Er, of course,” Carlisle said, not a little stunned, before he inclined his head toward the other lady. “If Miss Weeton is not opposed, that is.”
What could the girl say? She quickly mumbled her acquiesce. Carlisle sat in the seat beside her, the one Rafe had vacated minutes ago, and started in on his story.
Tristan might have gone on wondering at that little scene had he not caught sight of the self-satisfied smirk on Rosalind’s face. So that was the way of it, was it? The little minx was planning on foiling his attempts to match Miss Weeton with Rafe by acting matchmaker herself.
As she stepped back he advanced on her, taking advantage of the distraction of the rest of the group to grab her arm and drag her into the corner of the box. The cool politeness he had adopted with her over the last days would not help in the least now.
“I know what you’re about, Rosalind,” he growled low.
In a move that surprised him not one bit, she rolled her eyes before saying, “I would think you a simpleton if you did not.”
“You’ve no right.”
“On the contrary, I have every right in the world. And I must say,” she continued smugly, giving the young couple at the front of the box a satisfied look, “they do look well together. Mr. Carlisle is much more her match. Not at all like that Lord Kingston.”
A Match Made In London Page 17