How the Scoundrel Seduces (15 page)

He stood there, stunned. He wanted to protest her accusation, but how could he? This
was
just an interlude for him. Because the only other choice was something more serious, and that was definitely not what he intended.

Was it?

She forced a smile that scarcely covered the sadness in her eyes. “Thank you for agreeing to take me with you tomorrow, and thank you for the dance. But I have to go. And if you care for me at all, don’t follow me. The last thing I need is my cousin seeing us come in together.”

Then she opened the French doors and went into the library.

He wanted to go after her, but she was right. He was mucking with her life. Though it wasn’t for the reasons
she thought, that hardly mattered. Nothing could come of this but a mild flirtation.

So he should just do what she was paying him to do, and keep his distance. That would be the “prudent” thing. And it would be easy enough with Lisette probably joining them tomorrow. He’d have no time alone with Zoe anyway.

Besides, he had more important matters to concern him. Let her marry whom she pleased. If she didn’t care that her cousin was obviously wrong for her, then why should he?

He’d fairly well convinced himself that he didn’t care one whit by the time he thought it safe enough to enter the library. But that all went to hell when he found Keane standing near the door into the hall.

Damn. How long had he been there? Surely if he had run into Zoe, she would have coaxed him from the room to keep him from spotting Tristan outside.

Keane caught sight of him, and a half smile twisted his lips. “I see I was right.”

“About what?”

“I figured something must have drawn my cousin out of the ballroom into here, and now I see it was you.”

Playing dumb, Tristan glanced about the room. “Lady Zoe is here?”

“She was, as I’m sure you know. She was too agitated to notice me coming out of the ballroom down the hall. But I certainly noticed
her
.” He cocked his head. “She’s a hard woman to miss. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would. Which is why it’s surprising I didn’t see
her. But then, I’ve been outside on the terrace smoking.” He pulled out his cigar case. “Care for a cigar?”

With a quick glance at the open French doors, Keane took one. “Don’t mind if I do.” He lit the cigar off a nearby candle and puffed on it a moment before dropping into a chair. “These taste like shit.”

Tristan shrugged as he took one out for himself and lit it. “The good ones are too costly for my purse. You can blame the duty on American tobacco for that.” He sat down, too, and began to smoke, wondering where this was leading.

“Now I know what to send Lord Olivier for Christmas next year,” Keane quipped. He drew on the cigar again, then blew out smoke. “So, what exactly is the nature of your friendship with Lady Zoe?”

Tristan nearly choked on his cigar. He’d thought he’d dodged that bullet. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do.” Keane knocked some ash off into a nearby salver. “I don’t for one second believe that she was in here and you were out there, separate and alone all this time.”

Tristan blew out smoke, weighing how to approach this. Lying seemed unwise, since it would lend weight to Keane’s suspicions. “It’s that obvious, is it?”

“She’s a pretty woman. And you don’t strike me as the sort of man to ignore pretty women.” He smoked a moment. “In any case, the two of you can’t seem to get your stories straight about how you met. Or where. Or when.”

Cursing the man for his perceptiveness, Tristan shrugged and opted for a version of the truth. “Her
prettiness aside, our association isn’t personal. I am . . . er . . . investigating a small matter for her. But her father would never approve, so we have to meet privately to consult.”

“Why wouldn’t her father approve?”

“Everything you’ve heard about the English aristocracy is mostly true, no matter what her ladyship claims. They tend to be insular and hidebound. If you hadn’t invited me here yourself, I could never have attended.”

“And that’s the only reason he wouldn’t approve?”

Peculiar question. “As far as I know.”

“Interesting.”

Tristan wasn’t sure why, and that worried him. Keane had this alarming ability to be virtually unreadable. Perhaps it was a peculiar talent of Americans.

After a long moment during which smoke wreathed them both, Tristan said, “I hope you understand that my friendship with her ladyship must be kept secret from her family.”

“Trust me, I am not a tattler.” Keane searched his face. “So it’s nothing romantic then?”

He managed a pained smile. “Lady Zoe is . . . shall we say . . . inaccessible to the likes of me.”

“A cat can look at a king,” Keane pointed out.

“Yes, but he can’t marry one, can he?”

Keane lifted an eyebrow. “Who said anything about marriage?”

A vise tightened around Tristan’s chest. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I would dishonor the lady. Or that the lady would allow me to dishonor her.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Merely asking questions.”

“To what purpose?” Tristan snapped. “Have you a ‘romantic’ interest in Lady Zoe yourself?”

“Would you care if I did?”

This conversation was growing more frustrating by the moment. “As I told you, the lady is inaccessible to me. In every possible way. So I would be foolish to care.”

It was the truth. But it was also not an answer.

Keane wasn’t stupid enough to miss that. “Well then,” he said with a smooth smile as he stubbed out the cigar in the salver, “since the lady is accessible to
me,
I believe I shall go beg a dance of her.” He rose and headed for the door, but halted there to look back at Tristan. “Are you coming?”

The gleam in his eyes revealed his decided interest in witnessing Tristan’s reaction. The man was baiting him. Tristan just wasn’t sure why. “What’s your game, Keane?”

“What’s yours?” the American countered.

Abandoning his cigar, Tristan stood. “I’ve already told you.”

“Yes. I’m still trying to decide if I believe you.”

Tristan sauntered toward him. “I don’t know how things work in America, but in England, a man who calls another man a liar to his face risks being challenged to a duel.”

“It’s pretty much the same where I’m from.” Keane slanted a glance at him. “But only hotheaded fools fight duels. And you don’t seem
that
sort, either.”

“Depends on the provocation.” He preceded the man into the hall. “Because if you breathe one word of this to her father and her aunt, or in any way make trouble for her, I might well consider meeting you on the field.”

Keane stared at him soberly a moment. “Duly noted.” Then, as if someone had turned off a switch, he smiled broadly and clapped Tristan on the shoulder. “Now that we’ve settled that, old chap, let’s go join the party. The sooner I can fulfill my obligations to the family this evening, the sooner we can go on that tour of London debauchery that you’ve promised me.”

“Tonight?” Tristan said.

“Why not tonight?”

Good question. Perhaps a jaunt about London’s stewpots would remind him that he had no business kissing Zoe. Caressing Zoe.

Wanting
Zoe.

“Yes—why not tonight, indeed?” he said.

9

W
HEN
Z
OE
’
S COUSIN
finally asked her to dance, she was so relieved that she didn’t notice it was a waltz until he was taking her hand on the floor. Not that she minded waltzing. But the waltz would forever be imprinted on her memory as the only dance she’d shared with Tristan.

In private. On the terrace. Under the moonlight.

Waltzing would never be the same for her again.

“You seem distracted, coz,” Mr. Keane said as he began the dance.

She forced a smile. “I have a great deal on my mind.”

He digested that in silence. Thank goodness the music was loud enough that she didn’t feel honor-bound to talk. And thank goodness he wasn’t a bad dancer. For an American, anyway.

His gaze bored into her. “So your father tells me I shouldn’t have invited your friend Bonnaud to this affair.”

Botheration. She couldn’t believe Papa had discussed
that with Mr. Keane. “Papa can be a stickler for propriety. And Mr. Bonnaud, with his work as an investigator, isn’t what we call ‘good
ton
.’ It means—”

“I know what it means, coz,” he said with the barest smile. “I read British papers and books. But that’s not the reason your father gave for his alarm.”

As she realized what he meant, she colored. “Oh, and since Mr. Bonnaud is . . . well . . . illegitimate—”

“That wasn’t the reason, either.” He swung her into a turn. “Apparently your Mr. Bonnaud has a tawdry past.”

“He’s not
my
Mr. Bonnaud.” Then the rest of his words sank in. “Tawdry past? You mean, because of his reputation with women?”

“No. Because of his reputation for thieving.”

Her breath stuck in her throat. Had Papa somehow heard about the subterfuge played by the Duke’s Men at Kinlaw Castle months ago? That made no sense. They’d covered it up very well. And surely if he’d heard, others would have, too, but there hadn’t been a peep of it among the gossips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Don’t you?” His hand tightened on hers. “I assumed that you knew quite a bit about Mr. Bonnaud.”

“No, I—I only recently met him.” It was true, even if it did leave out a great deal. “So what is this about thieving?”

“Your father said that Bonnaud was rumored to have stolen a horse from his half brother years ago.”

Ohhhh. So that was what Papa had meant when he’d spoken of something Tristan had done in Yorkshire
in his youth. “If that’s true, it was clearly some misunderstanding, since Mr. Manton obviously has no problem with him now.”

Mr. Keane’s gaze was steady on her. “Not
that
half brother. I gather Bonnaud has another one who happens to be a viscount?”

She missed a step. Fortunately, he caught her, guiding her effortlessly until she was back in rhythm.

“Yes,” she admitted, “the Viscount Rathmoor. But I . . . never heard anything about a stolen horse.”

“Your father says it was widely rumored in York that the Thoroughbred was never recovered. That Bonnaud fled to France to escape being hanged for the theft.” Mr. Keane watched her as if to gauge her reaction. “And that he only returned to England last year when the Duke of Lyons married his sister.”

She frowned. Tristan
had
lived in France for years, but since his mother was French he might have gone there because of her. He
was
estranged from his viscount half brother, but so was Mr. Manton, by all reports, and no one was accusing
him
of theft.

“Surely if he were guilty of such a thing they would have apprehended him once he came to England,” she pointed out.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps the viscount is wary of the duke’s wrath. I don’t know how these things work in England, but I imagine the influence of a man so highly placed would be as far-reaching as in America.”

That much was true. Though if Tristan were a criminal, why would the secret police in Paris have hired him
as an agent? And why would Mr. Manton risk his reputation to include Tristan in his investigative business?

No, the rumor made no sense. Papa was just listening to old gossip and jumping to conclusions. Tristan was no criminal.

We caught criminals by pretending to
be
criminals.

She brightened. That was it! Tristan had pretended to be a criminal in Scotland just last year, so perhaps he’d been pretending to be a criminal years ago, too. Though she could hardly see how pretending to be a horse thief helped a person catch anyone. And if he’d been young . . .

“Did Papa say how old Mr. Bonnaud was when all this happened?”

Her cousin moved her smoothly about the floor. He really did excel at dancing. It was a mark in his favor. A small mark, but still . . .

“I believe he mentioned that Bonnaud was a youth at the time.”

She thrust out her chin. “Well, it sounds like idle rumor to me.” Determined to get him off the subject of Tristan, she added, “You’ll find there’s a great deal of that in London society. It can be very disturbing.”

“There’s not much gossip about you and your father and aunt,” he pointed out.

That arrested her. “Did you . . . expect to find some?”

A dark look crossed his face. “People are almost never what they seem.”

“Well,
we
are!” she said petulantly.

But the truth was, they were not. Papa had either
had an affair with a Romany woman or bought Mama a baby. So Zoe was either part or all Gypsy, and nothing in her upbringing had prepared her for that.

They danced a few moments before he said, “I must admit—you and your family aren’t what I expected.”

Her heart began to pound. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Keane?”

“You really ought to call me Jeremy.” He cast her the unreadable smile that had begun to grate on her nerves. “We’re friends now, are we not?”