How the Scoundrel Seduces (17 page)

In any case, Her Grace changed the subject. “Tristan tells me that this jaunt is about a case. That you have hired him to investigate something?”

That put Zoe on her guard. “Yes.”

Zoe’s expression must have shown her concern, for the duchess added hastily, “He didn’t explain what it was; he’s always discreet. I only know that it involves visiting a Romany encampment.”

“He
told
you where we’re going?” she asked, her heart in her throat. She’d assumed he would keep that discreet, too.

“He didn’t have a choice.” The duchess favored her with a small smile. “I wasn’t about to allow my rogue of a brother to go off alone all day with an unmarried young woman as pretty as yourself. So I’m going with you to chaperone. It was the only way I would agree to do this.”

Botheration. How could Tristan ask questions at the camp with the duchess around? Granted, the woman could be considered one of the Duke’s Men, given her marriage to the duke himself, but it wouldn’t do to have her guessing their purpose. The more people who knew Zoe’s dilemma, the more likely it was that someone would let the truth slip.

The duchess settled back against her seat. “We’re meeting my rapscallion brother there. Last night he told my coachman where to go.”

“So he’s already at the encampment?” Zoe gritted her teeth. “He
knew
I wanted to be with him the whole time he was questioning the Gypsies. But he just
had
to go there early, even though he promised—”

“I’ll be surprised if he even makes it there before us,” the duchess said mildly. “When we were leaving your lovely house after the soiree, he was heading off with
your cousin for some . . . tour of London debauchery. That’s what he called it, anyway. And if it was anything like my brother’s usual shenanigans, then he’s cropsick this morning.”

Lord, Zoe had forgotten all about his promise to Jeremy. Leave it to Tristan to corrupt her cousin. Although Jeremy had seemed awfully eager to be corrupted.

She glanced out the window as they drove past Hyde Park. Might it be a good thing that Tristan and her cousin were becoming chummy? Perhaps Tristan could learn something of use to her in her campaign to gain a marriage proposal from Jeremy.

Then again, after the way Tristan had protested that scheme, would he even tell her if he
did
learn anything?

“I hope it doesn’t distress you,” the duchess added. “That my brother and your cousin were . . . well . . . going to unsavory places half the night.”

Zoe forced a smile. “Why ever would it distress me?”

“Just now you looked upset.”

“Only because I need your brother to be fully competent to do his job today,” Zoe lied, trying not to think of Tristan sporting with whores in a brothel. “And if he’s cropsick—”

“Oh, trust me, he could still fight three men with one hand tied behind his back. He was a very successful agent in France.”

“So he said.”

The duchess regarded her with an odd look. “He told you about that?”

“Of course. He used to work with La Sûreté Nationale, right?” When the woman nodded, Zoe added, “He was trying to convince me that he could handle my investigation.”

“How strange.” The duchess looked her over as if seeing her in a new light. “He never speaks of his work in France to anyone, not even clients, because of how the English distrust the French.”

“Well, perhaps he thought I wouldn’t mind.”

“Perhaps,” the woman said, sounding skeptical.

“He was trying to convince me to take him on. I was rather . . . well . . . reluctant.”

“Were you?”

Why did the duchess keep eyeing her as if she were a new bauble being pondered for purchase?

“Yes. He and I got off to a bit of a rocky start. That’s all.”

“What sort of a rocky start?”

Oh, dear. She shouldn’t have mentioned that. “Nothing of any consequence, Your Grace. Truly.”

The duchess regarded her a long moment, then cast her a calculating smile. “Call me Lisette,” she said, leaning forward to pat Zoe’s knee. “You and I are going to be great friends, I expect.”

Zoe couldn’t imagine why. Though it couldn’t hurt to have another of the Duke’s Men—or women, in this case—on her side. “Then you must call me Zoe.”

Lisette nodded. “Now, you simply must tell me of this ‘rocky start’ that is of no consequence. How else am I to keep up with my rascal of a brother?”

Zoe did her best to prevaricate. But as they journeyed to the Romany camp, the duchess persisted in quizzing Zoe about her association with Tristan. Short of lying or remaining stubbornly silent, Zoe wasn’t sure what to say.

And after Zoe let slip that she’d initially met the Duke’s Men in Scotland, Lisette, who’d apparently heard the whole tale about Tristan disguising himself as a thief, managed to drag that part of the story from her. Zoe soon found herself telling Lisette of the bargain she’d forced the brothers into, although not
why
she’d wanted the bargain in the first place.

Fortunately, Lisette didn’t pry too much into the nature of Zoe’s investigation. The reason for that became clear when Lisette admitted that Tristan had agreed to let her come along only if she didn’t badger Zoe about it.

Zoe’s heart fluttered a little over that. Clearly he’d known how persistent his sister could be. And if he could keep Zoe’s secrets even from his obviously demanding sister, then surely he would keep them from just about anyone.

By the time they arrived at the camp, Lisette had begun to treat Zoe like an old friend, relating her fears about the upcoming birth of her child and waxing poetic about her apparently wonderful and generous husband.

Envy stabbed Zoe. If she went through with her plans to marry Jeremy, could she ever hope for such a warm partnership? It seemed unlikely, if her cousin preferred debauchery to social events.

Then again, that would make him like half of the other husbands among the
ton
. The thought was lowering indeed.

The carriage halted. A ramshackle row of houses stood near the road, skirting an ice-crusted field crowded with tents that didn’t even reach as high as Zoe’s chin. The smoke of many fires filled the air as Gypsies and Londoners alike wandered the paths trodden into the ground between the tents.

The minute she and the duchess got out, they were swarmed by bronze-skinned children dressed in colorful rags, who seemed oblivious to the cold. And to their poverty as well. Unlike the poor sullen urchins she sometimes saw begging on Bond Street when she shopped, these little ones were laughing and gabbing in some unfamiliar tongue, probably Romany.

Zoe could have sworn they were talking about her clothes, for they kept gesturing at her bonnet and muttering the word
staddi.

“Please, miss,” one bold boy finally said in accented English, “where did you buy such a fine hat?”

A voice from beyond them answered, “Somewhere you could never afford,
chavvi
.”

Tristan strode up to the children and spoke a few words. When he then tossed a handful of coins onto a nearby frozen patch of ground, the children screamed with laughter and ran after them, deserting the coach.

Zoe gaped at them. “What did you say?”

“That the fine lady was a princess, and that whichever
of them could produce the most beautiful neckerchief for her before we left would get another handful of coins.”

“That’s incredibly generous of you,” Zoe said softly.

“Hardly,” he said with a shrug. “The best way to keep a lot of children out of your hair when you’re trying to get something done in a Romany camp is to give them money and a purpose. Now they’ll spend their time plaguing their mothers for neckerchiefs for the lovely lady. And they’ll leave us be.”

As he walked over to speak to the duchess’s coachman and footmen, Lisette leaned close to whisper, “Don’t let him fool you. He’s trying to impress you.”

“I doubt that,” Zoe said. Yet her heart gave another of those annoying little flutters that he seemed to incite whenever he was around.

Especially when he was dressed like an adventurer, in a rugged greatcoat and mud-spattered top boots, with a battered beaver hat that made her wonder how many wild excursions it had seen. How many
he
had seen. For it was clear that he was daring enough to brave any terrain on a mission.

It gave her an odd sort of thrill to think that he’d taken on
her
mission.

Upon his return, he stared pointedly at his sister. “I know you’ll want to buy some goods while you’re here.” He gestured toward a path that twisted through one end of the camp. “Your best bet is down there. That path leads to an excellent ribbon merchant.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Lisette glared at
him. “I can’t go gallivanting about a Romany camp alone.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Grown too lofty for that now that you’re a duchess?”

Zoe caught her breath at the barb, but the duchess merely laughed. “Yes. I believe that I have. So you’re stuck with me.”

“Not a chance, little Miss Meddler. We’re going another way, and you’re not invited.” He snapped his finger, and one of the duchess’s footmen approached. “Besides, you won’t be alone.”

She looked as if she might protest further. Then she let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, very well. I do enjoy a good ribbon merchant.” And she stalked away, with the footman at her side.

Tristan offered Zoe his arm, and as she took it he murmured, “Sorry about having to bring her along. I had hoped to meet you at the Bond Street shops and take you off with me, but she flat-out refused to help me, as she put it, ‘seduce a lady of quality.’ ” His voice tightened. “She seems to think I have no scruples.”

Zoe let him lead her down the main path between the tents. “I can’t imagine where she would get such a notion. Perhaps from your willingness to take visitors on ‘tours of London debauchery’?” When his eyes narrowed on her, she cursed herself for bringing that up and added, “Have you learned anything about Drina?”

He let her change the subject. “Not yet, I’m afraid. I didn’t arrive here much before you. I’ve asked around, but without a family name it’s difficult to learn anything.
Someone did mention that I should talk to the folks camped on the far end, so that’s where we’re headed.”

For the next hour, they went among the tents, speaking to anyone who would talk to them. With some, a mere word or two in their language turned them effusive. With others, it took a few coins.

As it turned out, everyone they consulted knew a Drina somewhere, but inevitably the female turned out to be too old or too young, or to not have been pregnant at the time specified, or to have some other problem that excluded her.

In the course of their questioning, Zoe learned that Gypsies tended to keep to certain counties, so a Drina who was part of a Surrey clan, for example, wasn’t likely to have ever been in Yorkshire. And the lack of a family name was a bigger issue than she would have guessed. Each clan comprised only a few families, so knowing that name would have vastly helped Tristan find the woman.

As they left a tent after encountering yet another dead end, she murmured, “The Romany are not what I expected.”

“In what way?”

She glanced over to where a young woman was scrubbing sheets furiously behind a tent. “For one thing, they’re much cleaner than I’d always heard. And the women are not . . . well . . .”

“Little whores?”

“Sly,” she said with an arch glance.

“It must come as quite a shock to you to find that Gypsies aren’t all dirty and wild thieves,” he said, with an edge to his voice.

She colored. “One does occasionally hear of those who are.”

“Right.” A muscle clenched in his jaw. “One hears an astonishing amount of information about the Romany, when you consider that few people have ever had any firsthand dealings with them.”

“Perhaps if Gypsies weren’t so clannish and wary of strangers, people wouldn’t make those assumptions.”

“The people we’ve been dealing with today haven’t been like that,” he pointed out. “It’s only when they’re bullied and driven from pillar to post that they grow wary of strangers. But they can tell that we’re respectful of their customs.” He stared ahead, more somber than before. “And in winter, they’re desperate enough to talk to anyone who might give them a chance of making some money.”

“Yes, I noticed some of the men asking if you know where they can find work. I always heard that Gypsy men were lazy.”

“It’s easy to apply that word to a people one doesn’t understand, with unusual customs and strange beliefs. They’re nomadic, so they like to roam, and they believe in living for the moment, so amassing a fortune isn’t important to them. We English are the opposite, so we assume that their rootlessness and lack of ambition translates to a hatred of work, when really it’s just . . . rootlessness and a lack of ambition.”

Something suddenly occurred to her. “You defend them because you’re like them. You have no roots and you like to roam.”

“I defend them because they’re generally good people. Or at least as good as anyone else you run across. That’s the only reason.”

They walked a moment in silence, with him stiff and stony-faced beside her.

“Did I insult you somehow?” she finally ventured.

“Certainly not.”

She had. She was almost sure of it. But uncertain of how, she figured it was better not to press him.

A young woman standing near a tent smiled hesitantly at Zoe, and Tristan halted to question her in Romany. With an apologetic smile, she shook her head. They moved on.

“I take it she knew no Drinas?” Zoe asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

Wanting to banish this tight-lipped, wary Tristan, she said, “I have to admit, your being able to speak their language has been very helpful.” When he cast her a veiled glance, she teased, “Go ahead and gloat. You were right. You were obviously the appropriate choice for this assignment.”

His stiffness finally melted, and he said lightly, “I do so love it when you eat crow, princess.”

“Don’t—”

“Call you that. I know.” He gestured down another winding, muddy path. “I can’t help myself.” He raked her with a sidelong glance that took in every
inch of her. “Especially when you’re dressed like a princess.”