The Dowager's Wager (14 page)

Isabella’s shaking form barely got her to the little chamber she had used earlier to change into her disguise. She collapsed on the narrow cot. Emotions surged through her.
Volatile was the only way to describe what had transpired
between her and Tristan in the conservatory. The encounter
had started well enough. For the most part, she had managed
to keep the upper hand and discourage any further revelation
of her identity. She’d learned plenty from the encounter, but
not all of it was to her liking.

Tristan had told her the rumors were lies but his behavior
tonight had clearly proven otherwise. That bit he did with
her hand, caressing it and divesting it of its glove and then
kissing it had literally sent ripples of sensual delight up her
spine. Alone, the singular move would send most women
into a pleasure-driven swoon. Coupled with his low voice
conveying hot intimacy in every tone, it was a recipe for irresistibility. Tristan’s farewell kiss had nearly been her undo ing. It wouldn’t happen again, she reasoned, putting the rose
back into her hair and smoothing her coiffure. Of course,
that assumed there would be a second time.

She began to strip off her disguise and halted with horror.
The black glove was gone. Tristan had kept it. He’d probably planned that move deliberately to be left with a token of
her visit. What would he do with it? Would he try to blackmail her into revealing her identity? That didn’t make sense.
He couldn’t blackmail her without knowing her. Still, she
didn’t like the thought of him possessing the glove, especially knowing what she knew now.

In hindsight, she was thoroughly scandalized by the way
she’d acted and reacted in the conservatory. Her cheeks
burned with her indiscretion. Had she really said such
things? In all her grown life, she had never behaved in such
a flagrant manner, nor had a gentleman acted so forward
with her. Tristan’s behavior was no less than she deserved.
The kind of woman who bought men clothing and arranged
to meet with them in dark places could only expect to be
treated the way Tristan had treated her. But, dash it all, he
didn’t have to be so very good at it.

Common sense dictated she should call off her charade,
but then she’d not get the answers she needed to the remaining question: what had Tristan been doing on the Continent
all these years? Tonight had proven he hadn’t been soldiering, at least not in the nominal sense. She’d bet whatever it
was had something to do with the attack at the Burtons.

The thought of the attack caused Isabella to strengthen
her resolve. Tristan was in danger. He needed help even if he
admitted it or not. There was no other avenue left for her to
use in order to get close to Tristan. In the old days, it would
have been easy enough to ask Tristan outright and he’d have
told her. But those days were far behind them. Tristan needed her. She would not turn hen-hearted because of one kiss.

The ball was at its zenith when Isabella returned to the
party. Avery Driscoll was waiting for her and she headed
straight for the safe harbor of his presence. Peripherally, she
noted Tristan enter the ballroom from a door near the balcony.
She hoped he wouldn’t join them. She was not ready to
encounter him yet. To ensure that didn’t happen, she smiled
winningly at Avery. “Shall we stroll? I believe you mentioned
earlier you had some news to share with me?” Not even
Tristan would dare to interrupt a tete-a-tete between two close
friends.

Avery Driscoll visibly brightened and inclined his golden
head in acceptance. “I do indeed have news that should
appeal to you,” he began as they walked slowly among the
crowd. “I have completed the purchase of the stud farm not
far from your place in Newmarket”

“Congratulations, that is wonderful to hear.” Isabella was
genuinely happy for him. Avery Driscoll knew horses as
well as she. He was an expert rider and had a solid eye for
prime horseflesh. Avery continued to look at her meaningfully. She had the maggoty notion that the announcement
was a prelude to a more personal conversation.

Avery placed his other kid-gloved hand over hers where
it lay on his sleeve. “I am glad you’re thrilled. I am over the moon about it. I think you know it has been one of my
grandest dreams to establish a superior breeding program.
The price was substantial but it did not beggar me. I am
looking for a stud. I have my eye on Hellion, Middleton’s
stallion.” Isabella began to protest when he raised a hand in
mock surrender. “Don’t cut up at me, let me finish. I know
you have designs on that horse for yourself. I am hoping
we’ll be able to come to an amicable agreement”

Isabella gave a merry laugh. “Absolutely, as long as
Hellion is mine, I will support you completely.” The look on
Avery’s face was priceless. He did his best to hide his consternation at her literal answer and Isabella knew he’d
meant something more by his reference to an “amicable
agreement”

“Lady Westbrooke, may I ask you a bold question?” He’d
returned his hand to cover hers again. Isabella barely hid her
frustration. The persistent man was going to try again. She
liked Avery Driscoll immensely. She had no desire to hurt
his feelings. She nodded politely.

“Lady Westbrooke, I have heard the buzz about town
regarding the flagrant proclivities of Viscount Gresham.
Usually, I believe a man’s business is his own but in this
case, he has implicated you directly. As someone who cares
deeply for you, I find I must ask the nature of your relationship with the viscount.”

Isabella wished she could answer that question. How
could she explain her relationship with Tristan to someone
else when she couldn’t explain it to herself? The response
she gave Avery was as decorous as his request. “Viscount
Gresham’s proclivities, as you delicately put it, are indeed
his own to manage. I daresay in time, the truth will come
out and those who spread the vicious lies will recant. As for
my relationship with him, Gresham has been a long time
friend of my brother’s. They were chums at Eton, you
know. Gresham spent several school vacations at our
place.”

Avery took too much hope from the neutral message. “I am gratified to hear that. I feared it might be otherwise. Now
that the business of the stud farm is completed, I would like
to call on you so that we can discuss other businessanother grand dream as dear to me as the horse farm”

Isabella did her best to fob him off. “As you wish, Lord
Driscoll. Tonight I have no more head for business. I would
like to return to my brother and have him see me home”

Avery was efficient and devoted. Alain was eager to leave.
Between them, they had Isabella ensconced in the Wickham
carriage in no time. Isabella closed her eyes and sank back
against the seat. The evening had been more wearying than
she’d anticipated.

The squabs groaned as Alain settled across from her in
the rear facing seat. “So, am I to anticipate a visit from
Driscoll in the morning?”

Isabella’s eyes flew open. “Whatever makes you think
that?”

Alain undid his cravat in a single, well-executed pull.
“Don’t play the numbskull with me, Bella. You’re not so
addlepated not to know he’s in love with you. One of these
days, he’s going to feel encouraged enough to propose. He’s
bought the horse farm.”

“I know.”

Alain continued. “What will you do? Driscoll’s a good
sort, second son to an earl. There’s a chance he’ll inherit
something from his mother’s side in the way of a title
through a cousinly connection. He loves horses and country
living. The two of you get on well and this time you can
marry where you like, within reason”

“Enough, Alain,” Isabella snapped. “I am in no mood to
discuss a hypothetical proposal tonight.”

Alain stretched his long legs across the carriage and put
his hands behind his head. “Does your waspish mood have
anything to do with Tristan’s disappearance this evening?”

“Why should it? I am tired. It’s been a wearing two weeks
thanks to Tristan’s penchant for landing himself in the suds
and me along with him. Between falling planters and reap pearing lightskirts, it’s been deuced awkward to find him a
wife.”

“Deuced is a man’s term. You shouldn’t use slang.”

“Tristan shouldn’t provoke me to use it!” Isabella shot
back.

“If disappearing with Tristan makes you this peckish, I
hope you don’t indulge in it often”

It had been on the tip of Isabella’s tongue to deny it when
she realized the trap. How did Alain know she’d been with
Tristan? “I was with Driscoll when Tristan left for his
appointment. Shortly after that, I went to the ladies’ retiring
room. I did not disappear with Tristan.”

“I beg your pardon then, my mistake.” Alain slouched in
his seat and closed his eyes. The conversation was over.

Tristan hummed to himself as he unlocked his front door
and stepped inside. The sight greeting him in the dimly lit
foyer brought an immediate halt to his tune. Vases lay shattered on the floor, broken blooms and stems strewn among
the shards of delicate glass. The sight of such wanton
destruction inside his own private residence lit a primitive
fire in him and he began to roar.

“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.