The Dowager's Wager (17 page)

It was complicated further when a note arrived at the town house an hour later from the secret admirer. She wanted to meet again that evening at the Fillmore soiree.

Isabella knew the Fillmore’s house well. There were not
many secret places to meet, so she had sent word to
Gresham that his admirer would await him in the garden
near the cupid fountain. She drew her heavy velvet cloak
about her as she took a seat on the stone bench. Already she
was chilled. Perhaps it had been foolish to meet in the freezing, deserted garden. The cupid fountain dripped icicles and
she shivered despite the warmth of her cloak. There had
been no other choice. The interior of the house was not suited for a clandestine meeting. No one would be in the garden
and the garden was dark, two factors which doubly recommended the place. The only light touching it came from the
drawing room where everyone was gathered. She could
stand in plain sight on one of the paths and no one would be
able to see her.

Isabella mentally added unsafe to her list of adjectives
describing her choice of meeting places. If anyone intent on
foul deeds was prowling the grounds they’d have no trouble
taking her at unawares and going unnoticed by the throng of
people one hundred yards away.

She hadn’t wanted to play the admirer again. The first
meeting had shaken her sensibilities greatly. A large part of
her wanted to live in ignorant bliss about Tristan’s past. After
his proposal today, that was no longer an option. If she was
going to bind her life to his in marriage, she had to know the
truth. She would be terribly crushed if she walked into such
a relationship without her eyes wide open. Tonight, she
would push him for the vital answers she needed.

Isabella had thought her senses were keenly alert in the
darkness but she didn’t hear Tristan approach until he was
behind her, so close his breath felt warm against her neck in
startling contrast to the cold. She jumped and bit back a startled scream.

“Ma cherie, that should teach you a lesson for choosing such shadowy places to meet,” he said in a low tone that
was at once both sinister and seductive. “I am surprised to
see you here so early. Have you been waiting long?” He
took her gloved hands in his and sat beside her on the stone
bench. “Your hands are chilled. Silk gloves are no protection against the cold,” he scolded gently, chafing them in
his own warm hands. Isabella wondered if he would notice
the gloves were new since he now possessed the mate to her
other set.

“Are you not cold?” Isabella asked, noting that he wore
only his dark evening coat. She knew from personal association that he was a veritable furnace, his body usually generating an inhuman amount of heat, but even against the
wintry chill of the evening he must feel some discomfort.

He shook his head. “How can I be cold when I have such
a companion to warm me with her presence? To what ends
shall we put this meeting of ours?”

Isabella jerked her hand from his, immediately feeling the
loss of his heat, and stood up. “Save your flattery and glib
tongue for the young debutantes,” she snapped.

Tristan laughed softly in the darkness and stretched out
his long legs. “I propose a game. Are you familiar with the
story of Rumpelstiltskin?”

“The children’s tale? Yes,” Isabella replied warily.

“The miller’s daughter does not keep her promise and
Rumpelstiltskin allows her to forego her obligation to him if
she can guess his name in three evenings.” Tristan continued. “A variation of the same game would suit us well. I had
hoped you’d reveal yourself to me, so we would be done
with black cloaks and veils, but I see that we are not. If I
guess your name, you must confess all.” He was leaning
close to her, the smell of peppermints on his breath. “You
may ask three questions of me tonight. For every question
you ask, I get to make a guess as to your name”

Isabella gave a haughty laugh that suggested more confidence than she felt. “What do I get if you fail?”

Tristan reached into a pocket and pulled out a long silk glove with pearl buttons. “This. I believe you left it at our
last encounter.”

Isabella instinctively reached for it but he held it out of
her grasp and laughed. “I will most likely fail in my task.
Three names are not that many. The glove shall be yours
soon enough. Come and sit with me then and let us discuss
ourselves. Despite your insinuation at our last meeting that
we are not strangers, I find it quite disconcerting that you
know me and I do not know anything of you. I shall bide my
time. Ladies first, ask your question.”

What was it Amy had advised when this charade had
begun? Get a man to talk about himself? Isabella put some
distance between them on the bench. “Tell me about your
work in France. It sounds very dangerous.”

Tristan folded his arms, his posture alert. “I was a reconnaissance officer. I scouted out the enemy before battles in
order to determine their strength, size and location.”

That was it? That’s all he had to say? Isabella’s shoulders
sagged in disappointed. Didn’t he know this was his chance
to impress her with his military career? He was supposed to
have more to say than that.

Daringly, Isabella leaned forward and traced his cheek
with a soft silk clad finger. “You did that for seven years. You
must have been quite good at it. Were you ever in jeopardy?
You must have exciting stories to tell.”

“Is that your second question?”

“I expected to have you say more than two sentences. It
hardly seems fair to get so little for one’s question,” Isabella
complained.

“Our rules didn’t suggest that I had to give my life’s history in order for the answer to be complete,” Tristan countered smoothly. “Now, here’s my first guess: Cynthia.”

Isabella let out a breath. “No. Second question, who is
Beatrix Smallwood to you?”

“Are we jealous, ma cherie?” Tristan tut-tutted.

“Absolutely not, I am merely curious as to the nature of
my rival.”

“Mrs. Smallwood is an old acquaintance. We have our
Continental experiences in common. Perhaps she believes
there is more between us than there is. Your shoulders sag. I
see you’re disappointed in my answer. Would you like it better if I told you a sordid tale about our history together?”

“Of course not!” Isabella replied hotly. “Why would you
think that?”

“I imagine you have your own expectations regarding me.
I’d hate to not live up to the incredibly low opinions currently circulating about my war record”

“Are those opinions the truth then?”

“Is that your third question?”

“Yes,” Isabella said crossly. “I am capable of counting.”

“Then you’ll appreciate the fact that I allowed you an
extra question. Don’t forget I have two guesses owing to
me” Tristan was smug. “As to an answer, I can only say that
most lies spring from some nugget of truth.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“My answer. Now-” Tristan didn’t get any further.

“Oh, I say! I am sorry I didn’t know anyone was there” A
voice broke into their trysting place. The voice sounded far
too contrived to convince Isabella the intruder had been startled by his immediate discovery. This voice belonged to
someone who’d been watching, at least briefly, and it sounded familiar.

How much had the intruder heard? She wasn’t worried as
much for herself as she was for Tristan. The intruder could
tell nothing of her identity under her wraps but perhaps he
would make something ludicrous out of Tristan’s veiled
statements. To his credit, Tristan rose from the bench and
stepped in front of her, effectively blocking the intruder’s
view of her. He strode forward and clapped the man on the
shoulder with great bonhomie and steered him back towards
the drawing room. Isabella could hear traces of their conversation as they walked away.

“Gresham, it is you, you old devil! I couldn’t see well
enough in the darkness but I am not surprised. I came out side for some fresh air, but instead I run across your little
liaison with your secret admirer. Lud, you have all the luck.
Do you know who it is yet?” The intruder rambled on.
“You’re a bold one, Gresham, carrying on like that and not
even knowing who’s under the covers”

“Does it really matter, Middleton?” Tristan said rather
coldly.

Male laughter floated back to Isabella. “I suppose it
doesn’t, Gresham. They’re all the same in the dark”

Isabella grabbed a handful of rocks and threw them at the
fence in frustration. Of all the gall! How could Tristan hoax
her like this? Truly, he was a rogue of the first water to play
with her the way he had at the pond. It was utterly vile to toy
with her affections by pretending such sincerity as he had
shown this afternoon, and then jaunt off to meet with an
anonymous woman of purportedly brazen character hours
later. It was entirely unconscionable. She couldn’t imagine
what would compel such behavior. Unless, she had it backwards and for some unfathomable reason the show he’d put
on tonight was the lie. If that was the case, she was no closer to knowing.

Tristan gave the amber liquid in his snifter a distracted
swirl. His feet rested on the fireplace fender. He registered
the long case clock chiming two hours after midnight in the
hall. He should try and sleep but his mind was not tired. He
had come home early from the Fillmore soiree, disconsolate
and confused. After he had walked Middleton back inside he
had returned to the bench and found it empty. He had suspected he would. The admirer was gone as was any chance
to confirm her identity.

Several things bothered him about the admirer.
Instinctively, he felt he should know her. She had mannerisms and other characteristics that he knew.

In his line of work, he’d learned to rely on all of his senses. Methodically, he dissected the information he knew
about her according to each sense. She was taller than most
women. Beneath her voluminous cloak, she seemed to have
a slender, athletic frame. But to rely on sight alone exposed
one to lies. Anyone could disguise his or her physical
appearance. Her heavy veil had concealed a good look at her
eyes and totally distorted the proportions of her face. Her
voice was husky and deliberately pitched low. The attempt
to match the voice did not fool Tristan in the least. Her true
voice would sound much different. There weren’t many clues in the sight and sound of her. The chinks in her disguise were in her touch and her smell.

Touch conveyed all manner of secrets people wanted to
keep hidden. He hadn’t wanted to act the forward rogue and
practice seduction on her, but it was a surefire way to know
what her touch revealed. She had wanted to appear sophisticated and worldly to him. Her touches would have been bold
if she’d been comfortable carrying them off. She was not.
When things were getting interesting, she’d stopped his
hand and push against his chest, just as Isabella had in the
park.

His thoughts drifted to Isabella, testing the similarities.
The names he’d guessed were the names of two women
present at the Fillmore soiree who seemed most likely to
engage in borderline behavior, but they had not necessarily
fit the description he had concocted of the secret admirer.
Isabella was tall and moved with an athletic agility. Isabella
had used the same gesture. Isabella lacked the true worldliness she affected so well. Isabella smelled of roses. That was
the clincher.

People could often manufacture any nature of visual disguise, but smell was more difficult to overcome, usually
because people overlooked the reality that they carried with
them a unique smell that marked them as individuals. One
of the many sobriquets Tristan had acquired on the
Continent in quieter, darker circles was “bloodhound.” The
first question he asked about the people he tracked was
“what do they smell like?” People might layer their scents,
cover them up with other smells, but they couldn’t subdue
them entirely. The admirer had smelled of vanilla under
which was the scent of roses. Isabella preferred to bath in
rosewater, it was one of her signature trademarks.

He wanted to reject the notion that Isabella was the
unwanted admirer, but how could he deny the facts? Why
would Isabella insinuate herself into such a precarious situation? The motivations and their consequences were sinister. Perhaps she was looking for answers to his past? She had indicated on several occasions that those answers were
important to her. If so, it was no wonder she’d shown such
hesitation over his proposal today. She was aware of his
duality but not the cause for it. She wanted to know which
Tristan Moreland was real; the one who spoke of friendship and honesty in the afternoons or the one who met with
outrageous women in dark rooms at parties. His heart
lurched at the thought she might pick the wrong identity to
believe.

That was the least of his worries. The other motivation
was more severe. Perhaps she posed as the admirer to protect Alain. He had been with her at the Briarton winter ball
at the same time his town house had been broken into. Had
she been the decoy to ensure that he’d be occupied while
Alain slipped away? He definitely remembered Alain being
absent after his arrival at the ball. Briarton House was only
a few blocks from his mansion. It wasn’t unseemly that
Alain had slipped out a back garden gate and covered the
distance in a few short minutes.