How the Scoundrel Seduces Read online

  “Forget the legalities! I’m still your blood. So is Lisette.”

  George went rigid. “Only because of an accident of birth. You are nothing to me. And I want you out of this house now! ”

  When Tristan just stood there, George strode past him into the hall. “Hucker!”

  Tristan tensed. The brutish man of affairs was always at George’s beck and call, and John Hucker appeared in the doorway within moments.

  “The doctor ain’t arrived yet, master—”

  “It’s ‘my lord’ now, if you please,” George clipped out.

  That seemed to shake even Hucker. He glanced beyond Tristan to the bed and paled. “I see.”

  “Take this bastard,” George went on, “and get him out of my sight. I don’t want him within a mile of this place.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” Hucker squared his shoulders, then approached Tristan with a frightening deadness in his features. “Come along now, boy. You heard the master . . . I mean, his lordship.”

  Tristan glared at George. “You haven’t seen the last of me. I’ll make you pay for this if it takes the rest of my life.”

  “Get him out of here, damn it!” George ordered Hucker.

  When Hucker took Tristan’s arm, Tristan wrenched free. “I’m going.” Then he marched into the hall.

  As he strode downstairs, each echoing step further fueling his anger, he could hear Hucker following him. To hell with George and Hucker! And to hell with Father, too, who’d neglected his duty to his children until it was too late.

  Instantly, guilt seized Tristan. What was wrong with him to be thinking ill of Father, who wasn’t even cold in the grave? None of this was Father’s fault. It was George’s, all George’s.

  Once outside, Tristan expected Hucker to let him go on alone, but the infernal arse fell into step beside him, swinging a lantern at his side.

  “You don’t have to dog my steps back to the cottage,” Tristan grumbled. “I can find my own way in the moonlight. Leave me be, damn it.”

  “If his lordship says he wants you a mile off, then I’m making sure you’re a mile off.”

  “Shall we hunt up a yardstick so you can measure?” Tristan snapped.

  Hucker said nothing, just kept stubbornly beside Tristan the whole way across the lawn.

  Hucker had once been a halfway decent fellow, back when he’d worked for Father as house steward. George was already in school and Dom was still at home, so Hucker used to sneak treats to Tristan and Dom whenever they set out for their adventures in the cave near Flamborough Head. It was Hucker who’d taught Tristan the rudiments of accounting, Hucker who’d given Tristan his first cigarillo at the tender age of eight.

  Then George had come home after finishing at Harrow. While Father had been on one of his trips, leaving George in charge, George had promoted Hucker to his personal man of affairs and everything had changed.

  Now Hucker was as mean as George. Dom liked to say Hucker had been infected with the George and wasn’t likely to recover.

  “I don’t know how you can work for him,” Tristan said. “He’s a cheat and a liar.”

  “He’s the master. I do as I’m told.” Hucker slanted a glance at him. “If you was wise, you’d do as you’re told, too. There’s naught to be gained from going against him. You ought to have learnt that by now.”

  “So I’m supposed to forget that he stole my inheritance from me, that he means to destroy my family?”

  Hucker didn’t even ask him to explain. “You’re a bastard. There weren’t much chance for you anyway. It’s just how things are.”

  Tristan was well used to being called a bastard, but the fact that Hucker could be so cold stoked his temper. They were passing the stables now, and Tristan tensed. Blue Blazes was in there. His Blue Blazes. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair, damn it!

  They were halfway to the cottage when Hucker finally left him. Tristan walked only far enough to be out of the wretch’s sight. Perhaps he should wait for Dom to arrive, in order to warn him about what George had done.

  Then what? George was right about Dom siding with his legitimate brother. Dom had no choice; as long as he stood with George, he’d be safe. And it wasn’t as if Dom could do anything to help them. He had no property of his own.

  Which meant that Tristan and his family would starve. The cottage belonged to the Rathmoor Park estate, as did most everything in it. Bloody hell, if George wanted to, he could throw them out tomorrow.

  How were they to live? Where could they go?

  The sound of violins drifted to him through the forest, jerking him from his dark thoughts. It was the Gypsies—or as they preferred to call themselves, the Romany people. Having a nomadic spirit himself, Father had always allowed them to camp on the land, but that would no doubt change once George was in charge. They, too, would be kicked out, if not tomorrow, then soon. Perhaps he should warn them.

  He headed through the forest toward their campfires. At least his friend Milosh Corrie, the horse trader, would understand the injustice of his losing Blue Blazes. Milosh appreciated the beauty and spirit of such a beast.

  Damn George. All right, so perhaps Tristan could never have afforded to keep Blue Blazes, but he still could have sold the horse to Milosh for a good price, and then . . .

  That stopped Tristan in his tracks. Milosh would be eager to buy such a fine gelding. He’d have the money for it, too, perhaps enough to enable them all to live until Tristan could find work. And the horse was Tristan’s by right, no matter what George said. If Tristan took it, he’d only be honoring Father’s wishes.

  He could do it without being suspected. The grooms would be having supper. He could be in and out with Blue Blazes while they were still above the stables. If he left the stall door open, they’d think the gelding had wandered out.

  It could be done . . . but only if he went now. And only if he convinced Milosh to buy what the world would consider a stolen horse.

  I promised him to . . . your half brother last year. Tristan picked the Thoroughbred for me, so the lad should . . . have him.

  Father’s words decided him. To hell with the world and its unfair laws. Blue Blazes was his, damn it. So only he had the right to decide the horse’s fate.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  AN HOUR LATER, Tristan watched as Milosh evaluated the gelding. The Gypsy had seen Blue Blazes before, but never up close and never long enough to make an assessment.

  Milosh leveled Tristan with a wary gaze. “He’s yours. Your father gave him to you.”

  Time to own up to what he’d done. He refused to risk his friend’s life—Milosh would have to go into this knowing everything.

  Swiftly he recounted the evening’s events. When he was done, Milosh muttered a few words in Romany. Tristan had picked up some from spending time with the Gypsies, so he recognized the meaning as “reckless idiot.”

  Tristan gazed steadily at the man who, though only a couple of years older than he, was as accomplished at buying, trading, and training horses as any chap Tristan had ever seen. “I can take Blue Blazes back if you want. Leave him near the stables for the grooms to find.”

  That seemed to give Milosh pause. He obviously wanted the Thoroughbred. “Your half brother will have anyone hanged who’s found with the beast.”

  “Then make sure you’re not. Decamp at first light. You’re going to have to leave anyway—George will never let you stay. By the time he realizes that Blue Blazes is gone, you and your people will be long gone, too, and no one will think anything of it, given George’s dislike of Gypsies.”

  “They’ll think we stole the horse.”

  “They’ll think I stole him, but they won’t be able to prove it. Because Blue Blazes will have vanished.”

  Rubbing his bearded chin, Milosh examined the horse again. “You’re sure no one saw you take him.”

  Tristan thought of the noise he’d heard near the stable as he’d left, then dismissed it. It had just been a dog. “Yes. I’m sure. There would
have been a hue and cry. Besides, Hucker escorted me off the grounds himself. If something happens, he’ll be the first person George blames.”

  Milosh’s lips tightened into a line. “He’ll simply lie about it.”

  “To George, you mean?”

  “To George, for George. Either way, Hucker can’t be trusted.”

  The conviction in his voice gave Tristan pause. “Why do you say that?”

  Milosh’s gaze grew shuttered. “You know it’s true.”

  “Yes, but it sounds as if you’ve had firsthand experience with it.” Tristan searched Milosh’s face. “If you know of a time when Hucker lied for George over something important, especially if it’s something I could use against George—”

  “What do you want for the horse?” Milosh asked bluntly.

  Tristan stared hard at him, but Milosh clearly wasn’t going to explain. The Gypsies could be a secretive lot, even with someone they liked. After all, Tristan was still a gadjo—a non-Gypsy.

  Tristan muttered an oath. “Two hundred and fifty pounds. He’s worth five hundred, so you’ll make a tidy profit.”

  “Only if people know his bloodlines, but I can’t sell him as Blue Blazes. Then there’s the risk I take by keeping him until we’re far enough away to be sure no potential buyer knows of his disappearance.” He shot Tristan a canny glance. “I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty and not a penny more. And only because it’s you.”

  “And because it will be a slap in the face to George. And to Hucker.”

  Milosh conceded the point with a tight nod.

  A hundred and fifty pounds would support his family in York for a couple of years and give him time to find work.

  He took one last longing glance at the horse he would dearly have loved to keep, then held out his hand. “Done.”

  Milosh shook it. “I hope you don’t live to regret this, my friend.”

  “I won’t. I have to take care of Mother and Lisette somehow. Because as soon as George is declared the heir, we’ll have nothing and nowhere to go. And I can’t let that happen.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE NEXT NIGHT, a sober Tristan stood on the beach at Flamborough Head with his mother and sister. He’d gambled and lost. He still had the money Milosh had given him, but now he was running for his life, his family with him. Because it had not been a dog he’d heard outside the stables—it had been some man who’d identified Tristan as having stolen the horse.

  George was scouring the countryside for him and Blue Blazes, Mother and Lisette had been kicked out of the cottage, and they’d had to use part of the money to purchase secret passage to Biarritz, France, so they could go by land from there to Toulon, where Mother’s family lived. Because George was already trying to get him hanged.

  Staring over at his mother’s grief-stricken expression, he swallowed hard. She’d lost her home and her true love all in one day, and he was responsible for at least half of that.

  Lisette slipped her hand into his and squeezed. “It’ll be all right, Tristan,” she whispered. “Dom says he’ll write to us faithfully to let us know what’s going on. And surely one day we’ll be able to return.”

  Tristan winced. That was the worst of it. Dom had not sided with George. Dom had sided with them, and it had cost him everything. And all because of Tristan’s rash theft.

  No, damn it! Because their negligent father hadn’t bothered to update his will after Dom was born, which was why George had been able to burn the codicil and leave Dom and the rest of them penniless. Even if Tristan hadn’t stolen the horse, George would have kicked them out. They’d still have ended up having to leave the cottage with nothing, just not so soon.

  And though they could have stayed in England, what good would that have done them? George would never allow Dom to give them one penny, so they would have lost everything anyway.

  Father’s words came to him: Up to you . . . to take care of . . . your mother and sister. You’re . . . the man of the house now.

  Yes, he was. And he’d done what he must to make sure they could survive until he found work. The true villain in this was George.

  Squaring his shoulders, Tristan stared out over the waters that would soon separate him from the only home he knew. It didn’t matter. He would endure. They would all endure, even if he had to work like an ox to manage it.

  But no one was ever getting the better of him or his family again. He would learn how to maneuver in this stupid, treacherous world however he could. He would learn how to fight, and he would learn how to win.

  Then one day he would return to Yorkshire with all his newfound knowledge. And when he did, George had best watch out. Because Tristan would make his half brother pay for his villainy if it was the last thing he ever did.

  1

  London

  February 1829

  WHEN THE HACKNEY halted, Lady Zoe Keane drew her veil aside and peered out the murky window to survey the building standing opposite the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.

  This couldn’t be Manton’s Investigations. It was too plain and ordinary for the famous Duke’s Men, for pity’s sake! No horses standing at the ready to dash off to danger? No imposing sign with gilt lettering?

  “Are you sure these are their offices?” she asked Ralph, her footman, as he helped her out.

  “Aye, milady. It’s the address you gave me: 29 Bow Street.”

  When the brittle cold needled her cheeks, she adjusted her veil over her face. She mustn’t be recognized entering an office full of men, and certainly not this office. “It doesn’t look right, somehow.”

  “Or safe.” He glanced warily at the rough neighborhood. “If your father knew I’d brought you to such a low part of town he’d kick me out the door, he would.”

  “No, indeed. I would never allow that.” As Mama used to say, a lady got what she wanted by speaking with authority . . . even if her knees were knocking beneath her wool gown. “Besides, how will he find out? You accompanied me on my walk in St. James Park, that’s all. He’ll never learn any different.”

  He mustn’t, because he would almost certainly guess why she’d sought an investigator. Then, like the former army major he was, he would institute draconian measures to keep her close.

  “I shan’t be here long,” she told Ralph. “We’ll easily arrive home in time for dinner, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “If you say so, milady.”

  “I do appreciate this, you know. I’d never wish for you to get into trouble.”

  He sighed. “I know, milady.”

  She meant it, too. She liked Ralph, who’d served as her personal footman ever since Mama’s death last winter. From the beginning, he’d felt sorry for Zoe, “the poor motherless lass.” And if sometimes she shamelessly used that to her advantage, it was only because she had no choice. Time was running out. She’d already had to wait months for Papa to bring her and Aunt Flo to London so she could maneuver this secret meeting.

  They mounted the steps, and Ralph knocked on the door. Then they waited. And waited. She adjusted her cloak, shifted her reticule to her other hand, stamped snow off her boots.

  At last the door opened to reveal a gaunt fellow, wearing an antiquated suit of cobalt-blue silk and a puce waistcoat, who appeared to be headed out.

  “Mr. Shaw!” she cried, both startled and delighted to see him again so soon.

  He peered at her veiled face. “Do I know you, madam?”

  “It’s ‘your ladyship,’ if you please,” Ralph corrected him.

  As Mr. Shaw bristled, Zoe jumped in. “We haven’t been introduced, sir, but I saw you in Much Ado about Nothing last night and thought you were marvelous. I’ve never witnessed an actor play Dogberry so feelingly.”

  His demeanor softened. “And who might you be?”

  “I’m Lady Zoe Keane, and I’m scheduled to meet with the Duke’s Men at three P.M.”

  It wasn’t too much of a lie. A few months ago she’d caught the well-known investigators orchestrating a fak
e theft in order to capture a kidnapper. In exchange for her silence, they’d agreed to do her a favor at some future date.

  That date was now.

  She only hoped they remembered. Mr. Dominick Manton, the owner, and Mr. Victor Cale, one of his men, both seemed responsible fellows who would honor their promises.

  Mr. Tristan Bonnaud, however . . .

  She tensed. That bullying scoundrel had caught her by surprise, and she hated that. Why, he hadn’t even wanted to agree to the bargain! No telling what he would do if things were left to him.

  “Have you just been here to see the investigators?” she asked Mr. Shaw, who continued to block their way in.

  He grimaced. “Alas, no. Since ‘all the world is a stage,’ I am employed here as well as in the theater. I serve as butler and sometime clerk to Mr. Manton.”

  Oh, dear. She only hoped he wasn’t privy to his employer’s meeting schedule. “In that case, perhaps you should announce me.” When he stiffened, she added hastily, “I would be most honored. What a pity that I didn’t expect you to be here, for then I could have brought my playbill for you to autograph.”

  Given how he arched his eyebrows, that was probably laying it on a bit thick. “What a pity indeed,” he said, but ushered them inside.

  Removing her cloak and veiled hat, she surveyed the foyer. This was more like what she’d expected: simple but elegant mahogany furniture, a beautiful if inexpensive Spanish rug, and nice damask draperies of a pale yellow. The décor could use a bit of dash—perhaps some ancient daggers on the walls for effect—but then, she always liked more dash than other people.

  Besides, the newspapers told enough daring tales about the Duke’s Men to make up for any lack of dash in their offices. Supposedly they could find anyone anywhere. She dearly hoped that was true.

  “I don’t believe the gentlemen are present at the moment.” Mr. Shaw kept eyeing the front door with a peculiar expression of longing. “They must have forgotten your appointment. Perhaps you should return later.”