Dorinda and the Doctor Page 5

  God save him from silly young ladies of rank. With nothing better to do than attend balls and flirt, they created dramatic tragedies in their lives to make up for the fact that they were bored.

  When she bristled, Dom murmured, “Tristan, do attempt not to be rude.”

  “I’m merely stating facts. Thanks to her ladyship’s recklessness, we now have to waste our time satisfying her ridiculous favor.”

  He could ill afford the time, too. Ever since Dom and the duke had engineered his safe return to En­gland, Tristan had been itching to wreak his vengeance on George by finding something to ruin the arse. Having discovered nothing in London, he needed to investigate near Ashcroft and Rathmoor Park. And perhaps search for Milosh, since the horse trader had hinted years ago of some secret about George.

  “We promised Lady Zoe that we’d help her,” Dom pointed out.

  “On an obviously frivolous wild-goose chase,” Tristan said in a hard voice. “What she wants will tie us up when we already have more cases than we can handle. Well-paying cases, I might add.”

  “If this is about money,” she put in, “I do mean to pay you.”

  That arrested them both.

  “Then . . . er . . . how exactly is this a favor?” Dom asked.

  She arched one silky brown eyebrow. “Do you generally do investigations for unmarried young ladies, paid or otherwise, without the knowledge or consent of their families?”

  “Not usually,” Dom admitted.

  “That’s the favor.”

  Tristan exchanged a glance with his brother. That altered matters, making this both more palatable and infinitely riskier.

  “Still,” Dom said, “my brother does have a point. Have you any legitimate reason to believe that your parents are other than Lord Olivier and his late wife?”

  She sighed. “Sadly, I do. It’s a bit complicated, and I hardly know where I should start.”

  “At the beginning, Lady Zoe,” Dom said gently.

  “Good idea,” Tristan said, less gently.

  Dom was generally the one to handle clients, because he considered Tristan’s approach to be . . . problematic. Since men of rank were invariably hiding something and Tristan had no patience for liars, he liked to provoke them until they revealed the truth. It had always worked for him as an agent for the secret police in France.

  But aristocrats had little power there. Here, they were petty tyrants. Which was why Dom’s more circumspect approach was infinitely more politic.

  With Lady Zoe, however, Tristan didn’t care about being politic. She’d played a dangerous game by blackmailing them, and she was damned lucky that they were gentlemen. It had been madness for a fetching filly like her to make demands of a group of armed men.

  And God help her, she was fetching, despite the unusually busy pattern of her red wool gown. Nipped in at the waist to accentuate her lush figure, it fit her very well—too well for his sanity.

  Then there was her generous red mouth that made him think of raspberries, juicy and sweet to the taste. Not to mention her thick coil of chestnut hair garnished with a fringe of ringlets about the face. He had an errant urge to unwind that coil just to see how far it would fall.

  He scowled. What was wrong with him? So what if she was pretty? She was also an innocent. An annoying, incredibly reckless innocent, to be sure, but he drew the line at ruining innocents, no matter how reckless.

  Eyeing him warily, she drew in a deep breath. “A few years ago, before Mama first fell ill, Mama’s sister—my aunt Floria—and Papa took it into their heads that I should marry my cousin Jeremy Keane.”

  “The American artist?” Dom asked.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Who hasn’t? My new brother-in-law, the duke, can’t stop talking about Keane’s upcoming exhibition at the Society of British Artists in Suffolk Street. I understand that the king himself has acquired two of his historical paintings for the palace, and Max is determined to buy one himself.”

  “Yes,” she said irritably, “apparently my cousin is very good at what he does. But that doesn’t mean I wish to marry him. I’ve never even met him, for pity’s sake! Besides, what could he possibly know about running an estate or serving as my representative in the House of Lords or—”

  “Wait a minute,” Tristan interrupted. “You’re a woman. What have you to do with the House of Lords?”

  “Ah yes, old boy,” Dom put in, “I don’t suppose that’s something you’d be familiar with. Lady Zoe is that rare thing in England—heiress to a title in her own right. When her father dies, she will become the Countess of Olivier no matter whom she marries. Or even if she marries.”

  That stunned him. He’d never heard of such a thing. But perhaps he’d misunderstood. “If she gets her own title, why can’t she sit in Parliament like the other lords?”

  “You said it yourself,” she cut in. “I’m a woman. And even women with titles aren’t allowed to sit in Parliament. I would need a representative.”

  “Like a husband.” Dom stared at the young woman. “You are first in line for the title and the estate, I take it?”

  She nodded. “Mr. Keane is my second cousin; he would be next if something happened to me.”

  “It’s not unusual for a father to want his daughter to marry the male heir if he has no sons,” Dom said. “But in your case—”

  “There’s no need,” she finished. “Since I inherit regardless of my choice of husband, I ought to be able to marry whomever I please.” A frown knit her brow. “That is, assuming there’s no challenge to my bloodline.”

  “Ah. I begin to see your concern,” Dom said. “The fact that your father is pushing this cousin on you has made you curious about his reasons. Is that it?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s more than that.” She clutched her reticule tightly. “Shortly after I turned nineteen and was presented at court, Mama fell ill. That put a halt to my season before I even had time to receive offers of marriage. Aunt Flo and I were too engrossed in taking care of Mama to worry about balls and such.”

  She rose, clearly agitated, and began to pace before the desk. “After she died, her loss was too new for me to endure another season, so we put it off a year. It was only last autumn, a few weeks before the house party at Kinlaw Castle, that we started preparing for me to have a full season this spring. And that’s when Aunt Flo made her revelation.”

  “That your parents aren’t really your parents,” Tristan said, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice.

  “Exactly. My aunt and I were discussing my cousin’s impending trip to London, and she started instructing me in how to behave around him.” She looked suddenly self-conscious. “She thinks I’m too . . . ­impulsive.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Tristan muttered, “when you do things like ride off into the woods after gentlemen in pursuit of a thief.”

  “Now see here,” she retorted, rounding on him, “I did that because I was hoping I could help somehow, and then you gentlemen would be so grateful that you would agree to take on my case.”

  That brought him up short. It put a slightly different slant on her actions, made them seem more calculated than reckless.

  If he could believe her. “That’s not what you said when you confronted us. You said you wanted to see ‘the great Duke’s Men in action.’ Those were your exact words.”

  Dom shot him a bemused glance. “How odd that you remember them after all this time.”

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I always do,” Dom said with a shrug. “You’re generally better at ferreting out the meaning behind the words.”

  “Is he really?” she broke in. “Then he ought to realize that I couldn’t have revealed my real purpose at the time. You three were in the midst of some scheme, and I didn’t want to muck with your plans.”

/>   “No, just get something out of them for yourself,” Tristan said.

  “Can you blame me?” She met his gaze with rank belligerence. “Sometimes a woman must resort to subterfuge to get things done.”

  Dom chuckled. “You must admit, old boy, that she has a point. Our sister has been saying the same thing for years.”

  “That’s different,” he said grimly. “Lisette wasn’t born a fine lady. She knows how to take care of herself in a pinch.”

  “As I recall,” Dom countered, “that’s not what you claimed when you asked me to bring her back to En­gland last year and get her a husband.”

  “It worked, didn’t it? She snagged herself a duke.”

  “Yes, no thanks to either of us,” Dom said. “And Lady Zoe’s plan worked, too. In fact, it took rather quick thinking to come up with it.”

  Much as Tristan hated to admit it, his brother was right. Once Lady Zoe had realized the situation, she’d handled matters admirably. Any other fine lady would have fainted or some such rot. Lady Zoe had faced them all down and used the circumstances to get what she wanted.

  Just as a man might. But then, she’d been born to a title and an estate like a man; that had to have shaped her character. And if she proved not to be the heir after all . . .

  He shook off that thought. He doubted that her parents could have hidden such a monumental secret from the world. “So, when exactly did your aunt make her grand revelation?” he asked, determined to get on with this nonsense.

  Her withering stare amused him. She was so easy to provoke. Which meant he might actually get the truth out of her.

  “It was after I lost my temper and told Aunt Flo I would never marry Mr. Keane. I pointed out that an American couldn’t possibly appreciate Winborough and all it stood for, so she could just forget any union between us.”

  Dropping abruptly into the chair, she folded her hands in her lap. “That’s when she said I had to marry my cousin. Because if anyone ever found out that I wasn’t really my parents’ daughter, I would lose all claim to the title and the estate. But if I married Mr. Keane, Winborough would be protected for our children even if my cousin learned the truth, since our son or daughter would inherit either way.”

  “Ah,” Dom said. “Did your aunt explain why she thought you weren’t your parents’ daughter?”

  “That’s the complicated part.” She fiddled nervously with her reticule. “Several months before my birth, my parents took a long trip to America to visit my cousin’s branch of the family and then tour the rest of the country. I was born on their voyage home. At least that’s what Mama wrote to Aunt Flo upon their return.”

  “But your aunt found that suspicious,” Dom said.

  Lady Zoe nodded. “Mama and Papa had been married for six years by then, so Aunt Flo couldn’t believe Mama would have waited until after I was born to share the joyous news that she was finally with child.”

  That gave Tristan pause. There was a certain logic to her aunt’s assumptions.

  Her jaw tightened. “When Aunt Flo came to visit, she badgered my mother into admitting the truth—that Mama had never been with child at all. Instead, Papa had bought me from a Gypsy woman on the road home from the coast.”

  A stunned silence fell on the room.

  Then Tristan shoved away from the wall. “Oh, for God’s sake, a Gypsy would never sell her babe.”

  To think he’d actually begun to be swayed by her tale! But her claptrap about the Romany indicated the same narrow-minded ignorance drummed into her sort from birth. George used to spout it himself to justify his mistreatment of Milosh and his friends.

  The memory lent an edge to Tristan’s voice. “She certainly wouldn’t sell her baby to a gadjo. The Romany prefer their own way of living to ours. There’s no way in hell a Gypsy would offer her child to an Englishwoman under any circumstances. It simply wouldn’t happen.”

  Lady Zoe looked taken aback by his vitriol. Then her manner grew defensive. “Mama told Aunt Flo that the Gypsy woman had been badly beaten. The woman’s husband hadn’t wanted the child and had knocked her about, so she’d decided to get rid of the baby to avoid further beatings.”

  “More nonsense,” he growled. “The Romany don’t generally beat their women. Rot like that is spread by landowners who don’t understand Gypsies.”

  “Aunt Flo said—”

  “Your aunt Flo is clearly a fool!” He strode up to loom over her. “Or a liar. She probably invented the whole thing just to get you to marry that artist fellow.”

  Paling, the young woman rose. “I considered that, actually. Especially after she begged me not to mention it to Papa. But of course I could not let it rest.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” Tristan muttered.

  She ignored him. “I demanded the truth from Papa. He was clearly shaken, but insisted there was no truth to tell.” A shuddering breath escaped her. “That’s when I knew something wasn’t right. And when I asked for details of my birth, he abruptly ended the conversation. He said there was nothing more to discuss, and that I must never mention the matter again.”

  Damn. That did sound odd.

  “A few hours later,” Lady Zoe went on, “Papa brought Aunt Flo to me and urged her to speak the truth. She said she shouldn’t have told me what she had. That she’d only meant to convince me to marry Mr. Keane.”

  “You see?” Tristan said, a trifle snidely. “Yet you chose not to believe her, just as you chose not to believe your father.”

  When Lady Zoe’s eyes met his, their fathomless sorrow caught him entirely off guard. “Oh, but I did believe her. Because Aunt Flo never lies. And nothing she said contradicted her earlier revelation. She expressed regret at having told me, which I’m sure was the case. And she explained that she’d only meant to further her aim to see me married to my cousin, which is undoubtedly true, too. The one thing she didn’t do was take back her story.”

  He stared her down. “You’re playing with words now.”

  “As was my aunt. She wanted to preserve Papa’s secrets, while also impressing upon me how much is at stake if I don’t marry my cousin. Of that, I am sure.”

  “But naught else?” Dom interrupted. “Because you’re here asking for our help. And if you were sure of the truth, you would marry your cousin and be done with it.”

  The pink flush that stole over her cheeks made Tristan’s breath sharpen. Lady Zoe might be trouble, but she was a very pretty trouble. How irritating that he kept noticing it.

  She edged away from Tristan to face Dom. “You’ve captured my dilemma exactly, Mr. Manton. If my aunt is telling the truth, then I should definitely marry my cousin. It’s the only sure way to save Winborough.”

  “From what?” Tristan asked pointedly.

  “From an American who knows nothing about running an English estate. Who can predict what he would do to it? I have a duty to my tenants and servants to make sure that Winborough is preserved, even if he inherits it.”

  “And the fact that you’d be left in poverty has naught to do with it, I suppose,” Tristan drawled.

  She stared him down. “Papa would take care of me regardless. My dowry alone is enough to support me all my days.” Her eyes got a faraway look. “Though I suspect that if the truth came out before I married, I would have trouble finding a husband.”

  “Perhaps among the ton,” Dom said kindly, “but not necessarily among more sensible gentlemen.”

  Her grateful smile was tinged with sadness. “Yet if I marry a man of my choosing and the truth comes out later, who knows how my husband would handle it?”

  “Excellent point,” Tristan snapped. “You wouldn’t want any scandal tainting your husband’s reputation.” Because of course she would marry someone rich and important and appropriate to be consort to the prospective Countess of Olivier. Someone just like Father.

  Though sh
e stiffened, she conceded the point with a nod. “I wouldn’t want him to be affected by any of it—scandal, or the loss of the title for our children, or the loss of my wealth. It wouldn’t be fair to spring that on a man after he’d married me with certain expectations.”

  That certainly put him in his place. He grudgingly admitted that no man deserved to be taken by surprise in his choice of wife.

  She went on. “And I’d still have the problem of my cousin’s inheriting a property he couldn’t handle. I can’t risk that, even if it means marrying a stranger.”

  “But you prefer not to marry a stranger, I take it,” Dom said. “You hope that your aunt is lying about the Gypsy woman, so you can marry whom you please.”

  She smiled at him. “Absolutely. And even if she’s telling the truth, but you and your fellow investigators learn that this Gypsy woman and her husband have taken my secret to their graves, I’m still safe. Because if our servants had known of it, they certainly would have revealed it by now. Aunt Flo only told me under duress.” Her expression turned haunted. “Either way, I have to be sure, don’t you see?”

  Dom steepled his fingers. “I suppose the matter is even more urgent now that your cousin is coming to London.”

  The grateful smile she bestowed on him scraped Tristan’s nerves. “You understand me perfectly. In a few days, Mr. Keane will be here, and I must know how to proceed. I’d hoped for more time to prepare, but we only learned of his impending visit a month ago. Then I had to convince Papa to bring us here well in advance of it, so I could find a way to consult with you and your men. It wasn’t a matter I dared broach in a letter.”

  “Certainly not.” Dom tapped his fingers on his desk. “Let me make sure I understand you correctly—you wish to hire us to find out if your mother really bore a child on that voyage from America. If we learn that she didn’t, you want us to hunt down the Gypsy woman who actually bore you. And possibly her husband as well.”