Lords of Notoriety: The Ruthless Lord Rule / The Toplofty Lord Thorpe

CHAPTER FIVE

MARY KNEW SHE HAD GONE too far. In her attempt to make him look guilty, and at the same time present herself as equally capable of treason, she had become overly ambitious—and stupidly careless.

She had meant to tease, to confuse, and to set him chasing madly after his own tail, but she hadn’t planned on exposing her own neck to such an alarming degree. Lord, he looked fit to strangle her for the heartless traitor he took her to be—the scheming Bonapartist who dared suggest his loyalty could be bought.

She forced a silly giggle past her numb lips. “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” she asked, trying her utmost to look unintelligent—and only succeeding in appearing guilty as sin—“I was only funning. Far be it from me to suggest that—”

“That there are certain people who would like nothing better than to see Napoleon Bonaparte back on the throne in France, waging war against England again,” Rule ended for her neatly, and with heavy sarcasm. “I don’t find your assumptions amusing when they are applied to me, madam, and I can only question your reasons for broaching the subject at all.”

You don’t like it, do you? Mary shouted inwardly. Well, how do you think I feel each time you eye me like some butterfly on a pin? Aloud, she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in disgust, “Sacrebleu! You have caught me out, my lord. I confess! I’m a Bonapartist loyalist, sent to England to recruit volunteers to sail to Elba. Sir Henry was just an innocent pawn in my dastardly scheme; my reason for being here was to recruit you, England’s grandest spy, over to our cause. I tried my utmost, but your loyalty to your mad king has proved too strong for my frail female wiles, which, heaven knows, I have used in excess in order to bring you to your knees at my feet. Alas, I must go to my fate, beaten but unbowed. Vive la république!” Her speech concluded, Mary folded her arms and awaited further developments, secretly wondering if association with this overzealous patriot had seriously unhinged her mind.

The silence that followed Mary’s impassioned confession lasted until Rule had steered his curricle back out onto the street and relative privacy—and beyond. Once they had turned into the roadway fronting Sir Henry’s residence, Rule commented, his voice sounding quite weary, “I have been playing the spy too long, Miss Lawrence, and have begun to see danger where none exists. Please accept my deepest apologies for ever having suspected you of any crime against England. It’s obvious to me now that my aunt has told you of my conversation with her. I can understand now why you have gone out of your way to convince me of your guilt—waving so frantically at that poor hairdresser, for instance. It was meant to show just how ludicrous my assumptions were.”

“Congratulations, my lord,” Mary allowed, but not too graciously. “And here Rachel gave me the impression that you had to be hit on the head—repeatedly—with a heavy red brick before you could be convinced of anything other than your own judgments. But I own myself astonished. Do you seriously mean you no longer view me as a member of a group plotting to free Bonaparte? You actually see me as innocent?”

Rule’s spine straightened slightly. “You’re no spy, Miss Lawrence, but you’re not quite an innocent either. There’s some mystery about you, I’d swear to that, but whatever it is, it’s no business of mine—at least it won’t be once I’ve convinced myself that you present no harm to Sir Henry or Rachel, or my cousins, who have befriended you for some reason.”

“Like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?” Mary sniffed, alighting from the curricle before Tristan could make a move to help her. “If I’m not a spy, I must be something else equally distasteful. Well, you know what, Lord High and Mighty Rule, you can just take your silly suspicions and your nasty little assumptions—and stuff them in your hat!”

After emphatically nodding her head, as if to put a period to their discussion—and their relationship—Mary whirled away to ascend the steps to the house. But she turned at the top of the short flight to make one last statement—or threat: “And don’t ever suppose I will stand up with you on the dance floor, for if you approach me I shall surely go into strong hysterics and kick you firmly in the shins!”

The heavy door slammed on the sight of her departing back as Tristan sat where he was, rubbing his chin in deep thought. She was a real termagant, this Miss Mary Lawrence, or whoever she really was.

Because of her, he found himself having to rethink his conclusions for the first time in a very long time—a prospect that cheered him far more than he expected. He wasn’t exactly sure of just what the future held for the lady and himself, but one thing he knew for certain—she hadn’t seen the last of him, not by a long chalk.

After all, there was still that tingle to consider…and now this strange itch…an itch that had begun to tantalize him as he watched Mary’s trimly rounded bottom jiggling provocatively as she flounced away from him and up the steps.

IT WAS THE SEVENTH HEAVEN of the fashionable world, Almack’s in the late spring of 1814, but to Tristan Rule it was a punishment worse than being forced by his fond mama at the tender age of twelve to stand up during a country dance with his cousin Lucy and be oohed and aahed at by a host of smiling relatives. Already he could see Lady Jersey measuring him from between narrowed eyelids, wondering whether or not she could coerce, bully, or otherwise persuade him into partnering any of the limp wallflowers that seemed to consider Almack’s their own private hothouse.

But there was nothing else for it—as it was Wednesday, and if he were to seek her out this evening, Almack’s was the logical place to start. Not that he planned to single her out for anything as ridiculous as the Scottish reel now in progress, even if the celebrated violinist, Niel Gow, was the one sawing away on the strings. He winced involuntarily as Lord Worcester whirled by with Lady Harriett Butler, the two of them panting and sweating like dray horses after a long run.

The things I won’t do for my country, Tristan thought to himself as he pushed his lean body away from the pillar he had been reclining against and began another seemingly leisurely stroll around the rooms, his dark eyes searching—ever searching—for a sight of Mary Lawrence.

It was nearing the hour of eleven when at last his vigilance was rewarded and he espied his Aunt Rachel entering the vestibule, her tardy charge in tow. Mary was in looks tonight as, he reminded himself with a snicker of self-derision, she was every night, drat the infuriating chit anyhow. After disposing of her shimmering taffeta cloak, now being lovingly carried away by one of the stewards, Mary turned to face the ballroom and gave the assembled guests their first glimpse of her ivory-colored gown (that complemented her gleaming ivory shoulders and half-exposed bosom perfectly, Tristan could not help but notice). The entire bodice of the gown, along with at least ten inches of the hem and demi-train, were lavishly sprinkled with diamante dewdrops that winked and glistened with every move she made, every breath she took.

Twinkling diamonds lent an extra sparkle to her dark curls and glittered in her ears—even her dainty slippers were adorned with brilliant diamante bows. On another woman the abundance of sparkle would have appeared overdone, even slightly vulgar, but Mary carried it off beautifully. All around him Tristan heard the indrawn breaths of jealous debutantes and the hissing whispers of their disgruntled mamas, while the comments of the gentlemen within earshot only served to start a fire in Lord Rule’s blood that had little to do with his zealous interest in the welfare of his homeland.

He was drawn to Mary’s side almost without realizing he had moved, and the dozen or so hopeful swains who harbored plans of their own concerning Miss Lawrence hastily stepped off in other directions, unwilling to challenge Ruthless Rule’s claim to the Incomparable for the country dance just forming.

The sparkle of Mary’s attire dimmed beside the hard glitter now in her huge green eyes. After the way they had parted only that afternoon—and most especially after she had issued her threat to physically assault him if he ever dared approach her again—she had wondered about this meeting, even fantasized about it a bit, picturing the arrogant Lord Rule hopping about some ballroom in his elegant black dress, looking for all the world like a huge crow flapping its wings as he favored his injured shin.

But now reality, in the form of that infuriating man himself, was staring her straight in the eye, daring her to make cakes out of both of them within the most hallowed, and most prestigious, walls of Almack’s. Almack’s—the holy grail of young English womanhood, ever longed for, prayed over, dreamed about, and once attained, cherished close to her bosom forevermore. Damn his devious soul! she cried inwardly—he knows I can’t make a scene here. He knows it and is standing there smirking at me, laughing at me, because once again he has won and I have lost.

But then Mary remembered her plans for this evening, plans she had somehow been reluctant to cancel even after Rule’s admission that afternoon that he no longer considered her to be a French spy. Why not? she thought as she swallowed down hard on her ride and smiled at her worst enemy, holding out one French kid-encased hand to accept his invitation to join the other young couples on the floor.

As Tristan smiled at her knowingly, being human enough to savor the moment of his triumph—and male enough to be so foolish as to show it—Mary’s gloved fingertips bit hurtingly into his forearm, reminding him once more that this particular kitten, although she looked so outwardly soft and cuddly, was not averse to using her claws. He may have satisfied himself that she was not the person he had been told to seek—the English connection in a Continent-wide plot to free Napoleon—but she was still an unanswered question in his mind. And Tristan didn’t like unanswered questions. For all he knew, she could be twice as dangerous as the conspirator he sought, both to his friend and mentor Sir Henry and his cousins Lucy and Jennie.

Yes, he told himself as they parted momentarily due to the movements of the dance, he mustn’t allow Miss Lawrence’s obvious beauty and charm to blind him to the very real fact that now he had not one, but two problems. He held out his hand to Mary, leading her into the next movement of the dance even as he assessed her yet again, looking for clues he was not certain he would recognize even if they were pushed into his face, and wished once more for the simplicity of war, where your enemies were so much easier to spot. “You are, as usual, in fine looks this evening, Miss Lawrence,” he baited her as they rubbed shoulders lightly before moving on, “and that heightened color in your cheeks is most flattering.”

I believe I just might murder that man, Mary mused satisfyingly as she whirled out of earshot for a moment. “I do confess to feeling a bit of excitement, sir,” she owned sweetly as they faced each other yet again. “I had heard so much about Almack’s, you know, but the reality far exceeds the dream. Did you ever see so many exalted personages in one place at one time? I vow I am impressed!”

“You impress easily, Miss Lawrence,” Tristan responded, taking her elbow as the dance drew to its conclusion and guiding her to a pair of chairs at the side of the room.

Mary looked up at him, her head tilted prettily to one side. “Oh, I doubt that, my lord, else I would be in a constant swoon at being so openly pursued by the famous Lord Rule. As it is, I cannot be more unmoved by the prospect. Do you think I am unnatural, my lord?”

Tristan sat himself down beside her, looking off into the distance as he did, and sending shivers down the spine of no less than seven gentlemen who had rashly decided to ask Miss Lawrence for the next dance. “We have already established the fact that you don’t like me above half, Miss Lawrence. Do you really find it necessary to belabor the point?”

“I do, since you refuse to take the hint and go away!” Mary was pushed to exclaim before carefully busying herself playing with the silken tassel at the end of her fan. “Aunt Rachel said you always were a bit thick, but even an absolute dolt would have cut rope by now. What do you want from me, what assurance of innocence will it take, before you realize that you are wasting your time dreaming up intrigues in which I play a part?”

Turning his dark head slowly in her direction, Tristan said in a low, steely voice: “Tell me your name.”

The previously folded fan unfurled and began beating the air in front of Mary’s flushed face. “You are being absurd, sir, yet again,” she pointed out with what she hoped was amusement. “You know my name.”

“I know the name you go by, the one Sir Henry chose for you when first he established you in Sussex ten years ago, but I seriously doubt that Mary Lawrence—that simple, unassuming appellation—comes within a dozen miles of being the one that appears on some parish records somewhere.”

The fan was beginning to stir up a mighty breeze. “My, haven’t you been the busy one,” Mary remarked, all humor gone from her voice. “Hot-footed it down to Sussex, did you, to see what dirt you could dig up at my expense? And what else, pray tell, did you find?”

Tristan leaned back on the uncomfortable chair and recited informatively: “You were an apt pupil in penmanship and the use of maps, although you persisted in drawing Italy to look more like a riding boot than your governess thought permissible. You despised needlework although your sampler was more than passable in my opinion. As a horsewoman you have few equals, even if you earned the undying animosity of several of the local gentry by running your horse across the trail of the fox in a deliberate attempt to save the poor hunted creature.”

Mary smiled a bit at the remembrance of that little bit of foolishness, but then her indignation returned. “And that is all, my lord? Surely you have left out the time I poured honey down Miss Penelope Blakestone’s bodice at a picnic because she was making sheep’s eyes at young Jeremy Stone when she knew full well that I was deep in love with him myself.”

“You were thirteen at the time, so I disregarded it,” Tristan put in smoothly, making Mary wish she had a handy pitcher of honey hidden in her reticule at that very moment.

Closing the fan with a definite snap, Mary rose to her feet, causing Tristan to scramble a bit as he strove to unwind his long legs and follow suit. “You are a rude, snooping, mischief-making monster!” Mary cried, clearly unable to carry on any pretense that she cared not a snap for his ridiculous investigation of her past. “How dare you pry into my life that way! What earthly reason could you have given all those people when you went about snooping into something that was never your concern? How can I ever show my face in Sussex again after what you have done?”

“Do you want to?” Rule asked tauntingly.

Mary’s eyes narrowed dangerously as she looked up into his unrevealing face. “No, damn you, I don’t want to! But that’s beside the point. I should tell Sir Henry what you are about, that’s what I should do, and then we would see just who would be laughing, you cad.”

Tristan took her elbow in a firm grip and began guiding her over to his Aunt Rachel, who was sitting with the dowagers and looking utterly bored with the whole spectacle of Almack’s. “You’ll tell Sir Henry nothing, Miss Lawrence—you haven’t done so yet, or else I should have been called into his office for a thorough dressing down long since. It would seem he sees you as purity itself, and protects you like you were his own.”

“Well, then? If Sir Henry, who, you’ll have to agree, knows everything about me, is not concerned or fearful of allowing me in polite society, why can’t you just accept me as I am?”

“Sir Henry’s judgment may be clouded by something or someone out of the past. I am objective. Even if you are innocent of any wrongdoing, your mere existence may give someone power over Sir Henry, power that could even force that patriotic man into actions detrimental to England. The mere fact that your ‘uncle’ refuses to confide in me makes me suspect something very deep and dangerous.” Tristan drew Mary to a halt and turned her to him one more time. “Now are you willing to tell me your name. For Sir Henry’s sake?”

“Mary, Queen of Scots!” Mary Lawrence snapped before jerking her elbow loose and completing her journey over to Rachel on her own.

IT WAS VERY LATE, and the dance floor was crowded with couples eager to wedge one more dance into the evening, when Mary, still observed by Lord Rule, walked unescorted onto one of the wide balconies outside the main room.

The small raggedly dressed man who crept stealthily out of the shadows approached the girl on quiet feet and the two exchanged a few furiously whispered words before a much-folded paper changed hands, and the man, the paper now stuffed inside his shabby coat, slid back into the shadows.

Mary was just placing one slippered foot back into the main room when Tristan Rule vaulted nimbly over the balcony railing to land on the balls of his feet in the soft underbrush that edged the small garden. Hanging back discreetly out of sight, Rule watched as the small man reappeared under a dim gas lamp, then made off down the street in the direction of Piccadilly. Waiting until he could mentally reach the count of ten, Rule then started after the man, intent on following wherever he led.

While Lord Rule, using talents he developed during long years in His Majesty’s service, ducked into doorways and hid behind drainpipes as he followed the small man deep into the bowels of Jack Ketch’s warren, Mary Lawrence was taking her leave of Almack’s Assembly Rooms, first taking care to thank Jennie Wilde for the loan of her man Ben for the evening.

CHAPTER SIX

MARY WAS SITTING ALONE in the breakfast room the next morning, still savoring her first victory over Ruthless Rule. Jennie had sent around a note earlier, describing Ben’s elation at having eluded his pursuer after leading him a merry dance until the wee hours of the morning.

This single success had naturally led the volatile Mary into considering other relatively harmless pranks aimed at keeping Lord Rule out of sight while she tried to make the best of what was left of the Season. Already she realized one flaw in last night’s plan: she should have had Ben appear much earlier in the evening, then she could have avoided their confrontation on the dance floor altogether. Ah well, as a fledgling conspirator, she couldn’t believe she had done that poorly overall.

Now that she knew exactly why Tristan was dogging her—believing her very existence to be a danger to Sir Henry and the national security—she knew she could proceed without fear of her adopted uncle’s censure if he should ever discover what she was about. After all, if Sir Henry had wanted Tristan to know her history, he would have told him long since. Besides, she assured herself as she buttered a second muffin, it wasn’t as if she were really a danger to Sir Henry—being French was no longer considered a sin in London. Actually, she couldn’t understand Sir Henry’s insistence that she hide her heritage from the world.

The matter of the plot to rescue Napoleon from Elba, the plot Tristan had told her was his reason for suspecting her in the first place, was really none of her concern. Wiser heads than hers, notably Sir Henry’s, would certainly scotch any such attempts before they could be born. Napoleon was defeated, soundly and forever. After all, wasn’t all London gearing up for a gigantic round of celebrations even now? Surely all London couldn’t be wrong—no matter what that ridiculous Lord Rule said to the contrary.

Having eased her conscience all around, Mary was just about to rise from the table and go in search of Rachel, who had been closeted in her rooms tussling over a minor snag in the tale of her hero and heroine, just then at each other’s throats over a silly misunderstanding that was throwing up boulders in the path of True Love, when she was surprised to see Dexter Rutherford enter the room, a sheepish expression on his face.

“Dexter,” Mary greeted him, “I see the operation was a success. You have actually succeeded in separating yourself from Lord Rule. My congratulations to your physician, and may I please have his directions as I too am in need of his services.”

Dexter stopped dead in his tracks, examining his person as if looking for signs of recent surgery, before coloring brightly and chuckling weakly. “Oh, you’re funning me, aren’t you? I admit to admiring Tristan—he’s a capital fellow, you know—but it ain’t as if I’m living in his pocket.”

“That’s a relief, seeing as how the man seems to be trying to live in mine. Having you in there too just might make me list more than a little to one side, don’t you think?” Mary teased the young man before waving him into a chair. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, or am I mistaken and it is Aunt Rachel you have come to see?”

Dexter ran a nervous finger around his suddenly too-tight cravat (a glorious creation that flattered his valet no end). “Ac-tu-ally,” he squeaked, “it was the two of you. It seems I find myself in need of some reputable females to act as companions for a young lady I’m seeing.”

Mary shook her head. “Not that I’m doubting that you have a problem, Dex, but what about Lucy or Jennie? Surely they’re reputable.”

The young man became fairly agitated, twisting in his chair as if he had just discovered a nettle in his breeches. “Those two—good God, as if I need those busybodies poking into my life, matchmaking, and twitting me unmercifully! No, I’m not that stupid that I’d lay my head on that block! I thought about getting m’friend Bertie Sandover’s sister to help, but she’s known me forever and threatened to tell Kitty everything about me—can’t have that, can I?”

“Kitty?” Mary prompted, barely suppressing a giggle at the thought of the turmoil Jennie and Lucy could cause once they scented a romance in the air. Poor Dexter, he’d have to be truly desperate to let either of those ladies in on his plans.

Now Dexter’s complexion turned a deep, fiery red. “Kitty Toland,” he gushed, lowering his head. “She’s only seventeen and the most beautiful woman in England—in the entire world! Her brother, Jerome Toland, is not averse to my suit, you understand, but he says Kitty must only see me if she is accompanied by trustworthy companions. I thought and thought, and at last I came up with you and Rachel.”

“Any port in a storm, eh, Dexter?” Mary could not help but tease, enjoying herself more than a little bit at the young man’s expense.

Dexter’s expression became pained as he realized he had really put his foot in it—again. Why was it that he had inherited none of the suave, debonair talents of his cousin Julian? “I know I’m saying this badly—it’s a habit of mine, you know—but you know what it is, it’s that I think I’m in love. Never thought it would happen—kind of damps you, actually, but there it is, and I confess I’m not really sure how to do anything anymore.”