dug her fingernails into her palms until she could control her urge to do Lord Rule an injury. Then, returning his smile just as brilliantly, she trilled, “But Lord Rule, your own aunt is penning just such a novel. Surely you must hold her in disgust if your opinion of her chosen medium is so very low?”
“My aunt is merely filling her time until Sir Henry wakes up and realizes he cannot risk losing Rachel a second time and makes her his wife. I’ll not begrudge her this little hobby if it makes her happy,” he ended, just as if he had anything at all to say about the running of Rachel’s life.
Looking around at the greening landscape and seeing everything through a red haze of anger, Mary found herself amazed yet again at the maddening way Lord Rule had of putting everything and everybody into neat little boxes, then labeling them as he saw fit. It was as if he had inherited some of Jennie’s matchmaking tendencies—his cousin’s burning desire to settle everyone happily into perfectly fitting niches—and some of his cousin Lucy’s single-minded determination in following through on any project once undertaken, no matter what the odds, as well as more than his fair share of Lucy’s tendency to meddle in whatever she considered to be her business.
What Mary had yet to fully understand was that Tristan—being the male of the species and therefore more prone to looking upon his less desirable traits as sterling qualities—had grown into manhood with his determination hardening into firm, unwavering resolve, while his wish to settle people changed into managing interference and his natural curiosity about his fellowman twisted into suspicion and mistrust of those he could not neatly categorize. And all of this had happened because no one had ever yet had sufficient courage to tell him he was fast becoming an opinionated, arrogant, fire-breathing Don Quixote—out to right the world’s wrongs as he was so clearly, in his own mind, called upon to do.
Having been deeply involved with the defense of his country for the past seven years, his talents (or failings, depending on whom you applied to for a judgment) had been honed and refined until he felt himself able to judge and mentally file away a man within mere minutes of making his acquaintance. He did not give any credence to hearsay or rumor—and paid only a little more attention to the official documents he was frequently provided with to use as a guide—choosing instead to make up his own mind in his own way. In this manner he had decided that, seeing that Lucy trusted Julian, the man was obviously innocent of any involvement with the death of a young woman who had claimed to be his discarded mistress.
Yet, perversely, he had decided that Mary Lawrence—vouched for by his trusted superior, Sir Henry—a girl of no background who had popped up in the household of the same so-important Sir Henry, was a very dangerous woman. The unnerving way his skin tightened at the mere sight of her; the tendency the hair at the back of his head had of bristling—tingling his scalp—at the sound of her unaffected laugh; the unnatural talent she had for bewitching all who came within her charmed circle; everything about Mary Lawrence screamed out at him danger—danger.
Although he could not, if pressed, produce a single damning piece of evidence to support his theory, Rule stuck buckle and thong to his initial conclusion—either in deference to his seldom-off-target intuition or because of that inborn streak of stubbornness, not even he was able to say. All he knew was that in all his nine and twenty years of living, he had never before experienced this sense of very real personal danger that he felt every time he stood up for the waltz with Mary Lawrence.
His life had for many years depended on his ability to judge people, and Mary, even though she was living under Sir Henry’s protection, even though she looked as innocent as a newborn lamb, even though she was the most beautiful, fascinating woman he had ever met, was a prime suspect in the newly discovered plot to free Bonaparte from Elba and return him to Paris as emperor. Hadn’t he suspected her from the moment he had arrived back in London after Sir Henry’s summons only to see the girl already entrenched in Sir Henry’s own home? And now, having decided for himself that he was correct in his assumptions, he would not rest until he uncovered her entire scheme and unmasked her co-conspirators.
Tristan looked over at Mary again, pretending an interest in a showy stallion just then being edged along the path by his proud owner, and experienced yet again the unnerving tingle that her mere proximity to his person invariably provoked. Guilty as sin, he assured himself yet again, unanswering in his belief in his own intuition—and, unbeknownst to him, demonstrating yet again his total ignorance of the body’s power to recognize what the mind refuses to accept.
THE SILENCE THAT HAD descended upon the pair ever since Tristan’s casual dismissal of Rachel’s motives for penning a novel had not bothered them as long as they were each locked in their own private thoughts.
While Rule’s mind had traveled yet again down the same narrow road—the one that ended with proof of Mary’s guilt being irrefutably laid at her doorstep—Mary had taken her mind down quite another path entirely, one strewn with roadblocks set up to catch the sleuthing Lord Rule unawares and send him spinning posthaste into a water-filled ditch.
The man was more than insufferable, she had decided, with those condescending remarks about his aunt just another example of his overweening arrogance—and he was fast becoming a menace.
Oh yes, she had seen the dashing young Hussar smile and begin to approach the curricle before realizing who she was sitting up beside and beating a hasty retreat lest he run the chance of getting on Ruthless Rule’s wrong side. And she had fumed impotently when three other gentlemen, two on horseback and one out driving his purple-turbaned mama, had only waved to her furtively and then scurried away—the latter gentleman nearly toppling his mama from the squabs in his haste to be off.
Lepers have more human contact, Mary thought in disgust. What is it about this fellow that sends strong men racing for cover and makes young ladies feel faint and reach for their hartshorn? Yes, she owned reluctantly, he was handsome enough to cause any number of swoons, but so far she had not seen even one enterprising miss work up sufficient nerve to so much as flutter an eyelash in his direction.
Mary smiled to herself. I must be some sort of extraordinary being—not only am I able to sit up alongside this man without suffering a hint of the vapors, but I am totally unafraid of the man or his disgusting nickname. And that presents me with a puzzle: for either everyone else is overreacting to the man’s reputation and ridiculous affectations of black clothing and blacker stares, or I am contemplating the greatest folly imaginable by plotting intrigues against the most dangerous man in all of England.
And so it was that, just as Tristan was covertly peeping at Mary to assure himself once more of her guilt, Mary was, in her turn, covertly peeping at him, guilt written all over her beautiful oval-shaped face. Tristan’s normally severe expression hardened into a cold mask as Mary’s creamy complexion heated to a fiery red, and the two broke eye contact self-consciously to concentrate on viewing the scenery with a thoroughness that would make anyone suppose they were considering redesigning the entire park.
Now the silence became noticeably uncomfortable for both parties. Tristan watched as Mary’s gloved hands folded and unfolded nervously in her lap, and he experienced a rare feeling of compassion—which he quickly squelched. They were caught up in the heavy traffic of carriages and curricles, and would be for at least another half hour, and he was not about to let this golden opportunity escape him.
“Miss Lawrence,” he began, surprised to hear a hint of tenderness in his voice, “have I told you that I have recently been across to Paris?”
“Have you?” Mary commented, pushing down the urge to tell him he should have stayed there and spared London and herself his obnoxious presence. “I hear it is very gay. Sir Henry says we may travel there next spring, but I am hoping to convince him it is quite safe enough now to visit. After all, everyone is there.”
Continuing to direct his attention to his team, which was still at a standstill behind the rusty black barouche, Rule prodded, “You have a strong desire to set foot on French soil, Miss Lawrence?”
“I have a strong desire to set foot in a French dress shop, sir,” she replied frankly. “And to visit Versailles, and see all the places I have only been told