her guests into the dining room, where Mary once again commanded everyone’s attention by unveiling the plan that had already grown to major proportions within her agile brain. If Tristan Rule had thought he could prove Mary to be a spy, she was going to be extremely helpful in convincing him of her guilt! In other words, if he wished her to act like a traitor, she would accommodate him—in spades.
“Oh, for a humdrum existence,” Rachel said to no one in particular, envying every bored on-the-shelf spinster in all England.
Lucy was all for Mary’s idea. Indeed, she even volunteered her every assistance, but she couldn’t help but ask: “Just how is this going to provide Tris with his overdue lesson in minding his own business? I mean, skulking about leaving messages and acting suspicious sounds like whacking great fun, but surely it will only work to make Tristan more sure of his convictions.”
“Not if I—with a little help from you, my dear friends—also behave, as if Tristan is the real French spy in our midst, and return his treatment of me twofold!” Mary told him confidently.
Lifting her glass in a salute to her new friend’s genius, Lucy promised jovially, “And when it is all over, and Tristan has been suitably humbled, he will fall at your feet begging for your hand in marriage!”
Mary’s smile faded as she remembered the events of the previous evening. “Then I will have him aboard that ship to Africa after all!” she vowed sincerely, not noticing Jennie’s and Lucy’s exchange of broad winks.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARY FLUNG DOWN the magazine she had been reading, unable to sustain an interest in a gushing description of the latest fashions from Paris, and hopped up to pace back and forth impatiently across the drawing-room rug, her small hands clenched into unladylike fists. Oh, she was so angry! Drat that Tristan Rule anyway!
She halted in her tracks momentarily to stare malevolently at a Sevres figurine, seeing Rule’s dark, well-made features rather than the smiling face of an innocent young country maid dressed in pink ruffles. Who does he think he is, she ranted to herself, to be judging me like the Lord on Doomsday? He’s an obtuse, despicable, intolerable, opinionated… Mary turned on her heels and set about pacing once more, unable to continue her thoughts else she’d be forced to throw something.
And it wasn’t bad enough that the man had all but convicted her of spying for the French, oh no—he had also shown her, by his actions of the previous week, that he was not about to do his accusing from the sidelines. Acting as if she had never warned him to approach her again, he had been up to his old tricks, standing up with her for the length of one infuriating dance and then retiring to a nearby pillar to glower at her like some angry ancient god for the remainder of the evening, just as if he expected her to give herself away somehow, proving his ludicrous theory to be correct.
Even worse, everyone was so all-fired afraid of the man. It was almost ridiculous to see all her former beaux defecting from the ranks one by one as they put their tails between their legs and ran from Rule’s intense stares. How was she to have any fun at all if her main amusement—harmless flirting—was to be denied her? What it had come to, she realized as she brought herself up with a start, was that she had only two options open to her—either allowing Rule to court her openly so that she could at least go out in society without feeling like a pariah, or else retiring posthaste to a nunnery!
Crash! It was no use—something had to satisfy Mary’s outrage, and the china maiden had been elected. Staring at the porcelain shards scattered about in the cold fireplace, Mary was angered even more when she realized that she had broken a valuable piece of Sir Henry’s property without the action easing her fury by so much as a jot. Oh, if only she could have Rule here in person; smashing him would be entire worlds more satisfying.
Almost as if she had conjured him up by sheer force of will, she whirled at the sound of the butler’s announcement to see Tristan Rule striding big as life into the drawing room. “You!” she exclaimed, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “What do you want?”
Tristan quickly took in Mary’s flushed cheeks and belligerent stance and impulsively decided to change his mission from that of seeing his aunt to the possibly more profitable one of trying to goad Mary Lawrence into betraying her guilt. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he pronounced in perfect accents, making her an elegant leg.
“It was,” Mary snapped peevishly, and then, sparked by an imp of perversity that she could no more deny than she could her need to breathe, she launched herself into a long, involved speech concerning the growing list of fêtes and receptions planned for the upcoming celebration of peace, all in faultless French. There! If the man wants signs of guilt, I’ll give him signs of guilt until he drowns himself in them!
Tristan could not hide his triumphant smile. The chit spoke French like a native of that country. Even he, trained in several languages, could find nothing to fault in her accent or usage. “Your French tutor must have been an émigré, Miss Lawrence, to have taught you so well,” he offered as bait.
Mary opened her mouth as if to speak, then lifted an anxious hand to her breast and stammered nervously. “Y-yes, yes indeed. How clever of you. That’s precisely who it was. A poor émigré. The wretched creature so needed employment at the time that I ended up having a resident tutor for several years whilst I was in Sussex.” There, she thought, hiding a grin. That should serve to convince him I’m lying through my teeth. Ah, look at him, smiling one of his devilish secretive smiles, just like the cat who got into the cream. I’m surprised he hasn’t already sent for the constable, so sure of himself is he.
“Tristan! What brings you here today? And Mary, why didn’t you have me summoned at once? You know you should not be entertaining a gentleman without a chaperon.”
“Was I?” Mary commented under her breath as she looked apologetically at her companion.
Rachel’s entrance into the room startled Rule into looking up blankly for a moment, and Rachel heaved a small sigh of relief when she realized that her nephew and Mary hadn’t come to fisticuffs before she could place herself as a buffer between their two warlike personalities. “Have you come to see Sir Henry, nephew? He is out at present, but we expect him back directly.”
“He is back,” came Sir Henry’s voice, shortly to be followed by that man’s pudgy presence in the doorway. “Come courting, have you, boy? Since I saw you not an hour ago at the War Office, it can’t be my face you were longing to see.” Sir Henry nodded his head a time or two, a broad smile on his cherubic face. “Good, good. I rather like the idea of Tristan running tame in his house, Rachel. He’s a hotheaded young puppy, but loyal as the day is long, and valuable. You couldn’t make a better choice, Mary, my dear, not if you looked for a dozen Seasons. Right, Rachel?”
Rachel closed her eyes and shook her head, not knowing whether to box Sir Henry’s ears or give him a smacking great kiss on the mouth. But one way or another—due to his foolish blustering—matters were about to come to a head, and Rachel couldn’t be happier. All this scheming and plotting among Mary and her two nieces on the one side and Tristan, aided by his fertile imagination and stubborn tenacity, on the other was sure to lead her to an early grave—and with her novel just begun. At least now either Mary or Tristan, or both of them, would be forced to own to the truth before Sir Henry went posting the banns.
Tristan, however, was not about to look what he saw as a gift horse in the molars. Instead of denying that he was indeed love-bitten, or even running from the house and matrimony in full bachelor flight, he was saying something ridiculously silly about wishing to take the charming Miss Lawrence for a ride in the promenade in order to convince her that he was sincere in his regard for her.
