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 about, and to be invited to one of the exclusive salons, and to have my hand kissed by a dashing Frenchman.” She sighed. “I desire only what every young woman in England desires, my lord. What did you find to amuse you whilst in Paris? Gambling houses? Beautiful women? Intrigue?”
He almost believed her, but her question, that seemed so innocent, set his defenses at attention once again. “I was there on orders from my government, Miss Lawrence. I found nothing to admire in a country that waged such a costly war against our people.”
“Oh, my lord, how rigid you are!” Mary exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the part she had decided to play. “Surely you cannot condemn an entire country, an entire people, for the ambitions of a few? Surely it is Bonaparte’s thirst for power and territory that must be condemned, and not the people he ruled. After all, they suffered too. Why, look at that disastrous retreat from Moscow. I understand thousands of poor soldiers perished in the snows.”
“’From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step,’” Rule quoted quietly.
“What?”
“Bonaparte made that remark just before he deserted his troops to run back to Paris and raise another army to replace the one he squandered so carelessly in Russia,” Rule told her informatively.
“How would you know that?” Mary asked, much impressed in spite of herself. “Surely you would have had to have been there to—oh my, sir, I do believe I’m beginning to place a bit more credence in the rumors I have heard about your exploits as a master spy!”
Rule’s dark eyes took on a shuttered look as he recalled his infiltration into the ranks of retreating soldiers, wearing a filthy, torn uniform, his bare feet wrapped in the bloody rags he had taken from a man who had no further need for them, and remembered again how Bonaparte, before stepping back inside his closed coach, had placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and promised to see them all again in Paris. How he had hated that man for the way he had ridden off, leaving his army to grope along toward the border without his guidance or the inspiration of his leadership.
But Tristan had done his job, and had slipped back into the trees to where his horse was waiting to carry him to safety and the first of the many couriers who would pass on the valuable information he had gleaned during the weeks he had watched Bonaparte’s invincible grand armée degenerate into the ragged band of disease-ridden unfortunates who could conquer everything but the wrath of the Russian winter.
“I’ll say it again, my lord,” Mary pressed as she could see that Rule had retreated into what seemed to be an unpleasant memory, “you must have been a very proficient spy, just as it has been hinted, to have gleaned such personal conversation. Now that we are at peace again, couldn’t you please satisfy my curiosity by telling me exactly what it was that made you so valuable to Sir Henry?”
“I traveled,” Rule said shortly. “And I reported on what I saw. Nothing more.”
“You
