so bold as to point that out to you. Surely a mere informant would not earn such a title?”
Rule smiled at her, giving her credit for having the courage to put into words what other people—even his two audacious cousins and outspoken aunt—had not dared to ask. “People tend to draw romantic conclusions when they hear bits and pieces of events as told to them by some of the men I met in my travels. I assure you, I did not leave a trail of bloody bodies in my wake. I only did what was necessary to keep our government apprised of pertinent facts needed to plan strategies and judge the results of those strategies.”
Mary shivered deliciously. “Imagine! One incident of incorrect reporting or incomplete information could have cost thousands of lives—maybe even lost the war. How modest you are, my lord, when it was you who single-handedly guided the direction of the entire war effort. No wonder my uncle speaks so highly of you. I vow I am impressed beyond measure!”
Tristan was taken aback by Mary’s unaffected enthusiasm and high praise. He was also human enough to glory a bit in her display of esteem. Perhaps he had been overreacting—seeing guilt where there were only unanswered questions—after all, this wasn’t the first time he had felt a niggle of doubt about his judgment of Mary Lawrence. She surely didn’t sound like a Bonaparte sympathizer. She sounded very much like a devout patriot.
“Well,” Mary was saying, with some heat, “I think it is absolutely criminal the way the War Office hasn’t given you a single word of commendation, or even a cash settlement or title for all you have done. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if you weren’t thoroughly disillusioned with us all—if you decided that Bonaparte was the better man after all.”
She swiveled on the seat to look at him piercingly. “You aren’t happy, are you, my lord, now that the war is at long last over? You must miss the excitement—I vow I would. With all that you know, it would be a simple matter for you to contact just the right people to effect Bonaparte’s rescue from that pitiful island and transport him back to Paris. I’m sure the Emperor knows how to reward the people who serve him—unlike England, that bundles you off when it has no further use for you.”
“You think my allegiance can be bought, Miss Lawrence?” Tristan asked dangerously, rising to the bait.
Ah, if only Jennie could be here to see her cousin finally getting his comeuppance! “Everyone has a price, my lord, whether it be in gold or by way of appealing to something deep inside that craves to be recognized,” Mary nudged recklessly, glorying in her ability to finally get under this infuriating man’s skin.
Rule’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “And are you buying or selling, Miss Lawrence?”
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
