Love and Other Scandals (10 page)

“Oh! Well . . .” Joan gazed at her aunt in wonder. “I didn’t wish to upset Mother.”

Lady Courtenay smiled, sliding her arm into Joan’s. “Good girl! Shall we go inside? I’ve come with only a valise of essentials; my maid should arrive later with my trunks. I hope you’ve not been alone long?”

“No, not long at all,” Joan replied as they went into the house. In the hall her aunt removed her bonnet and long white pelisse. Joan’s interest fixed on her aunt’s dress. It wasn’t the fashion of the moment, not by a long shot—and yet it was striking. The bodice was shaped to her aunt’s figure in clean, simple lines, with hardly a garnishment or embellishment. The neckline swooped low, though not too low, displaying a bosom as rounded as Joan’s own. The skirt seemed to cling to her hips before flaring out just above the floor. Tiny gold charms sparkled around the bell-like sleeves, like the illustrations Joan had seen of a Turkish pasha’s wife. And most shocking of all was the fabric: a fine glazed cotton of brightest orange, sewn with yellow thread. She had never seen the like.

“Oh my,” Lady Courtenay murmured, looking around the hall. “It’s been a long time since I was here.” For a moment her expression grew pensive. “Is your brother Douglas well? I remember him sliding down those stairs atop an atlas he’d carried down from the schoolroom. He was so proud of himself, and it nearly killed your mother.”

Joan choked on a laugh. “He’s well. Papa’s sent him to Norfolk to see to Ashwood House. There was a flood and it needs to be repaired, and . . . well, somehow Papa decided Douglas ought to go.”

Another smile, fainter this time, lit her aunt’s face. “Ah, yes. I remember my father doing something quite similar to my brother. Well, I hope it serves Douglas as well as it served your father.”

“What do you mean, Aunt Courtenay?”

Lady Courtenay winked at her. “That’s when he met your mother. But enough reminiscing. Come, tell me how you are. I think we’re going to get on famously, don’t you? You must call me Evangeline—‘Aunt Courtenay’ sounds like a dotty old woman, and not in a charming way. I hope you don’t mind, I simply must visit my dressmaker. I didn’t come to London at all last year and I can’t gallivant about town in frocks two years old.”

Joan started, shaking off the diverting thought of her parents’ first meeting. “Oh, no, I have no objection at all!” she exclaimed. “But . . .” She cast a longing eye over Evangeline’s dress again. “Which dressmaker do you patronize? I don’t recognize her work at all.”

“Shh,” whispered Evangeline, a teasing smile lighting her eyes. “You mustn’t tell your mother. My dressmaker isn’t a woman at all! He’s Italian, and he has such an eye for color and texture. He makes my gowns to suit me, not the latest fashions. Do you like this one?” She gestured at her dress.

It was magnificent—and everything Joan knew her mother would never let her wear, even though she suddenly wanted a gown like that more than anything. She swallowed. “Yes. Very much.”

“Then we shall have Federico make a gown for you, too.” She glanced down and seemed to see Joan’s dress for the first time. She paused, and her eyes widened. Joan could guess why. It was a yellow morning dress bristling with knots of blue ribbon at the flounce and bodice. It looked girlish and fussy next to the exotic starkness of Evangeline’s frock, even though it had been carefully copied from the latest issue of
La Belle Assemblée
. “Or—or perhaps you have your own style,” Evangeline said politely.

Joan looked down at the dress. It was pale and pretty and perfectly suitable for a petite young lady of sixteen. For a tall, buxom woman of four and twenty . . . “My mother chose it,” she admitted. “It’s very fashionable.”

“And it is lovely,” said Evangeline quickly. “Only . . . I think perhaps pale yellow isn’t your best color . . .”

“What about gold?” The question popped out of her mouth without thought. Joan almost cringed when she heard herself ask it.

“Gold would be lovely on you,” cried Evangeline. “Yes, indeed, with your hair and eyes, it would be very flattering. I’m sure Federico can create something—perhaps a purple underskirt, with a gold crepe overdress and bodice. And—he will never suggest this, but I think it quite smashing—jet beads! They look so striking, and no one else is wearing them.”

Joan blinked at the thought: wanting to wear something no one else wore? Was that not the antithesis of fashion? But then again . . . She looked at Evangeline’s radiant gown. It would take a bold soul to wear that color, even though the cut was very flattering. “Or perhaps blue,” she said hesitantly. “I quite like blue as well.”

“Smashing!” Evangeline beamed at her. “We’ll order one as soon as we can. Smythe!” The butler had come up and waited quietly. Now a rare smile crossed his austere face as Evangeline turned to him with a happy cry. “How good to see you again, Smythe.”

“Welcome back, my lady,” he said with a bow.

“I remember Smythe when he was a new footman,” Evangeline said to Joan. “He once saved me from a terrible thrashing by letting me in through the scullery window. I’d sneaked out to see a footrace between two footmen. It was all the way across the Thames near Vauxhall, and it took an age to get home. I had been forbidden to go but—oh my, it was absolutely legendary! Goodness, my father nearly tore his hair out, trying to learn how I’d got back in the house. I’m so glad to see you’re still here,” she told the butler warmly.

“As am I, my lady. I’ve laid the tea in the drawing room, Miss Bennet.”

“Lord, I could use a cup of tea. I rushed about in a panic as soon as your father’s note arrived.” Evangeline drew Joan’s arm through hers again. “You must tell me all the things you enjoy in town.”

Joan could only give the butler a dazed nod of thanks and allow herself to be pulled into the drawing room. The world had been turned completely on its head. Douglas, the most irresponsible scoundrel in Britain, was sent to supervise the rebuilding of Papa’s hunting estate. Evangeline, who gave every appearance of being as wild as Lady Bennet feared, was sent to chaperone Joan. Smythe, who had been as formal and proper as a bishop as far back as Joan could remember, had once helped Evangeline slide through a scullery window to avoid disgrace.

She had a strong premonition that the next several weeks would be even stranger than she could imagine.

Chapter 10

“B
urke! There you are. I have a favor to ask of you.”

Tristan paused warily at the top of the stairs. He’d hardly seen Bennet since the confrontation in the boxing saloon, by his own design. It hadn’t been terribly hard to be out of the house most of the time, although avoiding Bennet’s favorite haunts in the evenings was more difficult. He braced himself to be turned out into the street—not a terrible tragedy, to be sure, but he would hate to lose a friend over a bloody waltz. He hadn’t enjoyed the dance
that
much.

What came after the waltz . . . was better off not being contemplated.

He followed his host, who had already gone back into his dressing room. “What is it?” he asked from the doorway.

Bennet plowed his hands through his hair, though it was already standing on end. “Where are my bloody boots? Not the ones from Hoby, the country ones.” He stooped to peer under the bed. “Murdoch!” he bellowed. “Where are my boots?”

Tristan stepped aside as a harassed Murdoch brushed past him, a boot in each hand. “Here, sir. I was just cleaning them.” Indeed one boot had been brushed, while the other still had streaks and clumps of mud stuck to it. “Another few minutes—”

“Bugger the mud.” Bennet grabbed the boots and tossed them into a trunk standing open behind him. The servant flinched as dried dirt scattered over the clothing already in the trunk, but Bennet paid it no heed. “And my greatcoat? And the oilskin?”

“Yes, sir.” Murdoch ducked back out.

“Planning a journey?” Tristan finally asked, relaxing enough to lean one shoulder against the doorjamb. It didn’t seem as though Bennet planned to draw his cork.

“Yes.” Bennet tossed aside a crumpled shirt to pull open a desk drawer and start rifling through it. “I have to go to Norfolk.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “At this time of year?”

“At once.” Bennet swore and scooped the papers in the drawer out and dropped them en masse into the trunk on top of the boots. “No time to sort that out now—Murdoch, did you send for the travel chaise yet?” he shouted.

Tristan listened. “He has,” he reported after hearing a muffled “Aye!” from belowstairs. “Why such haste?”

Bennet stopped again, swinging in a circle as though he couldn’t decide which task to seize on next. He looked overwhelmed. “My father is sending me to Ashwood House. There was a flood a fortnight ago, and several buildings were damaged. I’m to oversee the repairs.”

Tristan’s other eyebrow went up. This would be the first he could ever recall of Bennet’s father asking anything of him, and it didn’t strike him as a good omen that merely packing for the journey seemed to have reduced Bennet to a state worthy of any fluttery female. “How inconvenient.”

“No. No, it’s not terribly convenient, but . . .” He inhaled a deep breath, as though summoning his nerve. “The truth is, my mother’s taken very ill. My father is taking her to Cornwall for the sea air, to improve her lungs. He planned to monitor the rebuilding in Norfolk from London, and go there himself in a month when the Season ends, but now . . . Well, he’s sending me instead and that’s all there is to it.” With a renewed burst of determination, Bennet scooped up his shaving things and dropped them into the trunk.

Ah. So that was it. Not so much trust as necessity drove Sir George. “My best wishes for your mother’s recovery.” Bennet flashed him a look of gratitude. “What was the favor you wanted?” Tristan added, feeling accommodating. This was possibly the best thing for him; after a few weeks in Norfolk, Bennet would have forgotten all about that dangerous waltz. And with any luck, Tristan’s own house would be fully repaired before Bennet returned, obviating any further tension over living quarters. The more distance he had from anyone and everyone named Bennet, the better.

“Oh yes—dashed near forgot.” Bennet swept his hair back from his forehead. “Would you look after Joan for me?”

Tristan froze. “I beg your pardon?”

“My parents left her behind in London; my father doesn’t want to risk her catching my mother’s illness. He’s put her in the charge of our aunt, Lady Courtenay, who’s a bit . . . suffice to say I ought to stay and keep an eye on them both, if it weren’t for this trouble in Norfolk.”

“What do you mean,” asked Tristan, choosing each word carefully, “by ‘look after’ her?” His heart felt like a hammer, booming loud and slow against his breastbone. Look after the Fury? Risk his sanity by spending time with her? He’d just made a vow—at Bennet’s instigation, damn him—to avoid her.

Bennet waved one hand. “Keep an ear out for any trouble she might get up to. See that she enjoys herself a bit. Dance with her a time or two if she’s out—just to take her mind off things, you know. Most chaps run the other way, but I daresay she’d like a dance now and then. That shouldn’t be too much to ask.” He gave Tristan a suddenly sharp look. “I believe you said you enjoyed waltzing with her the other evening.”

“I believe you told me in that same conversation that I wasn’t to approach her again,” Tristan shot back. “On your mother’s orders, even. Now your revered parent is away from town and you set me to dancing attendance on your sister? Do I look that big a fool to you?”

Bennet’s ears turned red. “Nothing foolish about it! You don’t have to dance attendance on her, just . . . do as I might do for her.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “And what the bloody blazes would you do for her, if you were in town? Last time I saw the two of you in the same room, you were howling curses down upon her head.”

“Yes, well.” Bennet cleared his throat. “That was before. Things have changed. Of course I would keep watch over my sister in my father’s absence. See that she goes out, and doesn’t get up to trouble. Visit her for tea and listen to her chatter. That sort of thing.”

“Bennet,” said Tristan with perfect honesty, “that is the most idiotic idea you’ve ever had.”

His friend grimaced. “But the thing is, there’s no one else I can ask. Dunwood is an ass, Hookham is a drunkard, and Spence . . . I don’t want Spence near my sister under any circumstances. You, on the other hand, already danced with her and didn’t run mad from the experience. You’re—you’re inoculated against her, don’t you see?”

Tristan squeezed his hands into fists even as his heart sped up—from apprehension, he told himself, and not from anticipation. “You’ve run mad if you think I want to spend the rest of the Season being scorched and flayed by her tongue.”

“Try charming her.” Bennet grinned suddenly. “She outmaneuvered you once on that score; surely you want to return the favor. I’ll wager ten guineas you can tame that temper of hers inside a fortnight.”

He scowled and made a very rude reply.

Bennet’s smile turned cocky. “Twenty guineas!”

“Sod off,” growled Tristan, wishing Bennet had merely wanted to go a few rounds in the boxing ring. This—
this
was much worse. Dance attendance on Miss Bennet? Waltz with her again? Subject himself to her tongue again? And all without kissing her again, because he had sworn that was never going to happen. No, indeed. Bennet must be the one cracked in the head, if he thought this was a decent or good idea. Bennet, of all people, knew how Tristan liked his women: widowed or married, adventurous and willing. Lady Bennet would have an apoplexy if she heard what her own son had proposed.

“Burke.” Bennet quit laughing and grew sober. “Damn it, Tris. My father isn’t here to look after her. I won’t be here. Joan can be troublesome, but she’s not vile, and in the end, she’s my sister; I don’t want her to come to any harm. There’s no one I trust as much as I trust you. I’ll be forever in your debt if you do this for me.”

Tris.
He closed his eyes at the childhood nickname. Bennet had been his friend for almost twenty years, through hardship and misadventure, never once abandoning him like the other mates who’d come and gone. It must surely be considered a mark of that friendship that Bennet didn’t see this as setting a wolf to guard a sheep—not that Miss Bennet struck him as a defenseless lamb . . . more like a surly old ewe, unafraid of anything. But Tristan was very much afraid his instincts toward her tended toward the wolfish nonetheless.

“Very well.” He drew another deep breath and opened his eyes. “I’m just to keep an eye out for her. If she orders me away, I will obey her wishes. Agreed?”

Bennet’s face eased. “Agreed.” He stuck out his hand. “Thank you.”

Hoping he hadn’t made an enormous mistake, Tristan clasped his hand. “Remember you begged me to do this.”

“Of course I will.” Bennet turned back to his packing. “I’ll ask her not to be too sharp with you.”

That wasn’t what I meant
, Tristan thought. He gave a nod, and took himself off before he fell into any more traps.