Leslie Lafoy (29 page)

“What?” Simone teased. “You don’t want to check the warehouse inventory again?”

Her smile was soft and not the least bit innocent. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder. At least that’s what they say.”

“I don’t know, Emmy,” she countered, chuckling. “There’s another funeral tomorrow and one the day after that. They’ll take all day. Are you sure you should be that absent from Mr. Gregory’s mind? What if he has a short memory?”

Emmy grinned. “Oh, he’s not likely to forget me for a very long time.”

“Or at least until he has his glasses repaired.”

Her friend laughed. “I’ve made a note to be more careful about that in the future.” Motioning toward the parlor door, she added, “Shall we? I’ve had coffee and pastries sent back to the conservatory.”

Together they made their way to the rear of the house, Emmy chattering away about painting and Simone silently noting the changes along the way. There was a lot of furniture missing. Either Lady Lockwood was furnishing a second house or she’d bought every damn jewel in London.

“I don’t think Tristan will be joining us for any more painting sessions. I hope you’re not too disappointed,” Emmy said as they entered the greenhouse.

The hair on the back of her neck prickling, Simone dodged the personal aspects of the comment by replying, “I imagine that he’s very busy with his business since the
Maggie
came into port. Painting couldn’t be anywhere near the top of his list of daily priorities.”

“Well, it might be partly that,” Emmy allowed, heading for the tea cart beside her easel. “Mostly, I think, it’s a matter of him not wanting to risk having an encounter with Mother.”

Yes, considering how unpleasant the one encounter between them that Simone had witnessed had been …

Dear God, Tristan had been spot-on about Emmy’s artistic abilities. She did look like a monkey on a mangled cushion. Actually, though, now that she looked closer, the cushion wasn’t nearly as mangled as the monkey was. If Emmy insisted on gifting Drayton and Caroline with her masterpiece,
she’d
have to insist on a family gathering around the burn barrel.

“Did you know that that Sarah person came to see Mother the other morning? The day of Lord Sandifer’s funeral.”

Sarah? Caught by surprise, Simone slowly unbuttoned her pelisse and considered what she knew and what she could admit to knowing. Given that Tristan had said that he was trying to shelter his sister from as much of the ugliness as he could, she was very much obliged to do the same.

“She came to tell Mother that she’s carrying Tristan’s child.”

“Really,” Simone offered noncommittally, draping the pelisse over the back of the chair. She joined Emmy at the serving cart, casually asking, “And does your mother believe the story?”

“Mother always believes the worst when it comes to Tristan.”

“Why? Hasn’t he been kind to her since his return from America?”

“If I didn’t exist, he wouldn’t have given her so much as a bent farthing. He and Mother loathe each other.”

Yes, she’d gathered that quite easily. But commenting on it was another matter entirely. Choosing her words carefully, she ventured, “They were made related by what must have been difficult circumstances for both of them. I’m sure they both had resentments that—”

“They didn’t openly hate each other until Mother tried to seduce Tristan and he told Papa about it.”

“Oh.” God, what else was there to say? It had to have been a spectacularly ugly moment, an event well beyond the pale even by Lunatic Lockwood standards.

“Papa and Tristan had a horrific row over it and Tristan left for America. Mother’s never forgiven him for turning her down and he’s never forgiven her for driving him into exile.”

“I have no idea what to say,” Simone confessed. “It’s all so awful, Emmy.”

“It was. Papa accused Mother of all sorts of ugly things. He even said that I wasn’t really his child.”

“Oh, Emmy. How painful that must have been.”

Emmy shrugged and handed her a cup of coffee. “He didn’t live with us, so I didn’t have to face him. That was good. But he cut our allowance to almost nothing, and that was terribly difficult. Every time we sat down to a meal of bread and butter, Mother would damn Tristan to hell and back for what he’d done to us.”

“But it wasn’t Tristan’s fault,” Simone protested.

“That’s not the way Mother sees it,” Emmy said with a dry, brittle laugh. She shuddered and then found a smile that struck Simone as being amazingly bright under the circumstances.

“Well, enough of depressing conversation,” her friend said cheerily. “Would you care for a strawberry or an apricot pastry?”

“Strawberry, I suppose,” Simone answered, her mind still reeling from all that Emmy had told her. A childhood spent in the streets and in brothels had been lean and hungry and at times mean, but at least it had been honest and consistent. To have been a child growing up in a fine house with all the genteel trappings of the peerage and have all of it be a cruel lie … It really was a wonder that Emmy could smile at all. She was a much stronger person than anyone would have guessed.

“Simone?”

She blinked and focused on her friend. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”

“I could tell,” Emmy said softly. “Sad thoughts. Please don’t let it all trouble you. Mother can insist all she likes, but Tristan is going to do as Tristan pleases. If he doesn’t want to marry that Sarah woman, he won’t. Scandal means nothing to Tristan.”

She nodded, remembering what he’d told her about Sarah’s circumstances and the solution he and Noland had found. Should she tell Emmy about it? Or would Tristan prefer that his sister be sheltered from the particulars of that situation, too? She sipped her coffee while trying to decide.

“Why don’t you have a seat on the chaise, Simone? I’m afraid it’s going to cloud over soon. We shouldn’t waste good light while we have it.”

Well, since Emmy didn’t seem to expect her to comment on the matter of Sarah and Tristan … Carrying her cup and saucer and strawberry pastry to the chaise, Simone pondered the reason she didn’t feel as relieved as she would have expected. There wasn’t going to be a scandal where Sarah was concerned. Nor, thanks to Noland, was Sarah in any danger from Lucinda. Lucinda who had existed on the edge of poverty until she’d bought revenge in the form of insurance policies.

And who, according to Emmaline, still to this day blamed Tristan for her having had to resort to such cold-blooded ruthlessness. No wonder Tristan had said Lucinda would want to make his death a personal thing. It would have been nice if he’d considered it necessary to explain the reason, though. If he had, she wouldn’t have been caught absolutely flat-footed this morning.

God, what a bizarre family Tristan came from. In comparison, hers seemed positively, boringly normal. No wonder he considered a ship his home and the crews his family. Lord knew they were more than he’d ever had outside of them. Running off to America had probably been the best thing he could have ever done for himself.

Why he’d bothered to come back, though … If she’d been in his shoes, she wouldn’t have. She’d have left Lucinda to squander her ill-gotten fortune on furniture and jewelry and end up right back in poverty. And she certainly wouldn’t have trotted home and made it easier for the woman to kill her for even more money.

Of course, factoring Emmy into the situation did make a difference. A considerable one. Emmy, completely innocent of any wrongdoing, had endured the hard years in Tristan’s absence. And in the larger picture of her mother’s scheming, Emmy stood a very good chance of ending up just as dead as the males of her family. If Tristan had returned for any logical reason at all, it had to have been to protect his sister.

Yes, Tristan was a very good man. Even if their affair eventually faded and they drifted away from each other, she’d at least have a wonderful standard against which to measure all the men who might ask for her consideration. Simone sighed. They were all going to fall so very, very short.

If only it were a perfect world. Their affair would never end. Tristan would realize that he loved her and get down on one knee, gaze adoringly up at her, pledge his undying devotion, and then beg her to marry him. They’d marry, have a houseful of babies, and be forever and always happy.

She chuckled and shook her head to dispel the ridiculous image. There was no such thing as perfect. No forever and always happy. People snored, passed gas, scratched, and burped. Well, ladies burped. Men belched. Rather proudly. Babies puked. And did all sorts of other, equally foul things.

God,
she thought, setting her cup aside.
I must be more tired than I thought if all that sounds good. I wonder if Emmy would notice if I dozed off for a little while and collected my wits.

*   *   *

Tristan shook the merchant’s hand, thanked him again for the hefty purchase, and then watched him walk out the door. As it closed, Tristan turned to his clerk. “When you deposit that money into the account, make sure to hold enough out to have your glasses repaired.”

Gregory slipped the check inside his lap desk, saying only, “Yes, sir.”

“How did they get so badly bent? Were you in a brawl?”

He set aside his desk and removed the spectacles from his face. Making an attempt to straighten the wire earpieces, he replied, “I forgot I had them in my coat pocket yesterday when I leaned into a crate to check the contents against the manifest.”

Well, as stories went, it was a good one. Not believable, but good. “So why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing, sir.”

“Trust me, Gregory,” he pressed, grinning. “I’m not blind. And you’re blushing beet red. What’s the real story of how your glasses ended up bent double and twisted sideways?”

Gregory pulled at his collar and struggled to clear his throat. Looking out the office window, he finally managed to say, “They were in my pocket when I was caught unaware by a young lady.”

Ah, closer to the truth, but not quite there yet.
“Any young lady I might happen to know?”

Gregory groaned, “Oh, God, sir.”

“Would it happen to have been my sister who assaulted you?”

“I’m sure it was entirely my fault,” the man said on a single rush of air. “I must have done something to lead her to believe that I would be interested in—”

“Stop,” Tristan said quietly, interrupting the torrent of guilt. “I’ve known you longer than I’ve known my sister. You couldn’t invite a ravaging if you had written instructions to follow.”

“Under different circumstances, I’d be insulted.”

“Yes, well,” Tristan said, chuckling. “Even under other circumstances, it’d still be the truth. You’re every Society mother’s dream come true. Handsome, well-spoken, respectable, and without a single predatory bone in your body.”

“I beg to differ, sir. When properly inspired—”

The look of horror on the man’s face … It took every bit of self-control Tristan possessed not to laugh. “Oh, the cat’s out of the bag, Gregory. You might as well finish the thought.”

“I’ll marry her, sir,” he said bravely. “It’s the only decent thing to do.”

Tristan sucked his lower lip into his mouth and caught it between his teeth. When he had his amusement under control, he cleared his throat and asked, “Were you an altar boy?”

“I’m a Methodist. We don’t have altar boys. Just candlelighters.”

“You were a candlelighter, weren’t you?”

Gregory straightened his spine and squared his shoulders. “Sir, you’re making this exceedingly difficult. I’m trying very hard to be honorable.”

“And I appreciate the effort, Gregory,” he assured him. “But unless you’ve fallen madly in love with Emmaline, I don’t think marrying her is a particularly wise course of action.”

“Why ever not? Your sister has been kissed!”

“Kissed?” he repeated, fighting back the bubble of laughter. “That’s all? Just kissed?”

“Rather soundly!”

If he’d had to marry for a kiss, he’d have been at the altar at the ripe old age of twelve. “For godsakes, Gregory, a kiss does not a compromise make. Forget it happened. I’ll speak with Em and make sure she understands that she needs to behave herself in the future.”

“I feel just terrible, sir.”

“I can tell. And it’s a groundless—”

The bell over the door jangled and Tristan turned to see Noland coming across the threshold. All thoughts of his sister fled at the sight of the bandage wrapping his friend’s head, the black eye, the mashed nose.

“Clearly you’re not all right,” Tristan said, looking him up and down for further damage. There wasn’t much relief at seeing nothing more. “What happened?”

“We were waylaid on the post road. Just south of London.”

“Sit down before you fall down,” Tristan commanded, picking up an office chair and putting it in Noland’s path. “When? And what happened to Sarah?”

“Very early this morning,” he supplied, gingerly lowering himself to the seat. “We left London late yesterday afternoon and stayed overnight at an inn along the way. We’d gone only five miles or so this morning when the coach was attacked. My driver tried to outrun them, with disastrous consequences. The carriage overturned.”

“Jesus.”

“I was revived some time later by Good Samaritans who had found me sprawled in the ditch. My driver was some distance back along the road, an arm and a leg badly broken, but thankfully still alive. I couldn’t find Miss Sheraton anywhere.”

“Perhaps she wandered off in search of help,” Gregory posed.

Tristan waited, knowing the answer wasn’t going to be as simple or as hopeful.

“All of her baggage was gone,” Noland supplied, confirming his worst expectations. “It was as though she had never been there at all. I made inquiries all along the way back to London. No one has seen her.”

“I’ll bet Lucinda has,” Tristan declared, taking his coat off the wall peg. He was shoving his arms into the sleeves when Noland struggled to his feet. “Stay right there,” Tristan ordered. “I’ll do this on my own.”

“No, you won’t,” Noland countered, wobbling a bit before finding his balance. “No matter what happens, you’re best served by the presence of a witness.”