Yet Rosalind could not help feeling a deep-seated suspicion that she had been completely fooled by a rake with azure eyes.
• • •
After witnessing the pretty picture Miss Gladstow and her Mr. Marlow had made while declaring their undying—and, if he had to be honest, frightfully overdue—love for one another, Tristan knew he should be celebrating. All his planning had panned out, after all. Today, especially, his talents had been put to the test. It had taken more than a bit of maneuvering—and a good amount of flirting with Lady Jasper—to secure an invitation for Mr. Marlow to the ball, along with a note from Lady Jasper herself indicating her wishes for the dear friend of Miss Gladstow to attend. Even after it had been sent off, Tristan had not been at all sure the man had come to his senses enough to realize he loved the girl. Nor did he think Mr. Marlow would be able to put aside his pride to come and claim her. And he did seem the prideful sort, those who let it control them to a fault.
But, thank the heavens, the man had come. And had responded splendidly to Tristan’s attentions to Miss Gladstow. There was nothing like a bit of competition to make a man realize where his heart truly lay.
Really, the night had been a smashing success. Tristan, however, was far too distracted to enjoy his little victory. For instead of reveling in the memory of Mr. Marlow’s declarations and the moment when he claimed Miss Gladstow for his own, he saw only Miss Merriweather’s troubled brown eyes.
His carriage pulled up to the curb outside Lord and Lady Jasper’s then. He gave his directions to the driver before vaulting inside. As he settled back against the squabs, he prayed his club would provide him with the distraction he needed to forget Miss Merriweather. But he was fairly positive nothing on God’s green earth would help him in that.
What had happened to her to haunt her so? What had affected her to the degree that she had nearly lost her composure right there in the middle of the ballroom? He had come to know something of the woman in the last two weeks. One thing he could safely say about her (despite her frustrating propensity to speak her mind on any and every occasion) was she was no wilting blossom. No, despite her diminutive stature and delicate appearance, she had a will of steel. He could think of nothing that would have laid the lady low to such a degree.
The carriage pulled up to his club. Tucking Miss Merriweather to the back of his mind, he descended to the pavement and strode in. She was not his concern, after all. And she had appeared well when he’d left, had seemed back to her normal, suspicious self.
In fact, she had seemed even more suspicious than usual. He frowned as he climbed the stairs. Surely she had not seen what he had been about with Miss Gladstow and her beau. A moment later and he shrugged the concern away. Even if she had, he needn’t see her again in such close quarters. No, his time with Miss Merriweather, of him squirming under that too-knowing gaze of hers, was at an end. He would put all thoughts of her from his head and thoroughly enjoy his success from that evening. What better way than to find some of his friends and get thoroughly drunk?
“Ho there, Crosby,” a jovial voice called out as he entered the Coffee Room. Tristan turned to spy a contingent of his friends crowded about a table. By the looks of it they had not only made their way through a goodly amount of fine food, but were pleasantly inebriated, and well on their way to becoming stinking drunk if the waiter delivering a full bottle of liquor to them was any indication.
Tristan grinned. Seek and ye shall find, and all that.
“I didn’t expect to come across you lot still here,” he remarked as he sank into an empty chair. “Shouldn’t you be out finding some pleasant females to cozy up to?”
Lord Fergus let out a snort and threw back his drink. “I’m on the lookout for a new mistress m’self.” He gave Tristan a considering look. “Though it looks like you might be ready for something more.”
Tristan accepted a glass of whiskey from one of his friends and raised an eyebrow at Fergus. “And here I thought you were still sober enough to make sense.”
“Oh, I’m plenty sober,” Fergus replied, a crafty glint entering his eyes. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been panting after those wallflowers lately, Crosby. You’ve managed to become close to Miss Gladstow of late. She’s, what, the third or fourth debutante to catch your eye since the fall?” He grinned. “Any luck there then?”
“She’s a friend and nothing more,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. His eyes scanned the other men as he did so, not surprised to see the amusement on their faces. He mentally shrugged. He knew he was seen as a flighty sort of fellow, that his quicksilver changes in attention would not be seen as out of character. As long as the women he was helping didn’t suffer for it, he didn’t give a good damn that people chuckled over his seemingly changeable affections.
“Pretend all you want,” Fergus said knowingly.
Tristan rolled his eyes. “You’re an ass. If you had been at the Jaspers’ ball tonight, you would have seen that Mr. David Marlow declared himself to Miss Gladstow not an hour ago.” He looked at Fergus over the rim of his glass and said clearly and distinctly, so the matter would not be questioned in the future. “She seems to reciprocate his feelings. And I am very happy for her.”
“Tough luck for you,” Fergus replied, undaunted. “Though the gal is homely as hell, she’s got a tidy little sum attached to her. A man could put up with a bit of ugly for that.”
Fury, a rare emotion for Tristan, boiled up fierce and hot. He placed his glass down hard on the table and leaned forward. In an instant the men in the surrounding area went silent. Fergus’s eyes widened in alarm.
“I will not hear you speak ill of Miss Gladstow, or any other female, in my hearing again. Is that clear?”
Fergus swallowed audibly. “Y-yes. Of course. My apologies.”
Tristan eyed him severely for a moment before, with a nod of his head, he sat back and took up his drink again. The change in the atmosphere was instantaneous, the tension gone as quickly as it had come.
“So,” he said to the table at large, “what were you all discussing before I came along?”
“Women, what else?” Lord Kingston, Rafe to his nearest and dearest, said with a grin. “Denby here has got his eye on someone and won’t tell us who.”
Denby, younger than the rest and still a bit in awe of the whole London scene, blushed scarlet. “There’s nothing to tell, for she won’t give me the time of day.”
Rafe turned to Tristan. “We’ve gone through all the popular actresses, courtesans, and singers. The lad isn’t showing his hand.”
“I begin to think his lady love is respectable,” Fergus said in mock horror. When Denby’s blush deepened, Fergus let out a surprised bark of laughter. “What ho! Have we struck a nerve Denby? Never say you’re thinking of pursuing a virgin. That way lies only ruin and despair in the guise of holy matrimony.”
“You’re an ass, Fergus,” Denby muttered into his drink.
Tristan held up a hand. “She needn’t be a virgin, you know. She could be married?” He eyed the boy for a moment, seeking a tell. When none came a sly grin spread over his face. “Or a widow.”