Lords of Notoriety: The Ruthless Lord Rule / The Toplofty Lord Thorpe

She halted in her tracks momentarily to stare malevolently at a Sevres figurine, seeing Rule’s dark, well-made features rather than the smiling face of an innocent young country maid dressed in pink ruffles. Who does he think he is, she ranted to herself, to be judging me like the Lord on Doomsday? He’s an obtuse, despicable, intolerable, opinionated… Mary turned on her heels and set about pacing once more, unable to continue her thoughts else she’d be forced to throw something.

And it wasn’t bad enough that the man had all but convicted her of spying for the French, oh no—he had also shown her, by his actions of the previous week, that he was not about to do his accusing from the sidelines. Acting as if she had never warned him to approach her again, he had been up to his old tricks, standing up with her for the length of one infuriating dance and then retiring to a nearby pillar to glower at her like some angry ancient god for the remainder of the evening, just as if he expected her to give herself away somehow, proving his ludicrous theory to be correct.

Even worse, everyone was so all-fired afraid of the man. It was almost ridiculous to see all her former beaux defecting from the ranks one by one as they put their tails between their legs and ran from Rule’s intense stares. How was she to have any fun at all if her main amusement—harmless flirting—was to be denied her? What it had come to, she realized as she brought herself up with a start, was that she had only two options open to her—either allowing Rule to court her openly so that she could at least go out in society without feeling like a pariah, or else retiring posthaste to a nunnery!

Crash! It was no use—something had to satisfy Mary’s outrage, and the china maiden had been elected. Staring at the porcelain shards scattered about in the cold fireplace, Mary was angered even more when she realized that she had broken a valuable piece of Sir Henry’s property without the action easing her fury by so much as a jot. Oh, if only she could have Rule here in person; smashing him would be entire worlds more satisfying.

Almost as if she had conjured him up by sheer force of will, she whirled at the sound of the butler’s announcement to see Tristan Rule striding big as life into the drawing room. “You!” she exclaimed, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “What do you want?”

Tristan quickly took in Mary’s flushed cheeks and belligerent stance and impulsively decided to change his mission from that of seeing his aunt to the possibly more profitable one of trying to goad Mary Lawrence into betraying her guilt. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he pronounced in perfect accents, making her an elegant leg.

“It was,” Mary snapped peevishly, and then, sparked by an imp of perversity that she could no more deny than she could her need to breathe, she launched herself into a long, involved speech concerning the growing list of fêtes and receptions planned for the upcoming celebration of peace, all in faultless French. There! If the man wants signs of guilt, I’ll give him signs of guilt until he drowns himself in them!

Tristan could not hide his triumphant smile. The chit spoke French like a native of that country. Even he, trained in several languages, could find nothing to fault in her accent or usage. “Your French tutor must have been an émigré, Miss Lawrence, to have taught you so well,” he offered as bait.

Mary opened her mouth as if to speak, then lifted an anxious hand to her breast and stammered nervously. “Y-yes, yes indeed. How clever of you. That’s precisely who it was. A poor émigré. The wretched creature so needed employment at the time that I ended up having a resident tutor for several years whilst I was in Sussex.” There, she thought, hiding a grin. That should serve to convince him I’m lying through my teeth. Ah, look at him, smiling one of his devilish secretive smiles, just like the cat who got into the cream. I’m surprised he hasn’t already sent for the constable, so sure of himself is he.

“Tristan! What brings you here today? And Mary, why didn’t you have me summoned at once? You know you should not be entertaining a gentleman without a chaperon.”

“Was I?” Mary commented under her breath as she looked apologetically at her companion.

Rachel’s entrance into the room startled Rule into looking up blankly for a moment, and Rachel heaved a small sigh of relief when she realized that her nephew and Mary hadn’t come to fisticuffs before she could place herself as a buffer between their two warlike personalities. “Have you come to see Sir Henry, nephew? He is out at present, but we expect him back directly.”

“He is back,” came Sir Henry’s voice, shortly to be followed by that man’s pudgy presence in the doorway. “Come courting, have you, boy? Since I saw you not an hour ago at the War Office, it can’t be my face you were longing to see.” Sir Henry nodded his head a time or two, a broad smile on his cherubic face. “Good, good. I rather like the idea of Tristan running tame in his house, Rachel. He’s a hotheaded young puppy, but loyal as the day is long, and valuable. You couldn’t make a better choice, Mary, my dear, not if you looked for a dozen Seasons. Right, Rachel?”

Rachel closed her eyes and shook her head, not knowing whether to box Sir Henry’s ears or give him a smacking great kiss on the mouth. But one way or another—due to his foolish blustering—matters were about to come to a head, and Rachel couldn’t be happier. All this scheming and plotting among Mary and her two nieces on the one side and Tristan, aided by his fertile imagination and stubborn tenacity, on the other was sure to lead her to an early grave—and with her novel just begun. At least now either Mary or Tristan, or both of them, would be forced to own to the truth before Sir Henry went posting the banns.

Tristan, however, was not about to look what he saw as a gift horse in the molars. Instead of denying that he was indeed love-bitten, or even running from the house and matrimony in full bachelor flight, he was saying something ridiculously silly about wishing to take the charming Miss Lawrence for a ride in the promenade in order to convince her that he was sincere in his regard for her.

Clearly, Tristan had twisted everything round to his own advantage and could care less what Sir Henry supposed as long as he could proceed unimpeded in his quest to have Mary to himself in order to ascertain once and for all whether or not she was a traitor.

That left Mary, and Rachel turned to look at her appealingly, hoping that the child had reconsidered her plans now that Sir Henry could end up the innocent victim in the affair. But if sane, rational thinking in the face of impending disaster was what Rachel had hoped for, she was due for a disappointment that would keep her up nights for a long time to come.

Mary, hiding her furiously clenched fists behind her back, was just then smiling sweetly and denying nothing. Indeed, she was looking up into Tristan’s handsome features with a look so cloyingly sweet that Rachel knew she, for one, would be put off sugaring her tea for a sennight.

Tilting her head slightly to one side in a move meant to be coquettish, Mary blushed becomingly (a trick she had mastered in her cot) and simpered, “Oh, Sir Henry! Do you think I should? After the marked attentions Lord Rule has been so kind as to show me, I scarce wish the vulgar tattles to have more to prattle about.” She then hesitated, overdoing things a little bit, Rachel thought, by putting her fingers to her mouth and giggling, before admitting, “But I would like to ride up beside Lord Rule above all things!”

“I’ll have your maid bring your cloak and bonnet, Mary,” Rachel volunteered from between clenched teeth, frantic to quit the room before she did either her overacting charge or her sleuthing nephew an injury.

Within ten minutes, a beaming, benevolent Sir Henry and a resigned, realistic Rachel were standing at the front door, waving the young couple on their way.

BY THE TIME THEY ARRIVED in the park, Mary’s good humor had been much restored, thanks to the brilliant idea she’d had as she spied a rather down at the heels frizeur, hatbox in hand, crossing the street in front of them. Catching the Frenchman’s attention by the simple expediency of a maidenly screech supposedly caused by the distressing sight of a rather large, slavering dog, Mary took great pains in gifting the hairdresser with a broad wink and a furtive-looking wave of the hand before hastily pretending an unnatural interest in one fingertip of her right glove.

It is superfluous to report that this supposedly covert signal was witnessed by the ever-alert Tristan, just as any of that man’s enemies would be quick to point out to the assumed-to-be-careless Miss Lawrence.

Filing away a mental picture of the Frenchman before urging his team forward once more, Tristan determined to seek out Mary’s “contact” and question him as soon as possible, a notion that Mary—just then snickering into her gloved hand—found distinctly amusing. Soon, with any luck at all, she’d have Tristan so busy chasing ridiculous false leads all over London that he wouldn’t have a single moment left free to tease her with his unwanted attentions.

If she had any slight qualms about the course of action she had embarked upon since hearing of Tristan’s assumptions about her, his earnest reaction to her pretended message-passing effectively banished the last of her more tender feelings.

But it would not do to have this thing all onesided. As Jennie had said, it was time Tristan learned just how it felt to be pursued like some helpless deer hunted in a fenced wood. Yes, it was time she started giving him a hint or two about her own, deliberately amateurish investigation of his loyalties.

She began the moment Rule’s curricle was eased into line behind a dowager countess’s rusty black barouche, ready to take their part in the late-afternoon promenade. “You understood my French quite well, my lord,” she began innocently enough. “Perhaps you too have a French émigré as a tutor?”

This seemingly artlessly posed query brought surprising results. Not accustomed to being questioned on his personal life, Rule answered her question with one of his own. “Why do you ask?” he shot back quickly.

Mary took refuge in another girlish giggle. Goodness, the man was touchy! “Lud, my lord,” she needled him, “anyone would think you had learned your French at Boney’s knee, for all you’re so ticklish about the subject. I told you about my tutor; surely your knowledge of the language was not gained through some nefarious means, was it?”

What the deuce was the girl up to? Tristan pretended to concentrate on his horses while he cudgeled his brain for an answer. She was only playacting at being a brainless ninny; he was not so obtuse as to not see through her pretense, but he was at a loss as to why.

Besides, it was he who had questions that needed answering not she. She was the one with no traceable background, just as if she had been hatched full-grown from an egg three months earlier. It was she who had installed herself snugly in Sir Henry’s house, hoodwinking that poor, naïve man with her deadly charms; she who could be anyone from Sir Henry’s by-blow to Bonaparte’s first cousin. She was the one who had some serious explaining to do, and he was not about to allow her to turn the tables on him and try to make him England’s fiercest patriot, into a person of questionable allegiance.

Turning in his seat, the better to see her reaction to his words, Tristan smiled broadly, saying, “Why, Miss Lawrence, what an odd imagination you have. Nefarious French lessons? You didn’t strike me as one of those females who’s addicted to those novels full of dark danger and imperiled innocents adrift in a cruel world.”

Mary dug her fingernails into her palms until she could control her urge to do Lord Rule an injury. Then, returning his smile just as brilliantly, she trilled, “But Lord Rule, your own aunt is penning just such a novel. Surely you must hold her in disgust if your opinion of her chosen medium is so very low?”

“My aunt is merely filling her time until Sir Henry wakes up and realizes he cannot risk losing Rachel a second time and makes her his wife. I’ll not begrudge her this little hobby if it makes her happy,” he ended, just as if he had anything at all to say about the running of Rachel’s life.

Looking around at the greening landscape and seeing everything through a red haze of anger, Mary found herself amazed yet again at the maddening way Lord Rule had of putting everything and everybody into neat little boxes, then labeling them as he saw fit. It was as if he had inherited some of Jennie’s matchmaking tendencies—his cousin’s burning desire to settle everyone happily into perfectly fitting niches—and some of his cousin Lucy’s single-minded determination in following through on any project once undertaken, no matter what the odds, as well as more than his fair share of Lucy’s tendency to meddle in whatever she considered to be her business.

What Mary had yet to fully understand was that Tristan—being the male of the species and therefore more prone to looking upon his less desirable traits as sterling qualities—had grown into manhood with his determination hardening into firm, unwavering resolve, while his wish to settle people changed into managing interference and his natural curiosity about his fellowman twisted into suspicion and mistrust of those he could not neatly categorize. And all of this had happened because no one had ever yet had sufficient courage to tell him he was fast becoming an opinionated, arrogant, fire-breathing Don Quixote—out to right the world’s wrongs as he was so clearly, in his own mind, called upon to do.

Having been deeply involved with the defense of his country for the past seven years, his talents (or failings, depending on whom you applied to for a judgment) had been honed and refined until he felt himself able to judge and mentally file away a man within mere minutes of making his acquaintance. He did not give any credence to hearsay or rumor—and paid only a little more attention to the official documents he was frequently provided with to use as a guide—choosing instead to make up his own mind in his own way. In this manner he had decided that, seeing that Lucy trusted Julian, the man was obviously innocent of any involvement with the death of a young woman who had claimed to be his discarded mistress.

Yet, perversely, he had decided that Mary Lawrence—vouched for by his trusted superior, Sir Henry—a girl of no background who had popped up in the household of the same so-important Sir Henry, was a very dangerous woman. The unnerving way his skin tightened at the mere sight of her; the tendency the hair at the back of his head had of bristling—tingling his scalp—at the sound of her unaffected laugh; the unnatural talent she had for bewitching all who came within her charmed circle; everything about Mary Lawrence screamed out at him danger—danger.

Although he could not, if pressed, produce a single damning piece of evidence to support his theory, Rule stuck buckle and thong to his initial conclusion—either in deference to his seldom-off-target intuition or because of that inborn streak of stubbornness, not even he was able to say. All he knew was that in all his nine and twenty years of living, he had never before experienced this sense of very real personal danger that he felt every time he stood up for the waltz with Mary Lawrence.

His life had for many years depended 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?”