Mr. Marlow stepped up close to him, until Tristan could fairly feel the fury radiating in waves from him. “I give you fair warning. Stay. Away. From. Sarah. Or I swear to you, on the affection I have for her, I will destroy you.”
The man was on the point of breaking. Yet he held back. It spoke well of him and the control he had of the baser side of himself. Tristan cheered within, even as without he took on a haughty expression. “You would not dare to threaten me, sir.”
“I would. Sarah is kind, and good. She is the most wonderful girl I have ever known. And you are a snake who would destroy her.”
“Then perhaps you should have secured her for yourself,” Tristan sneered.
At the stunned look on the man’s face, Tristan touched his brim in a vaguely mocking manner and left.
He strolled down the street, forcing his posture and steps to remain casual even as the back of his neck burned. Any minute he expected the man to come at him and beat him to a bloody pulp. And he wouldn’t blame him one bit if he did. For he had acted reprehensibly. Even thinking of it now, at the horrible things he had let slip from his mouth, he felt a horrified shame so profound he was surprised he did not melt right into the pavement. But, he told himself, it was all for the greater good.
After a time he felt he was far enough away that he was safe from the man’s wrath. At least for now. Yet what to do? He pursed his lips as he made his way back up Sloane Street. Things were progressing with Miss Gladstow much faster than he had planned. Not to mention his increasingly disturbing—and arousing—reactions to the outrageous and much too tempting Miss Merriweather.
At thoughts of that lady, he stumbled. Frowning mightily, he took firm control of himself and hurried on. He was far too affected by her for his peace of mind. He could only be glad that his close interactions with the maddening woman would soon be at an end. At least, that was what he told himself. He would ignore the pang of regret that accompanied it, as well as the rebellious salute his body gave whenever he thought of the chit.
Yes, it was a good thing this whole debacle was soon at an end. Now with Mr. Marlow’s presence in London, it provided him the impetus he needed to bring the whole plan to the next stage.
It was time, he decided, for a little pre-ball visit to Lord and Lady Jasper’s. For tonight things would be settled, for good or ill.
• • •
“You are back.”
Rosalind started. The echoing sound of Mrs. Gladstow’s voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, the cavernous front hall of the ostentatious townhouse the family had let for the Season carrying the biting tone into every recess.
Beside her, Miss Gladstow faltered in removing her bonnet, her fingers becoming hopelessly tangled in the ribbons. Rosalind hurried to her, working at the knot. The girl’s skin was pale, her hands trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered as Rosalind freed the bonnet from her head and handed it over to the waiting butler.
Sharp steps sounded. Soon Mrs. Gladstow was before them. Her face was composed, if chill. Her eyes, however, blazed.
“And where, may I ask, is Sir Tristan?”
A strangled sound issued from Miss Gladstow’s throat.
“He had an appointment he could not miss,” Rosalind was quick to say. “He sends his regards, and his apologies, and says he will see us this evening at Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball.”
She had meant to deflect the woman from Miss Gladstow. Her plan of mercy, however, backfired splendidly. Mrs. Gladstow spun on her. “I do not believe I asked you, Miss Merriweather.” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I do hope you were not monopolizing the good baronet’s attentions. Such a complete disregard for the very explicit instructions I gave you would be unforgivable.”
“No, ma’am. Of course not. I would never be so idiotic as to do something that would endanger my position. I followed your instructions to the letter. You can be assured, I take them very seriously—”
The older woman held up a hand. “Enough,” she snapped, before closing her eyes and letting out a sharp breath as if pained. “Dear me, but your babbling would try the patience of a saint.”
She remained that way for a time, her mouth working. Rosalind could have sworn she was counting. She looked to Miss Gladstow in confusion. Should they continue to stand there, waiting for the woman to acknowledge them again? Should they escape?
Miss Gladstow seemed equally uncertain. She stared in horrified fascination at her mother, as if she were watching a dragon egg and expected the beast to pop out and burn her to a cinder.
Mrs. Gladstow seemed to recover in an instant. “Sarah!” she barked.
The poor girl jumped nearly a foot. “Yes, Mama?”
“You will go to your room now. Call for Betty. She can begin readying you for Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball this evening.”
The girl did as she was bid with alacrity. She was not quick enough to escape the remnants of her mother’s wrath, however.
Mrs. Gladstow’s hand shot out, capturing her daughter’s wrist in a punishing grip. The girl did not so much as cry out. That did not stop Rosalind from wincing as she eyed the pointed tips of the woman’s fingers pressing into Miss Gladstow’s tender flesh. She had been the recipient of that cruel manacle herself more than once.
“You will encourage Sir Tristan Crosby tonight, do you hear me, girl?” she hissed.
Miss Gladstow gaped at her mother, her eyes wide and horrified. “Sir Tristan doesn’t care about me in such a manner, Mama.”
