Chapter 15
Put nothing past me, sir.
No, Tristan recalled ruefully as he helped Grace and Rosalind into his carriage the following evening, he certainly wouldn’t.
Grace adjusted her skirts, smiling at him as he vaulted inside and closed the door. “I am so glad I changed my plans tonight. Lord Avery’s musicale sounds much more diverting than the little dinner party we had planned on attending. Miss Merriweather made it sound quite exciting.”
“Did she now?” he murmured, shooting that woman a look. She smiled smugly at him. He tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of her abilities. He should be furious, of course, should denounce her to Grace as a scheming baggage. But he could not help feeling a grudging admiration. The woman was not one to be trifled with, that was certain.
“So tell me,” Grace went on, clearly oblivious to the roiling tension filling the carriage, “is it true Lord Avery is notorious for his singers?”
“Yes.” Tristan cleared his throat, focusing with all his might on Grace, doing his best to ignore Rosalind and her self-satisfied grin. “They are all brilliant to a one, of course. His ear for all things musical is exceptional, which is the main draw of his events. His ear for accents, however, is deplorable. It seems anyone can convince him they’re from Italy.”
Grace chuckled. “Well, if anything the evening shall prove to be enjoyable.” She launched into a list of the entertainments she had managed to see during her years in Scotland. Tristan did his best to focus on his cousin and remain unfazed by the watchful miss across from him. No easy task. Rosalind was entirely too pleased with herself. He was now positive that her threats from the past night had not been empty. She would stick to his side like a burr.
The irony of the situation did not elude him. In attempting to find something to distract himself from Rosalind, he had ensured he would be in her company for the foreseeable future.
He briefly considered abandoning the whole project. Miss Weeton was not the only young lady in London, after all, who could use his help. But he knew in his heart he would not. For one, Rosalind’s attentions were not limited to Miss Weeton; she had stated quite emphatically that she planned to look out foranyfemale he paid attention to. But also, after the short conversation with Miss Weeton last night, he was drawn to her cause. She was sweet and sensitive. And the dreaded cousin her parents were considering marrying her off to should she fail this Season—a distant relation she had met but once as a child—sounded a taciturn brute who would drain all life from her. The girl needed help. He pressed his lips tight. And he would not let Rosalind and her misplaced honor interfere.
They arrived then and, after descending to the pavement, made their way into the brightly-lit townhome. As luck would have it, Miss Weeton and her family were milling about the front hall.
No, he would not give up on the girl. But he did not want to intentionally place her in Rosalind’s path. Tristan put his head down, planning on forging ahead straight to the music room and securing their seats. There were enough guests between them and the Weetons that it would not seem suspect to bypass them. Hopefully Rosalind would be too distracted to notice the young lady.
But luck, that faithless hussy, was not with Tristan that night. For Rosalind stopped dead in the middle of the cavernous hall and remarked, in a carrying voice, “Sir Tristan, is that not Miss Weeton, the lady you met last night?”
Several conversations faltered, numerous sets of eyes swinging their way. Miss Weeton’s among them.
Seeing no way out of greeting the lady, Tristan forced a smile and guided Grace and Rosalind over. Before they reached the younglady and her family, however, he dipped slightly in Rosalind’s direction, saying through gritted teeth in a low, tense voice, “I know what you’re about, you minx.”
“I know you do,” she whispered back. “I also know you absolutely hate it. Which is an added bonus, really.”
He choked on a laugh. Really, the woman never failed to surprise him. Granted, most of her surprises were unwelcome in the extreme. Still, he had to give her credit for creativity.
“Miss Weeton,” he said with a bow, “it is an absolute pleasure to see you again.”
The young woman, a tall, thin creature with severely styled hair pulled back from her pale face, smiled and dipped into a curtsy. “Sir Tristan, the pleasure is mine. I did not know I would see you this evening.”
“Oh yes, I never miss Lord Avery’s musicales. For though the singer he chooses is always a draw, I never fail to find something else to recommend the occasion to me.”
She blushed, her smile widening. In the next moment her mother’s elbow connected with her side. She jumped, giving a squawk of surprise. Her delicate blush turned to flaming mortification. “But forgive me, I’m being rude. Please allow me to introduce my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Weeton of Derbyshire. Mama, Papa, this is Sir Tristan Crosby. I met him last evening at Lady Harper’s.”
Tristan bowed, gifting the girl’s parents with his most charming smile. “Your daughter is a lovely dance partner,” he said.
Mrs. Weeton blushed and stammered, her husband smiling benignly at his daughter.
And Rosalind’s small heel found his foot.
He shot her an annoyed glare. She returned it with an impatient one of her own. Did she think he would forget her? Hardly. He was painfully aware of where she was every minute of every blasted day.
“Please allow me to introduce my cousin, Lady Belham,” he said, purposely turning his back on Rosalind, facing Grace on his left. He fought back a grin at the small huff of annoyance behind him.“Grace, this is Miss Weeton and her parents. I was lucky enough to meet and dance with Miss Weeton last night.”
This time Rosalind’s shoe connected with his calf with a surprising amount of force. Tristan could take a bit of pain—he had been brought up by his father, after all, who had been stingy with neither the whip nor the cruelty of his words—and would have delayed acknowledging Rosalind forever if he could manage it.
But he was not an uncivilized brute. He turned to Rosalind. “And this is my cousin’s companion, Miss Rosalind Merriweather,” he muttered.
To his shock, Rosalind stepped forward, holding out her hand to the young lady. “It is such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Weeton. I was most anxious to make your acquaintance, you see, for Sir Tristan has nothing but praise for you.”
Miss Weeton stared down at Rosalind as if she were a feral cat about to attack. Eventually she took the proffered hand. “Thank you.”
