Her face whipped back to him. “What do you know about my circumstances?” Her tone was sharp.
“You’re not a simple nurse. You’re not just another employee of the Den. You’re not like me. You’re a bridal prospect for one of these gentlemen, which means the social norms of your station should be upheld. I cannot treat you like I did before. It would not be appropriate.”
She scoffed. “My father is a vicar in a small, impoverished village.”
A vicar? His father had wanted him to join the clergy, but religion had never sat well with Tristan. He’d become a soldier instead—which wasn’t all that different. He’d still taken orders from a higher power. If she were just a vicar’s daughter and he still had Lark Hall, he’d be a respectable choice for a husband.
He bit the inside of his cheek. “Be that as it may...”
She laced her gloved fingers together. “I’m not better than you. I’m not better than anyone.”
She shook her head like she couldn’t fathom the idea that they were too different.
“Flick, it doesn’t matter. We should get to the matter at hand.”
She looked back over the floor. “All of these men seem... old.”
“The younger set will come in later. I wanted you to get a feel forthe environment. Get comfortable with the varied chaos.”
“It doesn’t seem too ribald.”
“Not yet.”
“Yet? What happens later?”
“Some would say rousing amusement and sophisticated debauchery. But the truth is men come to waste money doing stupid things.”
“You really don’t like gambling.”
“No. It cost me far too much.”
She studied him. Her eyes a mere glint behind her mask. “What did it cost?”
“That’s my secret to bear. As yours belongs to you.”
She dropped her chin and guilt stabbed at him. What was he doing? Why was he acting like a blackguard? Because she’d been acting too, and it bloody hurt his feelings. Useless feelings he didn’t want to be bothered with, but there they were, downtrodden and forlorn over a woman he couldn’t have. She could have told him, at least. He was the widow’s master spy. If anyone could keep her secrets, it was him, but she hadn’t trusted him. He was used to the widow being cryptic with information, but Flick? She’d been a sorrowful, beautiful young woman with an open heart, and he’d come to look forward to the challenge of making her smile at least once a day.
She had not intentionally fooled him, he knew that. But his sole purpose was to protect her, and she hadn’t trusted him. That was the wound he carried. He may not be a saint, but he had thought she trusted him, spoke more freely in front of him. All those things had made him feel like more than the spy, the shadow, the widow’s dog. Watching over her had felt like something worthy of doing. That there was something there that could grow—something light and beautiful to warm his cold, dark heart.
A riot of laughter drifted up from the floor. Someone had made a bet, not on a table, but challenging another to a—Tristan leaned over the railing to better hear the particulars.
“The first to finish a bottle wins the dancer.”
“Those are the only two bottles in existence, my lord,” the waiter said. “They’re fifty years old.”
“And twice your yearly income, Sanders,” the first gentleman said.
The room quieted as the widow appeared at the top of the stairs, her black dress as elegant as it was somber. Her lace veil shielded her from prying eyes and added an air of otherworldliness as it gently swayed as she descended the stairs. She held the room captive.
“It’s only whisky,” Sanders said, flustered.
“It is the rarest Caledonia Highland Whisky and one of my favorites,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I won’t have it wasted on you.”
“Then the bourbon,” his challenger said.
Sanders narrowed his eyes. “Hardly worth the challenge.”
Tristan rolled his eyes. Flick briefly glanced at him and leaned back in her chair, taking her attention away from the spectacle below.
