“It’s not terror,” Bennet exclaimed. “I just—just— It’s just not wise to rouse her temper, that’s all. It’s more peaceful.” Then he frowned. “Did Joan complain of her as well?”
The servant held out the cravat, neatly pressed again. “Wasn’t your sister sneaking out after she came to your home the other day? I gathered it was in defiance of your mother’s wishes, yet all she did was stroll up Bond Street. And you can’t refuse so much as a request that you attend a certain ball.” He began knotting the cravat, keeping his eyes on the looking glass the servant held up. “I suppose one might understand an unmarried lady being kept close by her mother,” he added. “But you’re a grown man. Buck up, old chap. Appeasement leads to subjugation.”
Bennet snorted. “As if you’d know! Free as a bird, your entire life.”
Tristan pulled the loose end of the cravat through the knot and stabbed a pin through it. “Yes, free from all that parental oversight that chafes you so.” Also free from any sort of loving home, but he forbore to mention it. His parents had been dead so long, he couldn’t even remember them. For all he knew, his mother might have been worse than Bennet’s.
“It certainly never appeared that you minded!” Bennet clapped him on the back, apparently restored to good humor. “Just trust me—it’s easier to appease Mother. I danced with the girl, everyone was satisfied, and now I’m free again.”
“Did you like the girl?”
Bennet blinked. “What?”
“Did you like the girl?” Tristan repeated, pulling on his jacket. “If you’re going to waltz with a girl, you might as well enjoy it.”
The other man stared at him, then burst out laughing. “Bloody hell! You don’t have to like a girl to like waltzing with her. Miss Drummond is nothing like the females I prefer—you know that. I might as well ask you if you enjoyed dancing with my sister!”
He should have laughed. He should have agreed wholeheartedly, and let the whole question drop. Instead Tristan pictured the curve of her lips when the music began, and felt the sway of her body in his arm. Somehow he couldn’t poke fun at Miss Bennet, not even to her brother. “As a matter of fact, I did,” he said, and walked away before Bennet could recover from the shock.
Chapter 9
The morning Joan had agreed to walk with the Weston sisters in the park, she lay abed late, trying to construct a tale that would satisfy Abigail and Penelope without revealing too much. It was important to stick fairly near the truth, she had learned, in order to avoid tripping herself up later. Obviously she would have to tell them about the kiss. Not only was it monumental news, it was delicious enough—and the man who gave it was infuriating enough—to require extensive analysis. Should things grow uncomfortable, though, she must have a diversion at hand. With some regret, she decided50 Ways to Sinmust be sacrificed.
But when she finally went downstairs, she forgot all about that. Servants were hurrying past her, and Smythe, the butler, looked even more somber than usual. She paused in the hall and wondered what was going on. To her astonishment, her father came down the stairs dressed for travel and escorting Dr. Samuels, the physician who had been here just the other morning to see Mother.
“What’s wrong, Papa?” she asked as soon as the physician had left.
“I’m taking Mother to Cornwall,” he said. “For her health.”
Joan gaped at him. “Oh—Oh dear! But then, she’s not well, is she?” Mother had coughed a great deal yesterday, and gone to bed earlier than usual, but no one had suggested it was this serious.
“No,” he said grimly, “she isn’t. She grew worse overnight and I got Samuels up before dawn.”
“What did he say she’s got?”
“Something is inflaming her lungs, and London air is making her sicker.” Joan had never seen her father look so grave. “Janet is finishing the packing right now; we leave as soon as she’s ready.”
“Poor Mother,” she cried. “Papa, she’s going to recover, isn’t she?”
“I trust so.” His smile was real, though strained. “I intend to do everything possible to see that she does.”
“Of course.” For a few frightening moments Joan considered her mother dying. She squeezed her father’s hand. “You should have woken me—I’d no idea! I’ll have Polly pack my things at once. It won’t take but half an hour—”
“No,” he said at once. “You’re not coming—youmaynot come,” he added as she opened her mouth to protest. “The physician isn’t sure what’s made her ill, and even if you wished to come to Cornwall, neither your mother nor I will allow it. Neither of us wants you to become ill with the same disease.”
“But you’re going,” she protested. “Papa, I can help—”
“I know you would, my darling girl.” He put his arm around her. “But you aren’t coming, and that is all there is to it.”
“All right.” Joan was silent for a moment, trying to take it in. “Am I to stay with the Westons?”
“No.” Papa hesitated. “I’ve no idea how long we may be away from town, and don’t like to impose on Mrs. Weston so abruptly. I’ve asked Aunt Evangeline to come stay with you.”
“Aunt Evangeline!” Her mouth dropped open again. Evangeline, Countess of Courtenay, was her father’s sister, twice widowed and nearing fifty. Any presumption that her age and status might make her sober and respectable, however, was sadly mistaken. Evangeline was high-spirited, unconventional, and undaunted by anything like social censure or public disapproval. In Joan’s first Season, Evangeline had caused a minor scandal by carrying on with the much-younger Sir Richard Campion, the noted explorer. They had eventually left London for Chelsea, where Sir Richard managed to procure an estate that bordered Evangeline’s, which caused Lady Bennet to strike them both from her guest lists. Joan had even heard her mother call Evangeline fast, which was one of the worst things Mother called any lady. Aunt Evangeline called herself the black sheep of the Bennets, and seemed to revel in it.
And now Aunt Evangeline was coming to chaperone her? “Er ...” She cleared her throat. “That will be lovely, I’m sure. How is Aunt Evangeline?”
“In good form,” said her father, with a warning look. “Don’t encourage her, Joan.”
