“Smashing!” Evangeline beamed at her. “We’ll order one as soon as we can. Smythe!” The butler had come up and waited quietly. Now a rare smile crossed his austere face as Evangeline turned to him with a happy cry. “How good to see you again, Smythe.”
“Welcome back, my lady,” he said with a bow.
“I remember Smythe when he was a new footman,” Evangeline said to Joan. “He once saved me from a terrible thrashing by letting me in through the scullery window. I’d sneaked out to see a footrace between two footmen. It was all the way across the Thames near Vauxhall, and it took an age to get home. I had been forbidden to go but—oh my, it was absolutely legendary! Goodness, my father nearly tore his hair out, trying to learn how I’d got back in the house. I’m so glad to see you’re still here,” she told the butler warmly.
“As am I, my lady. I’ve laid the tea in the drawing room, Miss Bennet.”
“Lord, I could use a cup of tea. I rushed about in a panic as soon as your father’s note arrived.” Evangeline drew Joan’s arm through hers again. “You must tell me all the things you enjoy in town.”
Joan could only give the butler a dazed nod of thanks and allow herself to be pulled into the drawing room. The world had been turned completely on its head. Douglas, the most irresponsible scoundrel in Britain, was sent to supervise the rebuilding of Papa’s hunting estate. Evangeline, who gave every appearance of being as wild as Lady Bennet feared, was sent to chaperone Joan. Smythe, who had been as formal and proper as a bishop as far back as Joan could remember, had once helped Evangeline slide through a scullery window to avoid disgrace.
She had a strong premonition that the next several weeks would be even stranger than she could imagine.
Chapter 10
“Burke! There you are. I have a favor to ask of you.”
Tristan paused warily at the top of the stairs. He’d hardly seen Bennet since the confrontation in the boxing saloon, by his own design. It hadn’t been terribly hard to be out of the house most of the time, although avoiding Bennet’s favorite haunts in the evenings was more difficult. He braced himself to be turned out into the street—not a terrible tragedy, to be sure, but he would hate to lose a friend over a bloody waltz. He hadn’t enjoyed the dancethatmuch.
What came after the waltz ... was better off not being contemplated.
He followed his host, who had already gone back into his dressing room. “What is it?” he asked from the doorway.
Bennet plowed his hands through his hair, though it was already standing on end. “Where are my bloody boots? Not the ones from Hoby, the country ones.” He stooped to peer under the bed. “Murdoch!” he bellowed. “Where are my boots?”
Tristan stepped aside as a harassed Murdoch brushed past him, a boot in each hand. “Here, sir. I was just cleaning them.” Indeed one boot had been brushed, while the other still had streaks and clumps of mud stuck to it. “Another few minutes—”
“Bugger the mud.” Bennet grabbed the boots and tossed them into a trunk standing open behind him. The servant flinched as dried dirt scattered over the clothing already in the trunk, but Bennet paid it no heed. “And my greatcoat? And the oilskin?”
“Yes, sir.” Murdoch ducked back out.
“Planning a journey?” Tristan finally asked, relaxing enough to lean one shoulder against the doorjamb. It didn’t seem as though Bennet planned to draw his cork.
“Yes.” Bennet tossed aside a crumpled shirt to pull open a desk drawer and start rifling through it. “I have to go to Norfolk.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “At this time of year?”
“At once.” Bennet swore and scooped the papers in the drawer out and dropped them en masse into the trunk on top of the boots. “No time to sort that out now—Murdoch, did you send for the travel chaise yet?” he shouted.
Tristan listened. “He has,” he reported after hearing a muffled “Aye!” from belowstairs. “Why such haste?”
Bennet stopped again, swinging in a circle as though he couldn’t decide which task to seize on next. He looked overwhelmed. “My father is sending me to Ashwood House. There was a flood a fortnight ago, and several buildings were damaged. I’m to oversee the repairs.”
Tristan’s other eyebrow went up. This would be the first he could ever recall of Bennet’s father asking anything of him, and it didn’t strike him as a good omen that merely packing for the journey seemed to have reduced Bennet to a state worthy of any fluttery female. “How inconvenient.”
“No. No, it’s not terribly convenient, but ...” He inhaled a deep breath, as though summoning his nerve. “The truth is, my mother’s taken very ill. My father is taking her to Cornwall for the sea air, to improve her lungs. He planned to monitor the rebuilding in Norfolk from London, and go there himself in a month when the Season ends, but now ... Well, he’s sending me instead and that’s all there is to it.” With a renewed burst of determination, Bennet scooped up his shaving things and dropped them into the trunk.
Ah. So that was it. Not so much trust as necessity drove Sir George. “My best wishes for your mother’s recovery.” Bennet flashed him a look of gratitude. “What was the favor you wanted?” Tristan added, feeling accommodating. This was possibly the best thing for him; after a few weeks in Norfolk, Bennet would have forgotten all about that dangerous waltz. And with any luck, Tristan’s own house would be fully repaired before Bennet returned, obviating any further tension over living quarters. The more distance he had from anyone and everyone named Bennet, the better.
“Oh yes—dashed near forgot.” Bennet swept his hair back from his forehead. “Would you look after Joan for me?”
Tristan froze. “I beg your pardon?”
“My parents left her behind in London; my father doesn’t want to risk her catching my mother’s illness. He’s put her in the charge of our aunt, Lady Courtenay, who’s a bit ... suffice to say I ought to stay and keep an eye on them both, if it weren’t for this trouble in Norfolk.”
“What do you mean,” asked Tristan, choosing each word carefully, “by ‘look after’ her?” His heart felt like a hammer, booming loud and slow against his breastbone. Look after the Fury? Risk his sanity by spending time with her? He’d just made a vow—at Bennet’s instigation, damn him—to avoid her.
Bennet waved one hand. “Keep an ear out for any trouble she might get up to. See that she enjoys herself a bit. Dance with her a time or two if she’s out—just to take her mind off things, you know. Most chaps run the other way, but I daresay she’d like a dance now and then. That shouldn’t be too much to ask.” He gave Tristan a suddenly sharp look. “I believe you said you enjoyed waltzing with her the other evening.”
