“Christ!” Bennet leapt out of bed and scrambled for his trousers. Tristan was almost out the door when he called, “Burke, wait! You’ve got to help me.”
“Why?” Tristan scratched his chin. “You should have put her in her place and ordered her from the house.”
Bennet gave a harsh laugh as he pulled a shirt over his head. “You don’t know Joan if you think that’s the way to deal with her. Help me, man, or I’ll be cut to pieces.”
“No more than you deserve,” he muttered, but he threw up his hands. “How am I supposed to help? She obviously didn’t approve of me, if you didn’t notice.”
Bennet was yanking on his boots. “You know how to talk to women. Just ...” He waved one hand in the air. “Talk her out of the paper.”
He’d much rather talk her out of an orange dress and into a gold one. Yes, a rich gold silk, cut low across her bosom and shoulders—without a shred of lace—and swathing her hips and waist closely. He wondered how small her waist was; with a bosom like hers, a small waist would be just the thing. There could be a true Venus under those wretched ruffles.
“Burke, I’m begging,” said Bennet. “Help me, this once, in my time of desperate need.”
It didn’t really matter how small her waist was, or what her hair would look like unbound. She was a blackmailing Fury. One couldn’t abandon a fellow man to the manipulations of such a creature, even if it was his sister. Tristan gave in. “Very well. Let me dress.”
By the time he was clothed, Bennet was pacing in the hall, raggedly knotting a cravat around his neck. “She’ll be almost home by now,” he said. He shoved his hands through his hair, not for the first time from the looks of things. “Good God, what a plague!”
“She can’t be that bad,” said Tristan, thinking of his aunt and cousins. Theywerea plague, with all of Miss Bennet’s sharp-tongued temper and none of her wit. All of her interest in ugly dresses and none of her bosom. All of her boldness and none of her dash.
“You’ve never had to live with her,” muttered Bennet as he threw open the door.
Sunlight blazed into the hall. Bennet squinted and cursed some more, but clattered down the steps to the edge of the street. Then he stopped, turning from side to side. “Devil take me. Which way would she go?”
“Home?” Tristan followed more slowly, pulling his hat low on his forehead. Gads, it was bright out here. “I absolutely refuse to chase her into your parents’ house.”
Bennet inhaled a long breath. “Right. Home. Although Joan is fond of sneaking off on her own—she thinks I don’t know, but she slips out to bookstores and millinery shops every chance she gets.” He paused. “You go that way”—he pointed east—”and I’ll go this way. If she’s made it home ...” He shuddered. “My father will have to step in.”
Tristan wondered why he’d never noticed this spineless side of Bennet before, but he just nodded. Bennet nodded back before taking off to the west, striding down the street as though he longed to burst into a run.
He turned and strolled east, toward the shops. Where would a young lady go, alone? He hadn’t noticed a maid waiting on the steps, and no servant had accompanied her into the house, where chaperonage was most needed. Most likely she’d gone home to lay the spoils of victory at her mother’s feet. And if Bennet was such a coward to sign that damned paper at all, Tristan privately thought he deserved whatever he reaped.
But still. Bennet had offered him a place to stay in town where he could easily and conveniently supervise the repair of his roof, allowing him to get the work done without causing a stir. His aunt would seize any opportunity to upbraid him about his management of the estate, even though in this case he was repairing a century-old roof that his uncle couldn’t be bothered to replace. If Uncle Burke had properly seen to the roof, it wouldn’t have leaked for the last ten years, quietly rotting the upper story of the house before collapsing under a heavy rain last month.
He turned into Bond Street, halfheartedly looking for a flash of pink-striped skirts. God knew they were wide enough, he should be able to spot them from half a mile away. How on earth was it that women didn’t learn how to dress themselves well? Why must they go like sheep after the latest style, whether it flattered them or not? Gold was definitely Miss Bennet’s color, and richer, darker tones that would reflect well with her dark hair and creamy skin. Not pink, for certain.
And what the devil was he supposed to do once he found her? She wouldn’t surrender that paper without a battle royal, and Tristan had no intention of engaging her in the middle of a milliner’s shop. He told himself he wouldn’t want to face her in private, either, no matter how satisfying it would be to take her down a peg.
He paused outside a display window, and studied the bolts of silk temptingly draped there. That shade of blue would also suit her, he thought—and then swore under his breath. A virago. A she-devil. And the sister of a mate. Not a woman who would look good in any shade of blue.
He turned away from the window, striding down the street at a brisker pace. It wasn’t his fault Bennet couldn’t stand up to her. It wasn’t his concern if Bennet found himself bundled off to the Malcolm ball or the Macmillan ball or any other ball to dance with half the girls in Britain. Judging from the way he’d cowered before his sister, Bennet would be married off within a few months anyway, likely to another Fury; females like that tended to stick together. Lady Bennet no doubt already had the girl all chosen, and would bend her son to her will the way a stiff breeze bowed a spring sapling. It would be a pity, of course, to lose so jovial a companion, but Tristan had no desire to get between a Fury and her object. Bennet would have to save himself. It was ridiculous to take orders from a woman—any woman. Really, if Tristan wanted to help his friend, he would do better to find him and tell him to be a man, and put his sister in her proper place.
And then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of pink stripes as she vanished into a small bookshop. His steps slowed, and a slow smile spread over his face. Quite forgetting that he had just pledged to avoid her like a deadly plague, he flexed his hands and followed her.
Chapter 3
Alittle bell above the door tinkled as Joan stepped into the cramped bookshop. She paused on the threshold to take a deep breath in delight. It wasn’t just the smell of books—that dry combination of paper and printing ink—that reminded her of the library at Helston Hall, her family’s Cornish estate. The library had been the only place she was free to indulge her passion for adventure and scandal, even if only in her mind. Today it was more than that; today it was the smell of freedom. For the next hour, she was free to wander where she liked. True, Bond Street was hardly a wild and dangerous adventure, aside from the risk of being spotted by one of her mother’s friends. But in the confined life of a wellborn spinster ... any escape was intoxicating.
Especially when one had a particular errand one was quite keen to fulfill. Keeping her eyes discreetly lowered, she found the shopkeeper and quietly cleared her throat.
“Yes, madam, may I help you?” He smiled and bowed, patting his hands together. “Are you looking for something special?”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled prettily. “Is there a new issue of50 Ways to Sin, by chance?”
There was a reason she had come to this shop; the proprietor didn’t blink an eye at her request, nor cavil at all. In fact, he might have winked at her. “I just received several copies this morning. Shall I wrap one up for you in the back room?”
“Yes, thank you.” Joan resisted the urge to twirl around in glee. A new issue, just in this morning! It must be fresh from the printing press. She’d have time to read it at least once before handing it off to her friends the next night. Abigail and Penelope were expected at the Malcolm ball as well. The only thing better than reading the latest issue was discussing it in exhilarated whispers behind their fans. Balls had become quite tolerable since50 Ways to Sinhad appeared.
The shopkeeper disappeared through the draped door behind his counter, and Joan walked further into the store, piously stationing herself in front of a shelf of thick, dull-looking books with a thin rime of dust. To wander too near the novels at the rear of the shop would be dangerous. She would only end up pining for a book she could neither buy nor sneak into the house. Thankfully,50 Ways to Sinwas printed as a pamphlet and could be concealed under a shawl or even—as Joan had once done in desperation—inside her garter.
