Polite understanding flitted across Mrs. Piper’s face. Eleanor understood as well. They were mamas and young ladies hoping to nab a viscountcy. Not unlike them. Mrs. Piper sipped her tea. “Then it shouldn’t be scandalous for my Eleanor to attend.”
The trap had been so expertly baited by Lady Rascomb, dangling her son for Eleanor’s mother. Eleanor couldn’t help but admire the subtlety of the woman.
“Thank you, Miss Ophelia,” Eleanor said. “I should be glad to attend.”
And it wasn’t so much Lord Berringbone who she hoped would be in attendance, but the younger brother that she already called Tristan in her mind. It was far too familiar, and far too presumptuous, and possibly even dangerous. She might slip and call him by his first name in company, which would be far too embarrassing. No, she should endeavor to refer to him as Mr. Bridewell. But he looked like a Tristan, with his beautiful golden hair and blue eyes—
“Eleanor, pay attention, girl!” her mother whispered at her.
Eleanor snapped back to the conversation at hand. “I do apologize. Woolgathering.”
Ophelia gave her a sly look. What was that for? She couldn’t possibly know that Eleanor was daydreaming about her brother. “I was saying that I have some journals and pamphlets you might like to borrow, all written by woman who climb mountains.”
“Oh no,” Eleanor said. “I’m not really the type—”
“That’s fine,” Ophelia interrupted smoothly. “Would you mind doing a short presentation of some knots for us? It would be quite educational.”
“I can do that,” Eleanor said. “But the best way to learn a knot is to tie it at least one hundred times. Everyone ought to have a practice string of their own.”
“Do you have one?” Ophelia asked. Lady Rascomb looked at her with interest.
“Yes, it’s a length of cotton rope about two feet in length. Small diameter, easy to tie and untie.”
Lady Rascomb and her daughter exchanged looks. Eleanor panicked.
“I used to use hemp, as that is the type used on the docks to load crates. It does well when wet,” she explained. “But it is harder on one’s hands.”
“I believe I can procure cotton or hemp for our attendees this evening,” Lady Rascomb said. “Mrs. Piper, do come. Your husband as well. It’s quite the evening, and we do serve refreshments.”
“I shall, and I will send to Mr. Piper about it as well. I don’t know how busy he is today, but I’m sure he’ll be interested.”
Eleanor was already thinking of the different knots she might show them. Tying the same knots in the different fibers would be an excellent showcase to help them with their decision-making. While she had no intention of climbing any mountain, she would hope they might include a thank you to her at the end of whatever paper they published at the end of their adventure. To think, her name in print!
*
Overall, Tristan usedthe Ladies’ Alpine Society salons to covertly drink. He kept a hipflask on his person, filled with thebest Irish whisky he could get his hands on. Sometimes even his father would take a nip or two. One could only hear Ophelia and Bad News extol womanly optimism for so long before boredom set in.
But tonight, he had a feeling the hipflask would stay full, because in walked the Pipers. Mr. Piper, of Piper Shipping & Co., which of course Tristan had looked into, narrowed his eyes the moment he walked into the drawing room, as if this might be an ambush—which indeed, given the expedition’s need for funding, it might be. Following the man of industry was Miss Eleanor Piper. Her brown eyes were warm and darted around the room, and when they caught his gaze, her cheeks turned a lovely pink.
That was a shame. Tristan nodded his acknowledgment, he wasn’t a complete cad, after all. But still, Ophelia’s friends were off limits to him. Bad News Brewer was just the obvious example as to why. Still, a social climbing shipping heiress was not appealing to him nor anyone he knew.
Mrs. Piper rounded out the set of figures entering the room, and when she saw Tristan, her dislike was palpable. Ah, so she’d read about him on the scandal sheets, then. All the more reason for them not to throw Miss Eleanor at him—oh. They weren’t here for him, that’s right. He remembered now. They were going to throw her at Herringbone. What a waste. Maybe his flask would be emptied tonight.
But Herringbone wasn’t coming tonight. He rarely did. Tristan didn’t know if he felt excluded since he was forbidden to go with his father on these adventures. Tristan was the spare, so it didn’t matter if he risked his neck. It offered a sense of freedom, but also a reminder that he was expendable.
The hipflask grew heavier in his pocket as Mr. Piper approached. “Mr. Bridewell.”
“Mr. Piper. So good of you to make it to one of our events.” Tristan gave a practiced smile and moved his body to makea pathway to his father. If anyone could gain the shipping magnate’s confidence, it was him. “Let me take you over to my father, Lord Rascomb. You met him last night, did you not?”
“I did, yes, thank you,” Mr. Piper said, his gruff voice smoothing out into the higher pitch of the more polished class.
It rankled Tristan, this pretense. Not that Mr. Piper conducted business in a different accent or even a different register of his voice, but all of the class wars. It seemed like a lot of silly bother. But, as Vera had once pointed out, it was easy to see it as silly bother when one was on top of the pile.
Tristan passed the man off to his father and wandered over to Ophelia and Bad News. “We have an audience tonight,” he stage-whispered to his sister.
She popped her hands to her hips. “Maybe you won’t be so focused on your pockets tonight, since we’ve got actual company.”
“What are talking about?” Tristan asked, annoyed by the sheer idea that someone was critiquing his behavior.
