A Match Made In London Read online

  Once again the girl seemed to deflate before her eyes. “Oh, I’m not sure Mama would care for it at all.”

  “She could not deny you. Not if you told her how passionate you are about such things.”

  But she heard how ridiculous that sounded the moment the words were out of her mouth. She did not need Miss Gladstow’s disbelieving expression to tell her that. Mrs. Gladstow had one goal for their time in London, and that was to see her only daughter married well. Anything that did not promote such a venture would be summarily squashed.

  An uncomfortable silence fell. Sir Tristan, ever the gallant, spoke into the tense void. “I do believe it is time to return you home, Miss Gladstow. I would not have your parents think I am monopolizing your time. Where are you for tonight?”

  “Lord and Lady Jasper’s, I think.”

  He grinned. “What a coincidence. I am as well.”

  “Some coincidence,” Rosalind muttered.

  Once again thick silence reigned. When would she learn to hold her tongue? She shot a glance up at Sir Tristan. His gaze was hooded, leaving no hint as to his thoughts. He opened his mouth, no doubt to give her a proper set-down. Or, more likely, to smooth over the great gaping hole of discomfort her words had brought about.

  Presently a figure approached them, effectively cutting off whatever the baronet had been about to say. “Miss Gladstow,” the newcomer said in somber tones.

  Beside her, Miss Gladstow squeaked. “What on earth are you doing in London?”

  The level of alarm in the girl’s voice surprised Rosalind. She looked closely at the man. Oh, but of course, he was Miss Gladstow’s friend from back home. Rosalind had met him several times in the months she’d been with the Gladstows.

  “Mr. Marlow,” she said, “how lovely to see you.”

  The man, who had up until that moment not taken his eyes from Miss Gladstow, blinked and looked at her. “Ah, Miss Merriweather wasn’t it? How d’ you do?”

  Before she could answer, he turned back to the other girl. “How have you been?”

  She flushed. “Fine, thank you.”

  The two of them stood staring at one another. Rosalind looked back and forth between the two, utterly flummoxed. They had never shown such a degree of tension between them. Back home they had always appeared at ease with each other, the very picture of old friends.

  She opened her mouth to say something, anything to break them from the strange tableau they were frozen in, when Miss Gladstow started. “Oh! But I’m being rude. Mr. Marlow, this is Sir Tristan Crosby. Sir Tristan, this is Mr. David Marlow, the friend I was telling you about.”

  Making the situation more bizarre than it already was, Sir Tristan’s typically carefree countenance went cold. He considered Mr. Marlow, seeming to size him up before offering his hand. “Marlow.”

  Mr. Marlow’s attitude was equally baffling. He glared at Sir Tristan’s hand before, with great reluctance, he took it, then released it as if burned. He turned to Miss Gladstow.

  “Would you be so kind as to walk with me a bit?”

  Miss Gladstow looked to Sir Tristan. The baronet smiled, his surliness of a moment ago gone in the blink of an eye. “Do go on. I’m sure you wish a few moments with your friend. Miss Merriweather and I shall follow presently.”

  Miss Gladstow, looking as dazed as Rosalind had ever seen her, swallowed hard and nodded, turning to Mr. Marlow and placing trembling fingers on his proffered arm.

  Rosalind watched the young couple in confusion as they started down the path. Frowning, she made to go after them.

  Her arm, however, was still linked with Sir Tristan’s. And he did not seem inclined to let her go.

  She returned her attention to him, to demand he release her at once. He spoke first, cutting her off.

  “You have been with the Gladstows how long?”

  Rosalind blinked. Whatever he’d been about to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “Er, five months now. Nearly six.”

  “And you have gotten to know Mr. Marlow in that time?”

  “A bit. Not well.”

  “Would you say he is a good man?”

  “I suppose. He seems decent enough.”

  “And are they close?”

  Rosalind stared at him. Where was he was going with this? The man looked as serious as she had ever seen him. He watched the other couple, a small frown on his face. Why, he looked almost concerned.

  In a flash she recalled his peculiar tension with Mr. Marlow mere minutes ago, and she knew. Of course he would be concerned. If he had nefarious plans for Miss Gladstow, wouldn’t he see the sudden appearance of a new male in town, one who had a previous connection to Miss Gladstow, as a threat?

  “You are jealous,” she blurted.

  “What? No! Why on earth would I be jealous?”

  “Please, Sir Tristan,” she scoffed, even as she tugged on his arm to get him moving again. Blessedly he did not balk, and they were soon following the other couple. “You needn’t play games with me. I know you mean to have your way with Miss Gladstow.”

  “Have my way with her?” The words no doubt came out much louder than he planned, for he colored and glanced around before returning his attention to Rosalind. “Are you mad? What put such an outlandish idea into your head?”

  She gave him a disgusted glance. “You must think me simple. Why else would you wish to seek Miss Gladstow out at every turn?”

  “Miss Merriweather,” he chided softly, “that is positively unkind of you.”

  It was Rosalind’s turn to flush. “I did not mean to imply that Miss Gladstow is unworthy of your attentions.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No! I like Miss Gladstow very much. She is a sweet girl.”

  “Yet you do not think enough of her to believe I could wish to be in her company for honorable reasons.”

  Rosalind dug her fingers into the wool sleeve of his leaf green coat and gave a small, unladylike growl. “You are putting words in my mouth.”

  “You are doing a fine enough job of that, Miss Merriweather,” he murmured. “You certainly don’t need my help.”

  Was that amusement in his voice? She shot a disgruntled look up at him. Sure enough, his lips were tight at the corners, as if he were fighting back a smile. “You are playing with me, sir,” she accused.

  “I would never.”

  “That is utter rubbish. I know men like you, Sir Tristan. Rather, I know of men like you. Playing with people’s emotions to make yourself feel superior, taking advantage of those less fortunate than you. Ruining lives along the way and not caring who you hurt.”

  The amusement fell from his face as if she had struck him. His eyes turned somber and cold. “That is the second time you have disparaged my honor, madam, by implying I would hurt an innocent. That is not at all who I am and I would thank you to never again insinuate it.”

  A trickle of trepidation worked up her spine. He was no longer the carefree rake, but a formidable man. She had never before noticed how large he was.

  But, being Rosalind, she could not let the entire thing go because he happened to grow angry with her. “You realize, of course, why I must question your intentions.”

  The most aggravated sigh she had ever heard issued from Sir Tristan’s chiseled lips. And that was saying something, as she had heard her fair share of sighs, of all types. He closed his eyes, his face tipping to the sky as if he were praying for divine help, before he leveled a weary look on her. “You really are not going to let it go, are you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said with utter candor.

  “Is that why you made your comment earlier about it being a ‘coincidence’ that I happen to be going to Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball tonight?”

  Damn it, but she had forgotten about that ill-advised slip of the tongue. And of course the man would not let it go. She sighed in resignation. “Oh, I’m sure you heard me right. It is me, after all, with a tongue like a runaway ho
rse.” She waved a hand in front of her mouth. “Nothing to block what comes out, I’m afraid. My lips are apparently utterly useless in that regard.”

  It was several seconds before she became aware that he was uncommonly silent, and more seconds after that before she noticed that his gaze had gone intent and hot. And centered on her mouth.

  Her entire body went warm, aching in the strangest places. Unnerved, she quickly looked away. There had been something in his eyes that had at once confused and excited her.

  His arm was tense under her suddenly sensitive fingers. He cleared his throat several times before speaking again, though when he did his voice was oddly hoarse.

  “You were saying about coincidences?”

  As much as she didn’t want to get into this again, the odd mood that had come over them made her grasp it readily. Anything to distract her from her body’s completely unexpected reaction. “Yes, coincidences,” she said in what she thought was an impressively businesslike manner. “You have managed to seek Miss Gladstow out every day for the past fortnight.”

  “Yes? And?”

  “Does that not seem suspect, sir?”

  He shrugged. “What is so suspect about it? Being from the country, of course, you may think London is an endless pit of humanity. But I have lived here since I came of age and I can assure you, our circle in society is not all that large. You are bound to run into all manner of people time and again when you are invited to the same events.”

  Which, she reluctantly—if silently—acknowledged, was too true. She could attest to the fact that she had seen the same people over and over again in the past weeks.

  “I see you agree with me,” he murmured.

  She scowled at him. “I never said I agree with you.”

  “That frustrated little line between your brows tells me otherwise.”

  “Line? What line?” She reached up, smoothing her fingers over the small divot she found between her brows. Which, of course, only made her scowl deepen. “If I am frowning, it is because you are being utterly absurd.”

  “I am absurd?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Pray, how am I being absurd?”

  But, to her consternation, an answer didn’t readily come to her. For he swung his piercing gaze down to her again and she completely forgot what they were talking about.

  She might have stayed that way for an eternity, held captive by his eyes, stumbling blindly down the path. If Miss Gladstow didn’t in that moment approach.

  “Miss Merriweather, I do believe we need to return home immediately,” she said. Her voice was tight, and there were unshed tears in the girl’s eyes.

  Rosalind released Sir Tristan immediately, reaching out to grab hold of the other girl’s hands. “My dear, are you unwell? Where is Mr. Marlow?”

  Miss Gladstow did not meet her eyes. “He has left. And it grows late. Mama will be wanting us to ready ourselves for the evening’s entertainments.”

  “Of course.” She turned to Sir Tristan. “Until tonight.”

  He inclined his head. “I look forward to it Miss Merriweather, Miss Gladstow.”

  The two women hurried off, leaving him far behind. Rosalind found, however, that she could not leave her strange reaction to him, no matter how far she walked.

  Chapter 4

  It did not take Tristan long to locate Mr. Marlow. The man stood out on the fashionable paths of Hyde Park, more for his complete disregard for fashion than for anything else about him. His coat, while neat and clean, had seen many years of use if the slight sheen at the elbows was any indication. His hat, too, while a finely made beaver, was several seasons out of style. These facts were made all the more glaring as he weaved through the thickening throngs of fashionable elite in their bright colors and expertly cut outerwear. Was the man poor? Or was he simply frugal? Miss Gladstow had told him (on several occasions—the girl did like to talk about her particular friend) that he was the son of a local landowner. Yet while it told him the man was a gentleman, it gave nothing away regarding the financial aspects of the family.

  Tristan fell in behind him, making sure to keep far enough back to remain unobserved should the man happen to turn and cast his gaze his way. He had an idea what to do. All it took now was to see what the man’s mettle was.

  They exited the park at Hyde Park Gate, heading west along Knightsbridge toward Kensington Road, turning left at Sloane Street. Mr. Marlow kept up a brisk pace, never faltering in his apparently single-minded quest to get to wherever the blazes he needed to be. Tristan sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the hours of boxing and fencing and riding and whatever other physical activity had taken his fancy over the years. For it quickly became apparent to him that, no matter the distance he needed to traverse, the man wasn’t planning on hailing a hackney. Which was all well and good; Tristan would have a hell of a time following him if he took to the streets in a carriage.

  At last, far down Sloane Street, Mr. Marlow turned into the yard of a small but respectable-looking hotel. It was certainly not Grenier’s or the Clarendon, or the newly built Mivart’s, but it was elegant and clean, with a freshly washed façade and friendly-looking grooms helping the other patrons.

  So Mr. Marlow had some blunt. Not much, granted, if he had chosen to stay in such a place, but enough to be well-off. He might still be after Miss Gladstow’s money, but at least he did not appear to be in dire straits. For desperate men often turned to desperate measures to get their way. And Tristan would not see Miss Gladstow harmed.

  But despite the reassurance that the man was comfortably situated, Tristan was smart enough to know that money alone did not make for a good man. No, there were plenty of men who encompassed all that was cruel and heartless in the world yet were rich as Midas.

  His father had been chief among them.

  Tristan pressed his lips together, banishing the jarring memory back to the pits of hell where it belonged. He had a purpose, and he would not be sidetracked. All it took now was to see where Mr. Marlow’s morals lay.

  The man disappeared inside the hotel. Tristan took up a post across the street, weighing his options. There was no telling how long Mr. Marlow would be within. It could be minutes, it could be hours. Should he wait for him to emerge, to follow him again?

  Or should he head within the establishment and ask about, to see what impression the people working there had gotten of the man thus far? For Tristan had learned over the years there was no better judge of character than a person in service. To most they were invisible, and thus saw much more than they were meant.

  Finally, after fifteen minutes of prevaricating, he started off across the street. Best to take the bull by the horns, so to speak.

  He entered the establishment, his boots clicking on the polished floor of the foyer, when a man stepped into his path. Stumbling to a halt, Tristan found himself looking into the hard, spare face of Mr. Marlow.

  “Why are you following me?” the man demanded.

  Either Tristan was an appalling spy, or Mr. Marlow was far cleverer than he had given him credit for. Tristan eyed him cautiously. He had certainly not meant to be seen.

  Perhaps, though, he could work this to his advantage.

  He assumed an expression of bored insolence. “You spent a good deal of time with Miss Gladstow this afternoon.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “And you have spent a good portion of the past fortnight in her company. Or so I’ve heard.”

  Tristan allowed his lips to kick up in a self-satisfied smile. He adjusted a cuff. “You are surprisingly well-informed for a country bumpkin.”

  “We get the paper in Baswich, you know. Despite your contempt for those of us who live far away from the vice of London life, I assure you I can read. And I have come to some conclusions while perusing the London papers.”

  “Have you?” Tristan murmured.

  “Yes. You are after Sarah’s dowry.”

  Tristan laughed. “So what if
I am? It is none of your concern.”

  Mr. Marlow took a menacing step forward. “It is my concern. I won’t have her taken advantage of.”

  “I am not taking advantage of her, dear boy. It is expected I marry for money, as much as it is expected she marry for a title. If there is anyone taking advantage, it is mutual.”

  “But you don’t love her!”

  “Of course I don’t. But that is hardly ever the case in these situations. Which you would know if you were a man of the world. Which,” Tristan looked Mr. Marlow up and down, letting amusement mingle with the repugnance currently gracing his face, “you most certainly are not.”

  The man’s hands squeezed into fists at his sides, outrage twisting his features. “How can you marry a woman you do not love?”

  “Oh, easily, I assure you. Especially when there is a fortune involved. My lifestyle does not come cheap. And I do have a presence in society to keep up. Besides, there are other avenues one may find love. Outside of the marriage bed.” He chuckled.

  Tristan expected any manner of responses to that, from a fist to the jaw to being outright called out. What he did not expect, though, was the tightly controlled rage.

  Mr. Marlow stepped up close to him, until Tristan could fairly feel the fury radiating in waves from him. “I give you fair warning. Stay. Away. From. Sarah. Or I swear to you, on the affection I have for her, I will destroy you.”

  The man was on the point of breaking. Yet he held back. It spoke well of him and the control he had of the baser side of himself. Tristan cheered within, even as without he took on a haughty expression. “You would not dare to threaten me, sir.”

  “I would. Sarah is kind, and good. She is the most wonderful girl I have ever known. And you are a snake who would destroy her.”

  “Then perhaps you should have secured her for yourself,” Tristan sneered.

  At the stunned look on the man’s face, Tristan touched his brim in a vaguely mocking manner and left.

  He strolled down the street, forcing his posture and steps to remain casual even as the back of his neck burned. Any minute he expected the man to come at him and beat him to a bloody pulp. And he wouldn’t blame him one bit if he did. For he had acted reprehensibly. Even thinking of it now, at the horrible things he had let slip from his mouth, he felt a horrified shame so profound he was surprised he did not melt right into the pavement. But, he told himself, it was all for the greater good.