Chapter 2
Two
The pins clinked into place as Jane, Christine’s maid, tugged at the bodice. Christine’s bronze hair and green eyes matched the dress surprisingly well. It combined the palest green, sunlight filtered through paper-thin leaves in a forest canopy, with flashes of cream.
“Breathe in, Christine. If you faint, at least you’ll faint looking beautiful.”
In private, Jane used Christine’s given name, rather than title.
The two women had been friends for so long that it seemed natural.
Christine tried to follow Jane’s instructions, though her corset had been let out once already.
The gown was older than fashion permitted, a shade faded from its first brilliance, but it was her best. She smoothed her palms down the pale green silk and frowned.
“No one will be deceived. They’ll know it’s not even last Season’s.”
Jane cocked her head, stepping back to survey her handiwork.
“Then let them know it. You’ll look twice as fine as those painted sparrows, because you have purpose. Men prefer a woman with a bit of fire.”
Christine laughed nervously, tugging the cloak about her shoulders.
“A bit of fire, perhaps. But not a full blaze.”
“Oh, I’d hope for a full blaze,” Jane said, wickedly.
“Lord Bingley won’t stand a chance. Lower your voice when you speak to him.
Men lean in when they have to strain to hear,” she leaned close, whispering, “and that’ll give him a close-up view of your bosoms. That’ll carry the day if nothing else. ”
Christine flushed. “Jane! Where do you learn such things?”
Jane only smiled. “I have eyes and ears.”
There was no space for a mirror in Christine’s room. Jane’s eyes would have to serve. Christine did not think she could possibly look as attractive as the other ladies who would be present. She hoped that what she had would be enough to win over Lord George Bingley.
It had better be. I have no intention of going to Oxford Street, and when that is discovered, I will have burned my bridges with Lady Gillray.
“Lord Bingley is always early. He cannot abide being late. Even fashionably so. If I leave now, I stand a chance of getting to him before some other, prettier woman,” Christine said.
“No such thing,” Jane said emphatically.
Christine smiled, catching her friend in a fierce hug.
“Thank you for everything, Jane.”
Tristan moved through the glittering guests.
They twinkled almost as prettily as the chandeliers that hung from the massive, ancient beams of Greystone’s great hall.
He suppressed a yawn, forcing himself to meet the eyes of the other guests he passed and give the expected polite smile.
He was followed by rippling waves of whispers.
The word Wolf featured more than once; he was sure. Occasionally, he allowed his polite smile to widen into a grin that showed teeth, just to see the sheep blanche.
You are a fool, Duskwood! No revenge is worth indulging with such people.
He kept his anger in check. It was born out of resentment.
He did not enjoy socializing with those who could be termed the ton.
He was contemptuous of their ridiculous customs and unspoken conventions.
Their company was, with a very few exceptions, tedious and unwelcome.
The crowd around him felt as though they were as insubstantial as ghosts.
Very few had the merit of solid character.
They were froth, soap bubbles. Bright but empty.
Yet to trace a man who was once considered one of them, it is necessary to move in their circles. Damn that so-called investigator!
Tristan had paid the former Bow Street Runner a hefty sum to find the one he sought. And been told that Tristan himself could move in circles that the commonly born Runner could not. So, when the invitation arrived from the Dowager Duchess of Greystone…
“Your Grace!” a familiar voice sang out.
Tristan turned, his smile becoming one of genuine feeling. Ernald Thynne, the Earl of Newton, was grinning at him as though they had not seen each other in years. It had been a matter of weeks. No, perhaps months. Tristan realized that he could not recall precisely how long.
“You look half-starved,” Thynne declared, “come and eat while Elizabeth is socializing. It is the only time I have to eat without her disapproving eyes on me. Imagine trying to separate a man from his food.”
He slapped an ample stomach, grinning disarmingly.
“I’ve no appetite,” Tristan said, though he let himself be steered towards the refreshment tables.
Thynne was already piling a plate high with cold meats, bread, and jellies, chattering all the while.
“What wind brought you here, eh? Greystone is hardly your usual hunting ground. I thought you avoided these gatherings as though they carried plague,” Ernald said as he led Tristan to a vacant table.
Tristan poured himself a glass of claret before following. He answered with deliberate indifference.
“Perhaps, I have decided it is time to be more social. Put down the Wolf. Reassure society that I am no monster lurking in the woods.”
Thynne laughed heartily. “About time. You cannot spend your life skulking in Duskwood. Skulkwood, if you will, haha!” he chortled at his own terrible pun. William merely endured with a roll of his eyes.
“You’ll see the air is sweeter once you step into it,” Thynne continued.
“Is it?” Tristan murmured, sipping his wine.
“Elizabeth and I met at one of the Dowager Duchess’ Duke Hunts, you know?” Thynne said around a mouthful of pork pie, waving a fork loaded with ham for emphasis.
“I do recall you telling me,” Tristan said, his eyes roaming over the crowd and finding nothing to hold his interest.
Where to start? Any one of these lords and ladies might have information about the rogue that I seek.
“We are still invited as an example of a good marriage to the eligible people who come here. I suppose that also includes you now, eh?”
“If you try and give me lessons on finding a wife, you’ll regret it,” Tristan said with mock-harshness.
Thynne guffawed.
“I will not. Elizabeth is a law unto herself. Only God can stop her, and she will see you as a challenge.”
Tristan smiled indulgently but inwardly cringed.
“If it comes from Elizabeth, I suppose I shall have to grin and bear it.”
“I’m sure being introduced to a succession of pretty, accomplished females will be arduous indeed,” Thynne said.
“Torture,” Tristan agreed.
He was about to make another dry, witty comment, but the words died in his mouth.
It seemed as though the currents within the mass of people around them shifted.
Through a sudden clear space, he saw a young woman, making her way around the great hall.
Slowly, delicately. She was haloed by golden hair and moved with delicate grace.
There was an air of uncertainty about her, each movement seeming to be carefully planned, as though she walked among nettles.
Tristan looked away…or tried to. His eyes kept returning to her.
She was a magnet, a flame, and his attention was a moth that could not resist her.
To say she was beautiful was a gross understatement.
A single word could not encompass her radiance.
His heart leaped as she turned her head, and he found himself locking eyes with her. His mouth was dry.
Pull yourself together! You are not actually here to find a wife. Attachment is a weakness, and I will never be weak.
Everywhere Christine turned, whispers curled like smoke.
Averted eyes. Faint sneers. Christine lifted her chin and forced herself forward.
Her eyes scanned the meager crowd—the ton’s lowest ranks, those who did not have leave to arrive later than their social betters. Lord Bingley was nowhere to be seen.
Please tell me you have not become averse to arriving early all of a sudden!
She smiled as her eyes met those of others. Felt the pain as they looked away without a word. They judged her because of her brother. They judged her entire family. She tried not to feel the shame of it, but it burned her cheeks. The effort made her grit her teeth.
A sharp crash suddenly cut through the hum of conversation. A servant, now pale with panic, had dropped a tray. Glasses shattered, wine seeping across the floor. Ladies lifted their skirts fastidiously. Men glared at the man. One well-fed individual even raised a fist.
“Imbecile,” hissed a lord, dabbing at his shoe.
“Clumsy oaf,” another added.
The servant fumbled, cutting his palm on a shard in the process. Before Christine could think, she bent beside him, plucking a small handkerchief from within her glove.
“Here, press this against the wound and keep pressure on it,” she said firmly, pressing her handkerchief to his wound. “I'm sure your mistress will be angry if you bleed on your uniform.”
She gathered the unbroken glasses onto a table. None of the other guests, she supposed, would respond in such a way. To come to the aid of a servant and then help complete his work.
“I am stepping on broken glass,” a lady with her nose in the air protested.
“Then step somewhere else!” Christine snapped.
“Well, I never…” the lady spluttered as Christine stood.
The servant murmured thanks and fled, clutching the cloth to his hand. The weight of disapproval pressed on her from all sides. She ignored it. There was only one opinion in this room she cared about. Someone muttered.
“She is a Davidson.”
“The Southbria Davidsons?”
“She is a sister to that sharper, Charles Davidson.”
“Killed his father with shame.”
“Shameful.”
Her eyes swept the hall. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her fists clenched at her side.
Christine’s temper was a fizzing, lit fuse racing towards a powder keg.
Then, she found him. Not Lord Bingley. Someone else.
Someone who caught her searching eye and held it as though she were iron and he a magnet.