The Misguided Matchmaker (13 page)

In
truth, he had no choice but to pacify Minette. She was a jealous little cat,
and unless he buttered her up sufficiently, he would find himself with an empty
belly and sleeping on the street. But honeyed words were all he intended to
give her tonight. He had no desire whatsoever to share her bed—a rare
phenomenon he felt certain must be attributed to his heavy head cold.

Gently
he pried her clinging fingers from his arm. “What is this nonsense you’ve come
up with?” he asked, chucking Minette under her softly rounded chin and giving
her a brief kiss on her pouting red lips. “As I told you, the boy is merely a
friend.”

“This
is true?”

“Have
you ever known me to lie to you?”

“No,
but I have often suspected you told me only half the truth.” She shrugged. “Ah
well, one cannot expect perfection, and”—her gaze roamed up and down his lean
body—“there is much about you to admire.” Within minutes, she had produced one
of the delicious cold collations he remembered from when he was her tenant.

Maddy
and he dined at the familiar round oak table in the ground floor parlor, and
once she had laid out the food, Minette joined them. To be more precise, she
joined him—at the hip. Despite his monumental efforts to control her she
literally crawled all over him while he struggled to consume his food.

“Behave
yourself, Minette,” he said finally, giving her a quick swat on the derriere.
To no avail; her hands continued their suggestive exploration of his anatomy.
He looked up to find Maddy’s gaze riveted to her plate, her cheeks the color of
the brightest apple in Minette’s fruit basket.

Maddy’s
cheeks were still flaming when they repaired to their second floor chambers,
probably because Minette’s whispered, “My door will be unlocked as usual,
cheri
,
” echoed throughout the narrow hallway
like a trumpet blown in a cave.

“Leave
your candle lighted, as I shall mine, and the door opened between us,” Tristan
admonished Maddy as he stood in the doorway separating their two rooms. He
removed his pistol from his belt and handed it to her. “I am usually a light
sleeper, but I feel the very devil tonight, so you’d best keep this beside
you—and for God’s sake remember to cock it if you feel the need to shoot.”

Maddy
studied the weapon in her hand with distaste. “Why would I need this? The only
intruder we’re apt to have is your former landlady, should you fail to take
advantage of her unlocked door. Surely you don’t want me to shoot such an ‘old
friend’!”

She
turned away, lest he see how tempting she found the idea. She had never before
been visited by the green-eyed monster, but the thought of Tristan’s firm lips
pressed to those of the Parisian Jezebel made her spitting mad.

“Minette
will not come to my room. It is not her way. And since I have no intention of
stirring from my bed once I’m in it, you should pass a restful night—but it is
always wise to take precautions in times such as these.”

He
bent over, pulled his knife from the sheath strapped to his right boot, and
placed it on his pillow. “Good night, Maddy. Remember, we rise with dawn.” So
saying, he removed his boots, crawled into bed fully clad, and promptly fell
asleep.

Maddy
retired to her own room, stripped off her dusty trousers and shirt, and pulled
her boots from her aching feet. Attired only in her chemise, she splashed water
from the bedside basin on her face and arms and crawled into bed. But exhausted
as she was, sleep did not come easily. The mattress was uncomfortably lumpy and
her mind was too full of the events of the day, indeed of the past fortnight,
to allow for restful slumber.

For
one thing, she had been profoundly shocked by Tristan’s “old friend.” She had
never before met a mistress. It had been common knowledge that most of the
former noblemen who frequented her grandfather’s house kept such women, but
they did so very discreetly.

She
bit her lip in frustration. When Tristan got around to courting her, she
intended to make it very plain that she would not countenance such liaisons
once they were married. But then, he may have already mended his way; he’d
shown no interest in making a nocturnal visit to Minette, despite her
provocative invitation.

Maddy
could not begin to imagine how any man could find such vulgarity attractive.
But she had to admit, it did give one pause for thought. There must be a happy
medium somewhere between Minette’s blatant sexuality and the chilly disinterest
she’d seen most of the noblewomen in Lyon display toward their husbands.

A
good hour later, she was still pondering the weighty question of how to remain
a lady and still manage to keep one’s husband out of the clutches of the
demimonde when she heard the door to Tristan’s chamber open and stealthy
footsteps cross the tiny room toward his bed.

She
gritted her teeth. Apparently he was wrong. Minette was not above visiting his
room when he failed to show up at hers. As she listened, breath suspended, the
footsteps ceased. There was a moment of silence, then a hoarse cry she
recognized as Tristan’s and a muttered obscenity in a voice that was most
definitely not that of the landlady, nor indeed of any woman.

Maddy
shot upright, reached for the pistol, cocked it, and sprinted to the connecting
doorway. The dim candlelight revealed the intruder to be a massive black-haired
man, dressed in a black jersey and tight black trousers that molded his
powerful legs like a second skin.

He
was grappling with Tristan atop the bed and as she watched, the two of them
rolled over and over until they were jammed against the headboard with the
intruder on top. He raised his arms, and Maddy’s heart missed a beat when she
saw a lethal-looking dagger clutched in his beefy hand.

“
Arretez-vous!”
she cried, raising the pistol with both hands. “Drop the knife or I will
shoot!”

The
assassin slowly lowered his arm and glanced over his shoulder with a pair of
small, deep-set black eyes that sent chills skittering down Maddy’s spine. She
clutched the pistol frantically, her hands trembling like leaves in a
windstorm. His evil gaze locked on the wildly weaving pistol, he cursed and
raised his knife hand again.

“For
God’s sake, Maddy, shoot the bastard.” Tristan’s muffled shout came from where
he lay crushed beneath his opponent’s heavy body.

Maddy
closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. Instantly the acrid smell of smoke
filled her nostrils. She heard a thwack, a thud, then a muffled grunt as if
someone had sustained a blow. She opened her eyes to see Tristan shove the
inert body of the would-be assassin off him and struggle to his feet. She
looked again. His hair and face were covered with some white, powdery substance
that gave him a strange, almost ghostly appearance.

“Good
shooting! You saved my life,” he said, calmly dusting the same substance off
the front of his cassock before he pried the pistol from her rigid fingers.

Maddy
pressed her hand to her lips as bile rose in her throat. “Oh dear God! Is he…?
Did I…?”

“He
isn’t and you didn’t—but it was still a good night’s work. As you will see, if
you raise your eyes, your bullet struck one of the ceiling tiles, which fell on
the blackguard’s head just as he was about to plunge his knife in me.”

He
ran his fingers through his hair, sending flakes of powdery plaster swirling
about his face, and his grin spread from ear to ear. “It would appear that head
blows are your specialty, if the trail of cracked skulls you leave behind you
as you quit France is any indication.”

The
figure on the bed groaned and Tristan promptly whacked him across the back of
the head with the handle of the pistol. “I recognize this scoundrel,” he said,
slipping the pistol into the pocket of his cassock. “He is one of Fouché’s
hired assassin’s, and there’s no one who deserves a headache more. In fact, I
would be doing all France a favor if I disposed of the vermin here and now.”

Maddy
gasped.

“But
out of deference to your tender feelings, I shall control my natural instincts
and merely leave him sufficiently incapacitated to give us time to get safely
out of Paris.” Slashing the bed sheet into strips with his knife, he tied the
fellow’s ankles together and his hands behind his back.

“I
am going to have a few words with Minette before we leave for Calais,” he said
grimly. “She has to have had a hand in this sorry manner; I made certain we
weren’t followed when we crossed Paris.”

“But
why would someone you considered friend do such a thing?”

“Exactly
what I mean to find out.” He returned his knife to its sheath and moved toward
the door. “Keep this locked while I’m gone. The tenants in this house usually
mind their own business, but they had to have heard the gunshot. One of them
might be tempted to do a little investigating if they see me leave the room.”

He
paused in the doorway. “In the meantime, I suggest you get back into your shirt
and trousers. “You would have a hard time convincing anyone you were a boy
attired as you are now.”

Maddy
followed the direction of his gaze and, to her horror, realized she was
standing before him clad only in her thin chemise. Blushing hotly, she did an
about-face and marched into her own room, slamming the connecting door behind
her.

A
cracked mirror hung on one wall of the tiny chamber and facing herself in it,
she felt her spirits plummet to a new low. One thing was certain; if Tristan
had ever had any doubts about the paucity of her womanly endowments, those
doubts were now laid to rest, especially with the voluptuous Minette as a
contrast. She frowned. Men were such strange creatures, and Englishmen the
strangest of all. How could any woman know just how important such attributes
were to a man when he chose the woman he wanted to grace his home and bear his
children?

“
W
hy, Minette?” Why did you do it? You
have never had any love for Citizen Fouché. Tristan fixed a chilly stare on the
woman occupying the bed he’d so often shared in the past six years.

“Fouché?
What does he have to do with the matter?” Minette didn’t bother to pretend she
had not sent the assassin after him, but she seemed genuinely surprised that he
should think the wily Minister of Police was involved. He half believed her;
she had never been one to equivocate. Her lack of pretense had always been the
trait he most admired in her.

“You
betrayed me,” she declared, eyes blazing. “In my own house. After all we have been
to each other.”

“How,
may I ask, did I betray you?”

Tears
welled in Minette’s dark eyes. “Another woman I might understand. We are
neither of us the kind to limit ourselves to one lover. But a skinny young boy
with the eyes of a fawn! For that I shall never forgive you!”

“Maddy?
You sent an assassin after me because you were jealous of Maddy?”

“I
did not send an assassin,” she declared indignantly. “What do you take me for?
I merely asked my present
cher ami
, who occupies the chamber that was
once yours, to teach you a lesson in manners.”

“For
your information Madame, this—
cher ami
of yours is one of Fouché’s most
trusted minions, probably installed in this house to spy on you since it is
well known your sympathies lie with the Royalists.”

Minette
stared at him with eyes blank with shock. “I swear I did not know. And to think
I have let the black-haired devil warm my bed for more than a month.” She
lowered her head and peeped at Tristan from beneath her dark lashes. “Never
think I would relish your death, Treeston. I could never be that angry at you.”

She
swiped at the tears spilling from her eyes. “But what kind of man have you
become in that den of iniquity called Vienna? Did you think me some wide-eyed
innocent raised in a convent that I would not know what you were up to when you
demanded adjoining rooms with a connecting door?”

“Never
that, Minette. I have always been aware you came from the gutters of Paris; I
was just not aware your mind still dwelt there,” Tristan said coldly. His
fingers itched to throttle this jealous little French tart he had once found so
amusing.

“So
now, little gutter rat, you have not only put my life in danger; you have also
endangered the life of the granddaughter of one of France’s leading Royalists,
whom I have been hired to transport safely to her father in England.”

“The
boy is really a girl?” Minette looked frankly skeptical. “But how could that
be? Her figure is most certainly that of a slender boy.”

“Not
all women are as generously endowed as you, Minette. But I assure you, Maddy is
a woman.”
More woman than any other I have known.
“And just so you know
how badly you have erred, she is not, nor ever will be, my lover.”

Minette
covered her face with her hands, the picture of contrition. “Mother of God,
what have I done?” She raised her head and stared at Tristan beseechingly.
“Tell me,
Cheri,
what can I do to make amends?”

Tristan
felt a twinge of satisfaction. This might work to his advantage after all. He
leveled a look on his former mistress that had her cowering against the
headboard. “Thanks to you, we dare not wait until dawn to leave for Calais,” he
said in his sternest voice. “But unfortunately, our horses are too spent to
make the trip without sufficient rest.”

Minette’s
countenance brightened perceptibly. “Say no more. My brother, Philippe, who is
this very minute asleep in the next room, is the cleverest horse thief in all
of Paris. I have but to ask and he will procure you two excellent steeds within
the hour, even if he has to steal them from the stable of the royal palace.”

With
a sigh, she lounged back against the pillows, exposing a generous amount of her
remarkable cleavage. Her full, red lips formed the pout he has once found so
provocative.

“So,
cheri
,” she purred, “is there, by chance, something else I can do for
you before we wake Phillipe?”

The
storm that had chased Maddy and Tristan all the way from Paris abated as they
neared Calais. They found the harbor crowded with ships and the docks swarming
with anxious Royalists seeking transport to England before Napoleon Bonaparte
once again claimed the throne of France.

“Your
father’s brig is riding at anchor out beyond the crush of vessels,” Tristan
said, shielding his eyes to scan the harbor from his vantage point at the far
end of the southernmost pier. “We’ll find an inn where we can wash off the dust
of the road. Then I’ll sell the nags. I need a pair of trousers and a shirt,
and we must purchase you’re a proper dress and bonnet before we search out the
longboard to tow us aboard. You’ll not want to arrive in England in the garb of
a French peasant boy.”

“
Merci
,”
Maddy said, grateful for his unexpected thoughtfulness. He really could be a
love when he wanted to be, and thank heavens he’d finally shaken both his cold
and the black mood he’d been in on their mad dash from Paris. He had been so
glum and silent, she had come to the conclusion she must have somehow
displeased him again.

She
smiled. “What I mean to say is thank you. I must remember to speak English from
now on.”

“As
must I.” Tristan returned her smile, but it was a bleak smile that somehow
stopped short of his eyes. He removed his riding glove and flicked it against
his thigh, sending dust motes dancing around him. “So, Maddy, our epic journey
is at an end at last. You must be greatly relieved.”

Maddy
nodded. “I shall not be sorry to leave France. It is a troubled land, and I
feel no more allegiance to one faction than the other. All that I loved in this
country died with my grandfather. But as to our journey, I could wish that it
would go on forever. It was a grand adventure and I shall have fond memories of
it all the rest of my life.”

“Indeed?
Then you are truly unique, for I feel certain any other woman would gladly
trade the hardships you have endured for the life of luxury awaiting you.” He
paused as if pondering how to proceed with what he had to say. “Your father is
one of the wealthiest men in all of England and you are the sole heiress to his
fortune, as well as the granddaughter of a French aristocrat. I predict the
ton
will welcome you with open arms.”

Maddy
laughed. “I sincerely doubt that. I was given to understand your British
society makes a point of snubbing anyone with the slightest odor of commerce
clinging to them.”

“Times
have changed, as have fortunes. Some of England’s noblest families have
suffered severe financial reverses in recent years, and it is not unusual to
find them marrying their titled sons to the daughters of wealthy merchants. Not
a bad arrangement, all told. The young lord saves his family estates from ruin
and the lady in question gains the social acceptability that would otherwise be
denied her.”

“I
have seen such arrangements in France also,” Maddy said, “but I find them very
sad. I should not like to be married simply for the money I can bring a
husband.” She leaned forward in the saddle to scratch behind the ear of her
restless mare. “Wouldn’t you find it distressing to know a woman married you
only to get her hands on your father’s money?”

“Obviously
that is a problem with which I shall never have to deal,” Tristan said dryly,
“but if I did, I should endeavor to look at it realistically.”

“I
see, and what, in your opinion, is my reality?” she teased. “Should I seriously
consider finding myself a titled husband so everyone of consequence in London
society will overlook the fact that my father is in trade?”

“It
is certainly something to consider,” Tristan said, his expression so grave,
Maddy felt as if a chill wind had suddenly whistled down her backbone.

She
swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “But—speaking hypothetically,
of course—what if I should decide I want a man who has not title…nor indeed
even a surname that is considered respectable in proper social circles?”

“Then,
Maddy, I would urge you to bestow your affections on some more worthy man, for
if this hypothetical one of whom you speak was a man of honor, he would realize
he had nothing to offer you—most certainly not marriage.”

Maddy
felt as if her heart had suspended its beating. “You cannot be serious. Of
course he would offer for me if he loved me…and if he knew I loved him. For
nothing else really matters!”

“On
the contrary, there are many other things that matter a great deal.”

Maddy
heard a quiet resignation in his voice that seemed totally alien to the vital
man she had come to know and love over the past fortnight. What was he trying
to convey with his frightening hypothesis?

She
pressed her hand to her breast to still her thudding heart. “Tell me, if you
please, what could possibly matter as much as the love two people feel for each
other?”

“Loyalty,
gratitude, responsibility…and most of all, honor.” Tristan leaned forward in
the saddle, his eyes fixed on the ship he had identified as her father’s. “No
one who calls himself a man can forswear such things as these—not even for
love.”

“But
why would he have to forswear them?” she asked, gripped by a sudden premonition
that without her knowledge, mysterious forces had been set into motion that
would determine the course of her future life—forces over which she had not the
slightest control.

“Because
it is the way of things, Maddy,” Tristan said, shrugging his powerful
shoulders. “Because the ending of the drama in which your hypothetical man is a
player was written long before the beginning—and there is nothing he can do to
change it.”

“I
do not accept that.” Maddy matched his grave expression with one of her own.
“There is always something one can do if one cares enough. This I believe with
all my heart.”

Tristan
could see he had hurt her, maybe even frightened her—a thing he would regret
all the days of his life, almost as much he would regret the weakness that had
led him to kiss this innocent, trusting woman with such uncontrolled passion
that he had ignited a flame that threatened to consume them both.

He
could not undo the damage he’d done; but neither could he let her go on blindly
believing in happiness ever after. At least now she would not be taken totally
unawares when her father divulged his plan to make her a countess.

He
told himself that her pain would be short-lived, that what she thought was love
was only infatuation for the man who had given her the first glimpse of her own
sensuality.

He
told himself she would be better off in the long run because Garth would be a
much better husband than he could ever hope to be.

Unfortunately,
the one thing he could not tell himself was how to bear the pain of watching
her become his brother’s wife.

Tristan
had purchased only the roughest of seaman’s garb for himself—canvas pants, a
jersey, duffel coat, and woolen seaman’s cap. But he’d spared no expense on
Maddy’s new traveling dress, which was of French cambric, the rich amber color
of an autumn maple leaf. It perfectly matched her eyes, as did her fur-trimmed
pelisse of Utrecht velvet and the perky, high-crowned bonnet that covered her
freshly washed hair.

It
was without a doubt the most attractive outfit she had ever owned, and
ordinarily she would have been over the moon. But thanks to the depressing
conversation she’d had with Tristan, all the joy had gone out of the day for
her.

He
had made it all too plain that he would never offer for her—not because he
didn’t love her, but because his sense of honor forbade it. But what, she
wanted to know, did honor have to do with it? As if he hadn’t shown time and
time again he was a man of honor despite his unfortunate birth.

Well,
she simply would not accept his declaration—as she had already informed him—not
unless he told her he didn’t love her, and those words had never crossed his
lips. No indeed, she was too much of an optimist to be defeated so easily, as
he would soon see. Still, it was frightfully upsetting. And just when she’d
been so certain all was going to be well!
Nom de Dieu,
what kind of
weapons did a woman need to combat a man’s misplaced sense of honor—especially
a man as pigheaded as Tristan?

In
a fog of misery, she climbed into the longboat and, with Tristan beside her,
was rowed out to her father’s ship, the masthead of which was a mermaid who
bore a striking resemblance to Minette, both in face and torso. Needless to
say, this did nothing to dispel Maddy’s gloom.

The
longboat circled the hull to where the rope ladder was hung and, raising her
eyes, she saw the name emblazoned on the side of her father’s brig—
The
Madelaine
.

“He
named his ship after me.” Instinctively, she turned to Tristan, tears misting
her eyes. “All those years when I was so certain my father cared nothing for
me, this ship was sailing the oceans with my name on it.” She choked back a sob
and accepted the clean, folded handkerchief Tristan pressed into her
fingers—one of the four he had purchased on their shopping tour of Calais. What
with one thing and another, her emotions were very close to the surface at the
moment, and this newest revelation touched her deeply.