Lady Derring Takes a Lover - Julie Anne Long Page 0,6

high. Laughter loud.

Not at his table, of course.

Captain Hardy was not a member of White’s, as he was not a gentleman in any sense of the word. His manners, though exquisite, were acquired, not innate; he wielded them, like his charm, the way he wielded a sword: strategically, only when necessary, and, if need be, ruthlessly. Nor was he likely to be invited here merely for the pleasure of his company. “Why, he’s a right bastard, ain’t he?” was often the delayed, rather surprised conclusion after a conversation with Captain Hardy. The surprise was because Captain Hardy was so charming and well-spoken and, indeed, a truly fine specimen of a man, the realization that he’d ruthlessly maneuvered them into a confession of some sort arrived with a delayed sort of shock.

From a distance, he didn’t look very different from Lord Kinbrook. The buttons on his coat gleamed; they were silver. The toes of his boots mirrored the overhead chandeliers. They were made by Hoby. But after a second glance somehow it was clear that he was constructed of different material than the men surrounding him. Shaped by entirely different forces.

“You’d sooner want to walk about with a wolf on a lead, darling,” wiser women told the women whose eyes inevitably hungrily followed him.

But heads invariably turned to follow him when he entered the room; gazes often settled upon him, unconsciously drawn. The way one’s eyes would follow a mysterious ship sailing into port, uncertain of its provenance or the number of cannons it carried.

So if Lord Kinbrook thought Tristan would blink, he was in for a long wait.

“It’s true,” Lieutenant Massey said. “I witnessed the transaction meself. The devil, ’e says, I’ll take your soul off ye, Tristan Jeremiah Hardy, if ye’d like to catch your man every time.”

“A fair bargain,” Tristan agreed placidly, in almost a drawl. “Because all I’ve ever wanted is to catch my man.”

His middle name wasn’t Jeremiah. As far as he knew, anyway.

Lord Kinbrook’s antipathy radiated from him. His broad pale brow gleamed damply; the sweat threatened to bead and pour. That was the thing with gentlemen: they never expected to be caught, let alone punished. They thought they could do anything they wanted to do, so they never practiced subterfuge or deception. Tristan almost had more respect for the thieves in Newgate awaiting the noose or deportation, who at least applied some effort to lying. Survival of the wiliest. He ought to know.

One of the other things he knew was that all men and women were the same beneath the skin. Title or no title. He had no illusions about gentlemen or gentlewomen possessing more honor.

“Handkerchief?” Tristan asked politely. He produced one. Lawn. White. He hadn’t any females in his life who would soften the sharp, plain corners of his life with things like embroidered initials. Women, like embroidery, were complications.

Lord Kinbrook stared at it as if Tristan had extended a handful of dog feces.

Then he looked back into Tristan’s face resentfully.

“I don’t know how I can help you, Captain Hardy.”

Tristan leaned back in his chair and sighed at length. He gave a thoughtful drum of his fingers on the table.

He accepted a brandy from a passing waiter.

Kinbrook looked stubborn, yet wretched.

“Have you a favorite hunting dog, Lord Kinbrook?” Tristan asked lightly. “One who simply never gives up, and never disappoints you, and always find its quarry?”

Kinbrook brightened cautiously at the change in topic. “Yes. Darby is his name. A spaniel. Raised him from a pup.”

“I am the king’s favorite hunting dog.”

Kinbrook’s face fell almost comically.

“No one but the king calls me to heel.” He didn’t add that the king hadn’t called him to heel yet, and that there was no certainty he would obey if that should happen. The arrangement had suited both of them thus far. This time both the king and Tristan had a far more personal interest in hunting down their quarry, for slightly different reasons. “Answer my question and we’ll be off. Clearly you know you’re in possession of contraband. If you don’t tell me how you happened to have those cigars, we’ll only try another way, and another way, each increasingly uncomfortable for you. It’s all I know how to do, and all I truly enjoy. I’m a simple man.”

He shrugged with one shoulder.

This wasn’t quite hyperbole. There wasn’t much Tristan hadn’t sampled or witnessed in his life, from violence to lust to humiliation to opium to triumph to heartbreak. It was all useful. It had all been