Maybe she could cut that piece into two. Marguerite fixed her eyes firmly on the bread and refused to look around. You could not despair over bread turning into crumbs.
She was gone. Marguerite was on her way. Tristan watched the carriage wheels clatter down the street. He turned and walked back into the hall. He paused for a moment deciding on a course of action. His normal recourse was to retire to his study and examine the morning papers and plan his evening’s activities. That thought found no favor. He pictured her blond curls bent meekly on that first night she’d arrived.
Damn. He’d done the right thing.
Nothing had really changed.
Damn. She’d been so brave in facing her . . . his mind would not even form the word. He was not a man who shrank from reality, so why was the thought of Clark so horrifying? Tristan knew well the misery that life could bring, but the thought of those thick, meaty hands on Marguerite’s tender white flesh – he shuddered at the image.
No, he would not let anything be changed. He turned and stomped back to the entryway, grabbing a walking stick on his way. A stroll would clear his mind.
Damn, this is not what he should be thinking about. He had a web to weave, a possible a traitor to catch. If he were going to be delayed in fitting Marguerite into his strategy he would need to recalculate. It was time to choose another lure to see who bit.
Young Moreland.
Lord Danders.
Mr. Locke.
All respectable gentlemen of good family. Gentlemen who tarried in drawing rooms sniffing at sweet misses. Drawing rooms that leaked secrets. He’d been suspicious of them all during the war, but had never proved anything. There were others, but that bunch seemed the most likely – all in more ready funds than could easily be explained, despite family fortune.
Were they persuading their elders to change the votes in the House of Lords, and if so how? Blackmail? And who was paying them?
He strode with determination as he headed towards the park. He turned his mind away from rose-flushed skin and clear blue eyes.
Singapore.
Riau.
Penang.
The Strait of Malacca.
That was where his mind needed to settle. They were not locations with which society was familiar, but he heard them whispered again and again in the most unlikely corners, by the most unlikely people.
Why did none of it make sense? How was he supposed to answer the riddle when he didn’t understand the question? He swung his stick in full arc.
Young men with too much money. Secrets being passed at mid-afternoon musicales. The China Seas. There was no connection. Hell, he didn’t even know why he was sure they were connected. But they were.
He needed to discuss this with someone. Violet? No, he’d said his goodbyes and meant them. A newly married, besotted man did not visit his mistress. It would be hard enough to explain why he’d sent Marguerite home to the country before him. If only Wulf or Westlake were in town.
He stared at the bleakness of the park as he approached. An early frost had killed all but the hardiest of the greenery – only the evergreens and some ornamental cabbages remained. He muttered a curse. He should have chosen a more engaging pursuit than a stroll. A ride would have helped. A good fast ride. Not that such a thing was possible in London.
He turned back to the house with a curse. He still had plans to complete. He would proceed on without Marguerite. He would find a path that did not involve her. There was more than one way to hook a fish. One quick note would take care of it – he should have just stayed in his study. He never had trouble concentrating there.
Marguerite watched out the window of the carriage as spaces began to appear between the steady walls of buildings. She was leaving London. She’d never planned to stay, but as the spaces grew greater and the buildings fewer a deep-seated chill began within her. She pulled the lush fur throw tight about her and sat back, staring at the gilt furnishings that surrounded her, cocooned her – imprisoned her.
She swung her worn half boot hard, letting it land back against the bench with a thud. Why was everything always out of her control? Was her mother right? Did a drive for independence always misfire?