wanted.
Keane acknowledged him with a nod, but his gazegrew calculating as he glanced from Tristan to Zoe. “Any friend of my cousin’s is a friend of mine, sir. How exactly do you know Lady Zoe?”
Before Tristan could answer, Zoe jumped in. “We met at some party, did we not, Mr. Bonnaud?”
“Yes.” Tristan forced a smile. “Clearly a very dull one, since neither of us can remember which one it was.”
Her cousin gave a hearty laugh. Damn. The chap had a sense of humor. Not to mention extraordinary good looks for an American. Tristan had secretly hoped that Keane would be less . . . Adonis-like. Especially after what Tristan had learned on his trip.
“In any case,” Zoe hastened to say, “my cousin has just arrived from America.” She cast Tristan a meaningful glance. “He disembarked in Liverpool.”
It took Tristan a second to catch on to why she’d mentioned it. “I was just in Liverpool myself, Mr. Keane.”
“Were you? How odd. What were you doing there?”
Fortunately, Tristan was accustomed to thinking on his feet. “I was meeting a friend of mine and his wife, who’d come here from Canada. I’d heard gossip that his wife had recently borne a child, but the rumors turned out to be false. She set foot on shore without a babe in arms. And her husband confirmed that she was not, nor had ever been, enceinte .”
He dared not look at Zoe, but her sharp intake of breath told him that she’d taken his meaning. She would want to hear details later, of course, want to know exactly what he’d found out at the Customs office, butat least she now had a definitive answer as to whether she’d been born on her parents’ voyage.
She had not.
But clearly she didn’t quite wish to believe it. “Are you talking about our mutual friend . . . Mrs. Major?” she asked shakily.
Mrs. Major? Oh, right, she called her father “the Major.” “Yes, that’s her. Came on shore and went through Customs with only her husband for company.”
The color drained from her pretty cheeks. When she almost seemed to sway in the saddle, he wished to God he didn’t have to do this with an audience.
Swallowing convulsively, she searched his face. “I was so hopeful . . .”
“Yes, we all were.” Well, that was a lie—he’d been hoping to be able to pursue the Gypsy angle further, and now he could. But knowing what it meant for her, he hated having to give her such news. “Unfortunately, the Majors hadn’t added a child to their nursery after all.”
Twisting the reins round in her hand, she gave a jerky bob of her head. “It’s sad, but such is life. I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“No.” Taking pity on her, Tristan changed the subject. “So, Mr. Keane, what brings you to London?”
“Business.” Keane slid a knowing look at Zoe. “And a bit of pleasure, too, I hope.”
Damn it all. Now that Zoe knew she wasn’t her mother’s daughter, she would be angling to marry this fellow. He shouldn’t be bothered by that; why did he care whom the chit married?
But he was. And he did.
“You may actually have heard of Mr. Keane,” Zoe said in that carefully precise tone that betrayed her agitation to Tristan. “He’s a well-known American artist.”
With a clear penchant for fetching females. “How interesting. I’ve never met an American. Or, for that matter, an artist.” Some devil seized him, and he added, “In my line of work artists are scarce, although I suppose I could include that forger I caught last year in Antwerp. It takes a certain amount of artistry to forge a banknote, don’t you think, Mr. Keane?”
To his surprise, Keane burst into laughter. “More artistry than I would dare use, sir. I understand that they hang forgers in England. And since I prefer to keep my neck its usual length, I don’t intend to practice any artistry of that kind.”
Zoe looked annoyed. “I’m sure Mr. Bonnaud wasn’t implying that you might be a criminal.”
“Of course not,”
Keane acknowledged him with a nod, but his gazegrew calculating as he glanced from Tristan to Zoe. “Any friend of my cousin’s is a friend of mine, sir. How exactly do you know Lady Zoe?”
Before Tristan could answer, Zoe jumped in. “We met at some party, did we not, Mr. Bonnaud?”
“Yes.” Tristan forced a smile. “Clearly a very dull one, since neither of us can remember which one it was.”
Her cousin gave a hearty laugh. Damn. The chap had a sense of humor. Not to mention extraordinary good looks for an American. Tristan had secretly hoped that Keane would be less . . . Adonis-like. Especially after what Tristan had learned on his trip.
“In any case,” Zoe hastened to say, “my cousin has just arrived from America.” She cast Tristan a meaningful glance. “He disembarked in Liverpool.”
It took Tristan a second to catch on to why she’d mentioned it. “I was just in Liverpool myself, Mr. Keane.”
“Were you? How odd. What were you doing there?”
Fortunately, Tristan was accustomed to thinking on his feet. “I was meeting a friend of mine and his wife, who’d come here from Canada. I’d heard gossip that his wife had recently borne a child, but the rumors turned out to be false. She set foot on shore without a babe in arms. And her husband confirmed that she was not, nor had ever been, enceinte .”
He dared not look at Zoe, but her sharp intake of breath told him that she’d taken his meaning. She would want to hear details later, of course, want to know exactly what he’d found out at the Customs office, butat least she now had a definitive answer as to whether she’d been born on her parents’ voyage.
She had not.
But clearly she didn’t quite wish to believe it. “Are you talking about our mutual friend . . . Mrs. Major?” she asked shakily.
Mrs. Major? Oh, right, she called her father “the Major.” “Yes, that’s her. Came on shore and went through Customs with only her husband for company.”
The color drained from her pretty cheeks. When she almost seemed to sway in the saddle, he wished to God he didn’t have to do this with an audience.
Swallowing convulsively, she searched his face. “I was so hopeful . . .”
“Yes, we all were.” Well, that was a lie—he’d been hoping to be able to pursue the Gypsy angle further, and now he could. But knowing what it meant for her, he hated having to give her such news. “Unfortunately, the Majors hadn’t added a child to their nursery after all.”
Twisting the reins round in her hand, she gave a jerky bob of her head. “It’s sad, but such is life. I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“No.” Taking pity on her, Tristan changed the subject. “So, Mr. Keane, what brings you to London?”
“Business.” Keane slid a knowing look at Zoe. “And a bit of pleasure, too, I hope.”
Damn it all. Now that Zoe knew she wasn’t her mother’s daughter, she would be angling to marry this fellow. He shouldn’t be bothered by that; why did he care whom the chit married?
But he was. And he did.
“You may actually have heard of Mr. Keane,” Zoe said in that carefully precise tone that betrayed her agitation to Tristan. “He’s a well-known American artist.”
With a clear penchant for fetching females. “How interesting. I’ve never met an American. Or, for that matter, an artist.” Some devil seized him, and he added, “In my line of work artists are scarce, although I suppose I could include that forger I caught last year in Antwerp. It takes a certain amount of artistry to forge a banknote, don’t you think, Mr. Keane?”
To his surprise, Keane burst into laughter. “More artistry than I would dare use, sir. I understand that they hang forgers in England. And since I prefer to keep my neck its usual length, I don’t intend to practice any artistry of that kind.”
Zoe looked annoyed. “I’m sure Mr. Bonnaud wasn’t implying that you might be a criminal.”
“Of course not,”
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