How the Scoundrel Seduces by Sabrina Jeffries Page A

Tristan said. “Anyone can tell that your cousin is a respectable man.”
    “I wouldn’t go that far,” Keane drawled. “But I do try to uphold the law, if only out of a sense of self-preservation. And can I assume, from your activities catching forgers, that you try to enforce it?”
    Zoe shot Tristan a warning glance.
    He ignored it. “You could say that. I work for an investigative agency in London.”
    “A working man, eh?” Keane looked speculative. “It’s good to hear that English aristocrats aren’t as insular as we Americans have been led to believe. Clearly they dorespect a useful sort of man, if they’re willing to invite him to society parties where he can meet young ladies like my cousin.”
    “Oh, yes,” Tristan said with a smirk for Zoe, “the English aristocracy is quite enlightened. We all ramble about together, don’t we, my lady?”
    She stared daggers at him. She did that a lot. He rather liked it. Her temper was what lent her kisses all their fiery intensity, and he was definitely fond of her kisses.
    Shifting her attention to her cousin, she said loftily, “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension about English aristocrats, Mr. Keane. We, too, are useful sorts, as Mr. Bonnaud knows perfectly well. Lords run their estates and serve in Parliament, both of which duties they take quite seriously.”
    “Really?” Keane said. “Sounds dull to me.”
    “It’s not dull at all!” she said fervently. “I can’t speak firsthand of serving in Parliament, but running an estate . . .” Her face lit up. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to be a steward of the land, to know that your efforts bring food to hundreds, supply farmers with work, transform rough lawns into glorious gardens. Watching it all take shape before one’s very eyes is magical.”
    Keane gave a cynical laugh and turned to Tristan with a raised eyebrow. “What do you think, Bonnaud? Does that sound magical to you?”
    Envy pierced him unexpectedly . . . of her life, her manner of existence . . . the land she got to oversee.
    He scowled at himself. Envy? Absurd. He didn’t envy her one jot. He might have considered such work rewarding years ago, when Father had dangled in front of him the possibility of doing some of it. But after years of crisscrossing the Continent and England, he probably wouldn’t care for it.
    He’d much rather spend his time poring over birth records, watching a house for hours while waiting for his quarry to emerge . . . trudging through the human muck of London looking for needles in haystacks.
    Sharing a house with his brother that was less a home than a convenient place to sleep.
    “That doesn’t sound remotely magical,” he forced himself to answer. Liar.
    Zoe gave him a sad look. “I understand why you would not wish for such a life, Mr. Bonnaud—you’ve never known what it’s like, so it must sound very tedious to you.” She turned to her cousin. “But you, with your liking for seeing the drama in the mundane, ought to appreciate it.”
    “I appreciate it, coz,” Keane said. “I just prefer to observe it, to paint it. I have no desire to be part of it. Can’t imagine anything more soul-destroying than going over endless account books and arranging planting schedules.”
    Mangling her reins, she leaned forward in the saddle. “But you’re Papa’s heir if something should happen to me! Surely you wish to know a little—”
    “A very little,” her cousin quipped. “Let us therefore pray that nothing does happen to you.” He waggled hiseyebrows. “And if you’re worried that I’ve come here to murder you and your father in your sleep so I can inherit, you can put that idea to rest. The idea of running Winborough doesn’t appeal to me.”
    When she looked stricken, Keane said in a teasing tone, “Unless, of course, I get to do more of what I’ve always heard that English lords really spend their time doing: gambling, wenching, and watching