cockfights. That sort of life I might enjoy . . . when I’m not painting.”
“Haven’t I already made it clear that English lords don’t live that sort of life at all?” Zoe cried.
Tristan suppressed a snort. Even after learning she was a lady in name only, she was still defending their kind.
Keane exchanged a knowing glance with Tristan. “So none of them are spending their time at gaming hells and hunting lodges? All that gossip about English gentlemen that we hear in America is invented?”
“A complete fabrication,” Tristan said before Zoe could answer. “And the mistresses they hide in little cottages are imaginary, too, along with the money sunk into bad investments, and the time spent drinking until all hours at fine gentlemen’s clubs.”
Zoe’s eyes sparked green in the fading light. “I’ll grant you that there are gentlemen who are irresponsible gamblers and rakehells, but I know none personally. My father divides his time between sitting in Parliament and running Winborough, or teaching me to run it. My aunt spends her days in charitable works or inteaching me valuable skills as well, and her friends do the same.”
Suitably chastened, Keane said, “Forgive me, coz. I get carried away in tweaking your English nose. But I am well aware of your father’s fine character, I swear.”
“It isn’t entirely your fault.” Straightening in her sidesaddle, she shot Tristan a veiled glance. “Mr. Bonnaud enjoys egging you on, I’m afraid. But of course, his perspective of the aristocracy is a bit different since he spends all his time with criminals.”
“Not all my time, my lady,” Tristan said dryly. “I’m here at Rotten Row, after all, observing the many fine ladies and gentlemen from London’s upper echelons.” He swept his glance over the crowd. “And they do appear to be very busy with their estates, indeed.” When she bristled, he added, “But then, everyone must have some relaxation, eh, Keane?”
“Absolutely. And since my cousin is clearly unwilling to tell me—or, more likely, is unaware of—where to find them, perhaps you could reveal the location of the famous gaming hells and brothels of London.”
Zoe’s rigid stance gave Tristan a twinge of guilt. He and Keane really were taxing her composure. Brothels, indeed.
He should rebuke Keane for speaking of that in front of a lady. But it might be better to fall in with the man’s request instead, just to show Zoe that Keane would not make her a good husband, in case she hadn’t already figured that out on her own. “Say the word, Mr. Keane, and I’ll give you a tour of the most wicked spots.”
“Why does it not surprise me that you know where they are?” Zoe muttered.
Tristan bit back a smile. “You should expect that of a man who ‘spends all his time with criminals,’ my lady.”
“Speaking of that, Bonnaud, perhaps you could give me a tour of the places where criminals congregate, too,” Keane said. “I’d like to paint them. The seedier, the better. I believe in showing man’s natural savagery.”
The American was turning out to be not at all what Tristan had expected. And probably not what Zoe had expected, either. “I can show you all the natural savagery you crave, sir,” Tristan said. “If you have the time.”
“He doesn’t,” Zoe said firmly. “I have it on good authority that the Society of British Artists has a number of activities planned for him in connection with his exhibit.” She lifted her chin at her cousin. “And don’t forget Aunt Flo’s soiree tomorrow night, sir. You must attend that, or she will be very hurt.”
Keane groaned. “Right.” Then he glanced at Tristan. “Are you attending? That might liven it up.”
It damned well would. Zoe’s family would pitch an apoplectic fit if a half-French bastard who worked in ‘trade’ darkened the hallowed doors of their fine Mayfair town house. “I’m afraid I’m not invited.”
“Aren’t you?” Keane
“Haven’t I already made it clear that English lords don’t live that sort of life at all?” Zoe cried.
Tristan suppressed a snort. Even after learning she was a lady in name only, she was still defending their kind.
Keane exchanged a knowing glance with Tristan. “So none of them are spending their time at gaming hells and hunting lodges? All that gossip about English gentlemen that we hear in America is invented?”
“A complete fabrication,” Tristan said before Zoe could answer. “And the mistresses they hide in little cottages are imaginary, too, along with the money sunk into bad investments, and the time spent drinking until all hours at fine gentlemen’s clubs.”
Zoe’s eyes sparked green in the fading light. “I’ll grant you that there are gentlemen who are irresponsible gamblers and rakehells, but I know none personally. My father divides his time between sitting in Parliament and running Winborough, or teaching me to run it. My aunt spends her days in charitable works or inteaching me valuable skills as well, and her friends do the same.”
Suitably chastened, Keane said, “Forgive me, coz. I get carried away in tweaking your English nose. But I am well aware of your father’s fine character, I swear.”
“It isn’t entirely your fault.” Straightening in her sidesaddle, she shot Tristan a veiled glance. “Mr. Bonnaud enjoys egging you on, I’m afraid. But of course, his perspective of the aristocracy is a bit different since he spends all his time with criminals.”
“Not all my time, my lady,” Tristan said dryly. “I’m here at Rotten Row, after all, observing the many fine ladies and gentlemen from London’s upper echelons.” He swept his glance over the crowd. “And they do appear to be very busy with their estates, indeed.” When she bristled, he added, “But then, everyone must have some relaxation, eh, Keane?”
“Absolutely. And since my cousin is clearly unwilling to tell me—or, more likely, is unaware of—where to find them, perhaps you could reveal the location of the famous gaming hells and brothels of London.”
Zoe’s rigid stance gave Tristan a twinge of guilt. He and Keane really were taxing her composure. Brothels, indeed.
He should rebuke Keane for speaking of that in front of a lady. But it might be better to fall in with the man’s request instead, just to show Zoe that Keane would not make her a good husband, in case she hadn’t already figured that out on her own. “Say the word, Mr. Keane, and I’ll give you a tour of the most wicked spots.”
“Why does it not surprise me that you know where they are?” Zoe muttered.
Tristan bit back a smile. “You should expect that of a man who ‘spends all his time with criminals,’ my lady.”
“Speaking of that, Bonnaud, perhaps you could give me a tour of the places where criminals congregate, too,” Keane said. “I’d like to paint them. The seedier, the better. I believe in showing man’s natural savagery.”
The American was turning out to be not at all what Tristan had expected. And probably not what Zoe had expected, either. “I can show you all the natural savagery you crave, sir,” Tristan said. “If you have the time.”
“He doesn’t,” Zoe said firmly. “I have it on good authority that the Society of British Artists has a number of activities planned for him in connection with his exhibit.” She lifted her chin at her cousin. “And don’t forget Aunt Flo’s soiree tomorrow night, sir. You must attend that, or she will be very hurt.”
Keane groaned. “Right.” Then he glanced at Tristan. “Are you attending? That might liven it up.”
It damned well would. Zoe’s family would pitch an apoplectic fit if a half-French bastard who worked in ‘trade’ darkened the hallowed doors of their fine Mayfair town house. “I’m afraid I’m not invited.”
“Aren’t you?” Keane
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