Page 77 of Wed By Proxy

“How is your sister?” she asked dryly. “Is she recovered yet from her shock?”

Tristan gave a startled laugh. “She is fancying herself in the role of the much-wronged, maligned woman,” he responded, falling in step beside her. “Alas for Julia, that no one else regards her as such. It vexes her greatly.”

Mathilde shot a curious look at him. “You are not close to your sister,” she said in a puzzled voice. “And yet…”

“And yet I live off the fat of her spoils,” he said matter-of-factly. “Oh yes. Lord Allworthy has kindly provided me with an allowance for years. Perhaps you have not heard my own tragic tale?”

He sighed heavily and cast her a sly look beneath his lashes. Against her better judgement, Mathilde was diverted. Mind you, any distraction from her current situation was welcome presently.

“I was the younger brother of the honorable Miles Kerslake,” he explained. “Miles was your esteemed husband’s bosom companion and greatest friend,” he continued. “He was killed in battle, defending our family honor.”

“During the war?”

“Quite. Typical of Miles to die in a blaze of glory, the Blechmarsh colors clutched in his dying fingers. I never lived up to him in any way,” he said ruefully, yet with a hint of scorn. “Of course, by rights I ought to have succeeded him to the baronetcy and the lands but alas…” He heaved another sigh. “King Wymer’s forces levelled Kerslake castle to a pile of rubble for its defiance, and rescinded our titles and lands as traitors to the crown. We were unfortunate that he sent his famous hound of war to deal with us. Sir Mason Vawdrey, perhaps you have heard of him?”

Mathilde gave a start. “Oh yes,” she agreed. The Vawdreys were a powerful family and well known figures at court.”

“Though he is known as Duke of Cadwallader now, for services rendered to the crown.”

“I thought that was by dint of his marriage,” Mathilde murmured, but Tristan was not listening.

“It was his brother that you accuse me of knowing,” he continued smoothly.

Mathilde looked at him in surprise. “Accuse?” she repeated. They had come to the end of the row, and Mathilde turned deliberately back, not wishing to let Temur and Lettys out of her sight. Obligingly, Tristan kept in step with her.

“It is hardly likely that I should be acquainted with the brother of my enemy, now is it?” he pointed out gently.

Mathilde gave him a thoughtful look. Now why, she wondered, is he so determined to refute all knowledge of Lord Oswald Vawdrey? In silence, she turned over what she knew of her friend Fenella’s husband. He was perhaps the most powerful man at court. The king’s chief advisor and also, it was whispered, his spymaster. He must have seen the moment this remembrance flickered through her thoughts, for he gazed at her keenly. She watched the quick play of emotions cross his handsome face. Annoyance, she recognized briefly and strangely, regret. But why was he regretful?

“Ah, I see that I have merely made things worse,” he said with a sigh. “Unfortunate, and rather stupid of me. But you have a far livelier mind that I heretofore suspected.” Mathilde frowned. Did her vague suspicions really amount to much? “I am curious about one thing, though,” he said slowly. “Why on earth does everyone think you such a timorous creature? Are you aware that your misnomer at court is ‘Mouse’ Martindale?”

Mathilde flushed. “Is it?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

He nodded. “Not here though,” he conceded. “Here you are the ‘southern lioness.’” He made an elaborate twirling gesture with his fingers. “Ballads will be sung in your honor. I may even,” he added thoughtfully, “sing them myself.”

Mathilde shot him a look of disbelief. “I hardly think—”

“You do realize,” he said wryly, “that the servants hear and repeat every word exchanged between you and Martindale outside of the bedchamber.” Mathilde flushed. Guy had not come once to her bedchamber in at least three nights. Of course, she was glad about that. Ecstatic. “Everyone in the county now knows you have the heretofore woman-hating Marquis on his knees, begging your forgiveness of his previous spousal cruelty.”

“Cruelty?” she repeated, startled. “Negligence would be a more appropriate word.”

Tristan laughed. “Poor Guy,” he muttered. “Almost, I feel sorry for him.”

“Almost?” Mathilde glanced around, but Temur had slipped an arm about Lettys’s waist and was whispering in her ear. After all, thought Mathilde bleakly. They were still newlyweds.

“Empathy has never been one of my strongest points,” Tristan admitted. “Let me put it this way, what significance do you think anyone would attach to your claims of seeing me at the southern court?”

“None,” Mathilde answered truthfully, but he paid no attention to her.

“Let me put it this way,” he continued glibly. “It could cause me some embarrassment round these parts, if it were known that I sometimes join the southern king’s household. But I could explain it away, at a push.” He shot a measuring look at Mathilde, as if to see how she took this.

“I’m sure you could,” she said politely. “It is really none of my business.”

“If only I could trust in a woman’s wayward tongue,” he said wistfully.

There seemed no response to this, so Mathilde made none and they stood in a companionable silence a moment. “Do they really call me Mouse?” she asked at last.

He gave a short laugh. “They do. But they are quite wrong.” He paused to consider a moment. “You are more like… a mink. Tiny and exquisite, with sharp little teeth.”