He enjoyed this feeling of infatuation, because he knew that was all it was. She was a friend of his sister’s, and she was a member of the expedition. Nothingshouldhappen, so nothingwouldhappen. It wasn’t responsible, it wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t a good match anyhow. They’d never suit: him an outgoing son of a viscount, her a quiet, tame daughter of a merchant. He’d find a daughter of the nobility at some point, and their bloodlines would continue on as safety measures to their families.
Yet how was it that thinking of her made him feel both weak and invincible all at once? He didn’t even care that Jacobs took all his money at the last game they’d held. He’d invited them all to the next salon, where Eleanor would teach them more knots. She’d said she had a better idea of what kinds were required, and that she would make sure they would be well prepared for any eventuality that involved rope.
Did his mind wander a bit at the idea of what situations could involve rope? Yes. Of course. However, he was a gentleman, and she was a lady, even if she wasn’t born to it, and he did his best to not think of those images... until nightfall when he took himself in hand. At which point he was like a whiskerless boy, frigging himself mad at every opportunity. It was only so that he wouldn’t have an unfortunate tent in his pants at the worst moment, or find himself saying inappropriate things to her if hehappened to find her in his mother’s drawing room with Ophelia and Justine. And that new woman. The American widow.
“Oi! Hullo! Tristan!” Blakely appeared, jumping up next to him on the street.
Tristan was heading home to attend another salon, yet another chance to see Miss Eleanor Piper. “What’s all the ruckus for?” He twisted round but didn’t see anything worth a hullaballoo.
“You, you daft fool! I’ve been calling after you for ages, and you’ve been ignoring me. Are you trying to snub me?”
Tristan was mortally offended. “I’d never snub you, chum.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Blakely agreed. “Which is why I’ve been running after you like some kind of Bedlam escapee. Are you deaf, or are you merely lovestruck?”
Tristan gave a winning smile. “Can’t be lovestruck, you know that. Far too practical of a bloke for that.”
Blakely gave a disbelieving snort. “Right.”
“Are you attending the salon? Is that what you are doing following me?” Tristan asked.
“Will Miss Brewer be there?” Blakely asked.
“You know she will.” Bad News didn’t miss a single mountain-related, climbing-related, alpine-related moment in London. Even when women weren’t welcome, she attended anyway and challenged those old farts to throw her out. Typically, they didn’t have the gumption to do so. Probably because she promised them a healthy sponsorship from her father if she was allowed to stay. Money did make the world go ’round, after all.
When they turned the corner and arrived at the Rascomb townhouse, there was a crowd outside. They were not entirely orderly either. “What the devil?” Tristan said.
“Ah, yes. Not only did a notice appear in the paper regarding the salon, a rather ambiguous headline was attached: ‘Tie a Woman in Knots’ was advertised, I believe.”
Tristan’s stomach plummeted. This was not the sort of advertisement they wanted. The Ladies’ Alpine Society needed to be above reproach, scandal-free. How else could Ophelia achieve her dream and not be marked for life because of her ambition? As her older brother, he had a duty to keep her away from gossips and fortune hunters who would hobble her, which was difficult enough when she was bosom friends with Bad News.
He and Blakely pushed through the crowd. Ferris, the Rascomb’s butler, stood at the steps, interrogating the guests one by one. “I say,” Tristan began, but Ferris beat him to the outrage.
“I do not know how many people can be properly admitted to the drawing room, sir, but we are already quite full.”
Tristan glanced at the crowd. “And the drawing room is already full?”
“Her ladyship and your sister are dealing with that crowd, which is hopefully more docile than this one.”
While an entrepreneurial spirit was often lost on an aristocrat, Tristan suddenly felt it spark to life, in the style of Victor Frankenstein. “Give me one moment, Ferris. I shall return shortly with a solution.”
Tristan sprinted through the doorway and up the stairs to the drawing room, Blakely on his heels, and shouting from the outside trailing after. Ferris had told the truth about the drawing room. It was already stifling and standing room only. Ophelia looked at wit’s end, while their mother barely had room to move with her cane. He waved them over.
“This is insanity,” he said, marveling.
“I put it in the papers,” Ophelia said. “I didn’t realize it would be such a draw.”
“We’re going to have to serve punch or lemonade. I’m afraid the heat will only worsen in here and someone will pass out.” His mother gazed about the room, looking as perturbed as she ever looked. Which was to say, placid to anyone who did not know her.
“Fortunately for you both, I am brilliant, and I can solve this.” Tristan was grinning, he knew that looked a fool, but he didn’t care.
“Oh?” Ophelia said, folding her arms.
“We shall move this to the ballroom and charge a shilling apiece for entry. That should thin some out.”
Ophelia scoffed, “We’ll be left with no one, then.”
Tristan grinned. “You haven’t seen the crowd outside hollering to be let in.”
