Chapter Three

T ristan stood idly in the ballroom, trying to look as if he enjoyed himself. The dancing had just begun, and given that he was the spare—even if he were objectively the more attractive brother—he was ignored. It was not unpleasant.

Herringbone was here tonight, already dancing with the carousel of respectable ladies with adequate dowries and determined mamas. His brother caught his eye, not betraying anything to the wider public, but Tristan could see his exasperation. Tristan raised his cup of overly sour lemonade to his brother as if to toast his dedication. That's what a title got you. Well, tedious time in a ballroom, some dilapidated country houses, and frustrated tenant farmers. Tristan was happy to think about mountains instead.

If Tristan were honest with himself, he was waiting for the Pipers to arrive. He looked forward to seeing what Miss Eleanor was wearing, yes, of course—he was still a hot-blooded male of his species—but also to furthering a discussion with Mr. Piper about sponsorship. It would be expected for him to dance with Miss Eleanor as Tristan's father talked with Mr. Piper. And there was a certain delight in dancing with her, not just because she acquitted herself well.

She was clearly knowledgeable about rope quality, and yes, knots. There was information to be gained there, and he was not such a blowhard as to refuse to learn from a woman. Besides, he did like her. She was pleasant, and she thought him handsome. It was obvious, after all, that she did. And who would blame her? He'd heard it all his life, that he was the handsome one in the family, and it would be terribly false to say he wasn't.

All in all, it was that reason that Tristan was watching the entrance to the ballroom, not for any other. Because he was not the sort who watched for young ladies. Or a young lady in particular. Tristan simply wasn't the sort. However, he was the sort who enjoyed lying to himself.

"Looking for someone?" Francis Brewer asked, coming up for air from the card tables.

"Have you finally lost enough money for the evening?" Tristan responded, sipping his sour drink and struggling not to make a face.

"Just getting started." Francis was Bad News's brother, and a classmate of Tristan's from boyhood. It was, in fact, how the girls met each other and then became inseparable. For a time, the families had hoped that Tristan and Bad News might wed, but their rapport was not suitable to matrimony. Bad News was likely to push him down the stairs, and Tristan would be apt to go join a war just to get away from her. "You seem to be unusually focused on the majordomo."

"I have to look somewhere, don't I? This way no young lady can later claim that I was gazing at her across the ballroom."

Francis clapped him on the shoulder. "Or you could tell me who you are waiting for."

"Don't you have a boat to lose to someone, somewhere?" Tristan asked.

Francis leaned against the wall and folded his arms. "Why? You want a boat?"

"Not particularly."

"Do tell me who she is."

"Who?"

"This lady you await, your Isolde," Francis teased him, using the familiar names from chivalric tales. It had been one of the first ways Francis, bookish as he was, chose to mock him. It had never caught on, because none of the other schoolboys were that smart.

"For your information, it's Mr. Piper, who, as a businessman of some experience and acumen, might object to being referred to as Isolde."

Francis groaned. "Still with the Matterhorn?"

"Always with the Matterhorn. You know how we Bridewells are. Like mastiffs, unable to let go once we've sunk our teeth in."

"After that little display at the salon last week, I'm shocked you still think Piper will give you any money. Justine says you plan on taking the girl with you? No possible way."

Tristan felt the same way, frankly. Miss Eleanor should not accompany them to the Alps. If the Matterhorn killed avid male adventurers, that girl had no business in Switzerland. But he disliked Francis telling him what to do. "We aren't going this year. Hell, we aren't even going next year. She has plenty of time to acclimate to the physical demands the mountain requires. We would never put a member of the expedition in danger."

Francis smirked. "You like her."

Tristan rolled his eyes. "You think that about every woman I look at."

"You like beautiful women, and Miss Eleanor Piper is objectively a beautiful woman. How she's managed to remain unmarried, I haven't the foggiest. Perhaps just being the daughter of a tradesman has kept her from making a decent match."

"I'm not terribly interested in why Miss Eleanor Piper has not been brought to the vicar." Tristan shifted his weight, and then straightened as he saw Mr. and Mrs. Piper appear on the threshold. Miss Eleanor stood right behind them. He couldn't hear the announcement of their names from across the ballroom, it was far too crowded, but at last.

She wore a dark wine-colored dress, her dark brown hair shining and lustrous in the light. Before he even could check his own behavior, he was cutting across the ballroom, barely able to give his excuses as he worked his way to Miss Eleanor.

Fortunately, he came to his senses before he reached them. What on earth was he doing? He'd been obvious that he wouldn't be dancing the first set. He'd been clear he would not be courting anyone, let alone a friend of Ophelia's. Had he lost all of his faculties?

"You look lost."

Tristan whirled as a woman's gloved hand snaked onto his forearm. But it was only his sister—the other one, the married one, the only reasonable Bridewell among them—Portia Preston, neé Bridewell.

"My goodness. What has you at a hair-trigger?" she asked. Her husband, Garrett, a barrister and a fellow second son of the nobility, stood by.

With a quick glance at Eleanor, Tristan turned back to Mr. and Mrs. Preston. "Nothing, I'm quite well."

Garrett's dark eyebrows raised in skepticism. "You looked like a tomcat on the hunt."

Damn the man's perceptiveness. Tristan made a strange sound, one he'd never made in his life. "Not at all. I was only..." he trailed off, not able to even come up with an excuse.

Portia didn't look impressed. In fact, she looked rather like their mother at the moment, her forehead wrinkled and lips twisted. Tristan felt like he'd been caught lying about having worms in his pockets. Again.

"Anyway, you're here now. And that is lovely. I wasn't sure you'd be attending." Tristan gave them both a brilliant smile. Which didn't work in the least.

Portia flipped her fan out with a harsh thwack and cooled herself furiously. "I sent a note to the house yesterday reminding everyone of our attendance."

"Yes, well." Tristan dared a glance over at Eleanor. Brian Fulk, that nitwit, was bothering her. Perhaps he should rescue her. Brian had been at school with him and had the absolute worst halitosis. The man's breath was notorious; all through school, it smelled as if something had crawled into his mouth and died. Tristan shrugged. "Correspondence."

"I beg your pardon?" Portia fanned even faster.

"I don't believe he's paying attention to anything you say, darling." Garrett moved and stood in front of Tristan's gaze, blocking his view of Miss Eleanor Piper.

"I am paying attention," Tristan insisted. "But that's ol' Fulker, over there."

"Who?" Portia asked, standing on tiptoes. She was the only one who hadn't inherited the Bridewell height, and was indeed the shortest of them all.

"Where?" Garrett asked.

"Bothering the Pipers. Portia, he has the worst halitosis of anyone you've ever met. If we want Mr. Piper's sponsorship, we must save them."

"I daresay," Garrett observed with a faint grimace. Garrett was a few years older than Tristan and Francis and ol' Fulker, but the reputation was widespread.

"Is it really that bad?" Portia asked.

"Worse," Garrett said. "By all means, off with you."

Tristan grinned and cantered over to the Pipers and ol' Fulker, who was now joined by Jacobs, the swine. He did another survey of the ballroom as he advanced, clocking Ophelia and Bad News in one corner with his mother and Blakely, the poor idiot.

"Ah, Mr. Bridewell," Mr. Piper said, stepping infinitesimally across their circle to welcome him in. "Good to see you here."

Tristan performed a formal bow, one that he knew was appreciated. "Mr. Piper, good of you to grace us with your presence, along with your lovely wife and daughter. Mrs. Piper, Miss Eleanor." He moved to join their group and acknowledged ol' Fulker with a nod. It wasn't just the halitosis, or the unfortunate name. It was that even at the age of ten, the boy looked and acted fifty. He was roughly thirty now, which meant he would act the age of what, seventy, eighty?

"Bridewell," he said.

"Fulk," Tristan said in return, catching himself before uttering the man's nickname. "Jacobs."

Jacobs performed a brief head nod in lieu of speaking, eyeing Fulk harshly.

"I trust you're doing well." Fulk always did have fine manners; he'd give him that.

"Yes," Tristan took a big breath of air. "Picture of health."

"Always were, always were. Gallivanting up some mountain, I hear? I'm surprised to even find you in London."

Tristan resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Fulk had never been friendly with him, and this felt very much like a trap. What was the trap? Damn and hellfire, he'd never been good at figuring out these sorts of interpersonal manipulations. "We are preparing for an early autumn ascent of Ben Nevis as a preparatory excursion to a larger expedition."

Fulk chuckled and shook his head as if he were a child. It rankled him. Fulk gripped him on the shoulder, as if it were a friendly gesture, but it wasn't at all. "Some men are all adventure. And that's wonderful! The world needs men like you, Bridewell. But me? I've spent my career carving out a position at Drummonds. It's an excellent institution, and we do well. I'm the youngest vice president in its history, you know."

Oh. Tristan looked at Miss Eleanor, who was theoretically the intended recipient of all the bragging. Yet, it was Mr. Piper who would be the most impressed, if Tristan had any judge of the family. But Miss Eleanor looked mildly pleased by ol' Fulker, and that further irritated him.

"Miss Piper, would you be so good as to honor me with the first available dance on your card?"

Well, if that didn't take the cake. Tristan controlled himself, willing himself to not ball his fists. 'Ol Fulker was earning his nickname right along. He'd been a snitch that time with the toads, and now he was worse.

"Me as well," Jacobs said, speaking finally. As if he couldn't have defended Tristan earlier.

"If you'll excuse me," Tristan said, doing his best to not grit his teeth. "I need to speak with a friend, but before I go, Miss Eleanor, please find a place on your dance card for me as well." Tristan gave a perfectly placid smile to everyone, but he could see 'ol Fulker sulking.

*

Eleanor was not stupid. The two men clearly had an old rivalry, and Mr. Jacobs was there to show obeisance to her father. Manners bid her to accept a dance with Mr. Fulk, who seemed perfectly polite, but could wilt a bouquet of flowers at twelve paces. She knew she was blinking rapidly in the onslaught of aroma, and she hoped it was not being interpreted as coquettish flirting. In fact, her eyes might begin watering at any moment.

She allowed her dance card to be filled by Mr. Fulk, Mr. Jacobs, and Tristan respectively. No, she really must address him as Mr. Bridewell even in her mind. Oh, but he was so handsome tonight. His formal dress was almost identical to that of every man there, but he sported a blue lapel pin that was a perfect match to his sparkling eyes, and it was most fetching.

Not that she enjoyed looking at his lapel, as it accented his broad shoulders, his coat stretching to accommodate them. Or how his flaxen hair caught the gas lamp flame in such a way that it seemed like liquid gold. He gave another exquisite bow and left their company, followed by a bow from Mr. Jacobs, and left only themselves and Mr. Fulk.

Mr. Fulk, stout in his brocade waistcoat and formal black evening kit, suddenly seemed put out that he had no one to mock in conversation. "Er..."

"Thank you, Mr. Fulk, for your attentiveness. Eleanor will be at the ready for you when the next set begins." Mrs. Piper, accustomed to an entire life before Eleanor had been born, one that Eleanor was not privy to, shooed the gentleman away. Mr. Fulk slunk off, but as he did so, Ophelia and Justine were making their way through the crowd towards her. "Not too long with those girls. But they are quite a breath of fresh after that gentleman."

Eleanor smiled at her mother. Having a strong sense of smell was not an asset at the docks, and apparently, it wasn't in a ballroom either. She smoothed her skirts once again, her hands raw inside her gloves from tying new knots in preparation for the next salon. She'd practiced late into the night, not needing nor wanting illumination. She wanted to be able to tie the knots in the dark, and behind her back. She'd even lain upside down, hanging off her bed, tying them. She had to be the expert, and she wouldn't let the Ladies' Alpine Society down.

"There you are," Ophelia said. She should have been breathless, any other corseted girl would be after that march through such a throng. But then, Ophelia seemed to be made of sterner stuff than anyone Eleanor had ever known. Maybe even Captain Smythe.

"We arrived not long ago," Eleanor said.

Ophelia nodded tersely, as if she were a military commander and this was a battlefield.

"Mr. Piper, Mrs. Piper." Justine curtsied and smiled. She elbowed Ophelia.

"Miss Bridewell, Miss Brewer," her father said.

Apparently Ophelia was not keen on observing social niceties? Or couldn't be bothered with them at the moment, at any rate. Ophelia performed an obligatory nod to them and turned back to Eleanor.

"I hadn't believed it, but I think we have a fourth member of the Ladies' Alpine Society." Ophelia looked as if she might hyperventilate.

"I thought your brothers were also members?" Eleanor asked. "They were at the salon."

Ophelia gave a look that was not complimentary for either of them. "They aren't ladies . So they cannot be members of the Ladies' Alpine Society."

Eleanor looked to Justine, who lifted a pretty, bare shoulder as a shrug.

"Her name is Mrs. Cabot. She's an American." Ophelia twisted this way and that, trying to see through the crowd of people. "I think she's an excellent candidate."

"Why?" Eleanor couldn't help but ask, even though she had absolutely no right to do so. It wasn't her club, and she wouldn't be climbing any mountains. "Is it because she's an American?"

"Not just an American," Justine whispered. "She's from Minnesota ."

Eleanor shook her head. "I haven't the faintest clue where that is."

"Neither do I," Justine said.

"That's the point!" snapped Ophelia. "She's perfect. And look at her shoulders. That is a woman who has done some work!"

Eleanor frowned, scanning the crowd for someone who might look like she was from Minnesota. She still wasn't sure who they were speaking of.

Her mother leaned over. "Please do not make comments on the bodies of other women. It isn't seemly."

"Yes, Mama," Eleanor said, knowing she was right. It was a sore spot for her mother, she knew.

The set finished, and all three young ladies looked up. There was the shuffle of people and instruments in the suddenly music-less hall.

"I shall have to find Blakely," Justine said, her mouth finishing into a pursed moue that would have seemed an unbecoming pout on any other person, but on her looked adorable enough to cuddle.

"Oh dear," Eleanor said, looking down after seeing Mr. Fulk clearing a path back to her.

"Ugh," Ophelia said, noticing Mr. Fulk. "He's such a braggart."

"I thought you might have noticed his halitosis," Eleanor said. "It was quite overpowering."

Ophelia waved her hand. "I've partially lost my sense of smell. Frostbite! The wonders of an adventuring life."

"Maybe you ought to dance with him, then," Eleanor said.

Ophelia shook her head. "Mr. Fulk hates Tristan, and by extension, the rest of us. He blocked anyone at his bank from supporting our expedition as a result. It's been a bit of a trial." Ophelia's shoulders sank, but then she brightened. "But maybe you can convince him otherwise? Oh Eleanor, you're a genius! I'll slip off then."

"But—" Before Eleanor could protest that she had no intention of going on the expedition whatsoever, Ophelia threaded behind their group into the wallflowers and matrons, disappearing into the crowd.

"Well then, Miss Piper?" Mr. Fulk said, offering his arm.

Eleanor glanced at her mother, who gave her a polite smile. "Thank you, Mr. Fulk."

Meanwhile, Justine was whirled away by a dashing young man. Her light-hearted laugh rang out, her mouth open, and carefree. Oh, to be as unencumbered as Justine was. Justine didn't participate in Ophelia's plotting, she didn't fuss about being a scandal, she merely existed the way she liked. If only that were available to someone like Eleanor. She glanced back at her parents, older than most of the other chaperones. They were staid and staunch, unflagging and thoroughly gray in their quiet love of her. She knew that. It was security and expectation, all rolled into one.

Mr. Fulk placed them in relation to the other dancers, and they stood quietly waiting for the music to begin. Eleanor hadn't the experience in dancing with actual men to know the best way to converse, so she waited, hoping he might fill in the gaps.

But he didn't. He looked over her head, also waiting. Finally the music began, and they swayed to the rhythm. Eleanor had dance instruction, but Mrs. Bernard had always been her partner. While Mr. Fulk acquitted himself well, Eleanor hoped she did likewise. But he didn't speak. So neither did she.

As the long minutes ticked by, Eleanor let her mind drift. She caught sight of Tristan watching her from the sidelines, an amused smirk on his face, she determined she would speak to Mr. Fulk. Tristan was not the entirety of her suitors. Best to make a go of it.

"Are you having a pleasant evening?" Eleanor asked, wincing as it came out. How very unoriginal.

"Thus far." Mr. Fulk glanced down at her with a tight smile. "And you?"

"Thus far," she echoed. Well, that was stunning. Both her ingenious conversation and his breath.

After some minutes, Mr. Fulk cleared his throat. "The Bridewells, are you well acquainted with them?"

Eleanor considered how to answer it, but not knowing any of the politics, went with the truth. "I've known them scarcely a week. I like Miss Ophelia Bridewell very much. She's so..."

Mr. Fulk gave a snort that couldn't be construed as anything but dismissive. "Don't be taken in by her sort, Miss Piper. They may have a title, but they aren't Quality."

"Oh." Eleanor caught sight of Tristan once again. Was he not Quality? By many people's standards, she herself wasn't Quality. They had no title, no illustrious lineage. Her father was a ship's captain who happened to be an excellent businessman with a head for political winds.

"Perhaps Miss Bridewell could be, if she were given a firm, guiding hand," Mr. Fulk continued, as if he were considering buying her like one might buy a racehorse.

"I beg your pardon?" Eleanor couldn't believe what she was hearing, or perhaps it was the tone in which he said it.

"A firm, guiding hand," Mr. Fulk repeated. "By a husband, since her father nor her brother seem to be reining her in. Traipsing off to climb mountains indeed! A waste of time, and a waste of her health, when she ought to be settling down, raising a family."

"What is wrong with climbing mountains?" Eleanor asked. He swung her around, her wine-red skirts billowing.

"If men kill themselves doing it, then certainly a woman would topple in the face of it. Men are inherently heartier than women. That's just a fact."

"Have you heard about childbirth, Mr. Fulk?" Eleanor asked pleasantly. "They say it's quite painful. Given how many women die from it, one does think women have quite a solid constitution."

"See? That's my point exactly. Women are made to have children; therefore, it shouldn't be difficult in the least. But so many women die from it, which only shows how weak they truly are." Mr. Fulk gripped her closer, as if this entire conversation was building his passion. "You confuse facts with biology. Women are meant to breed. And like a prize mare, a man must be there to guide the process, making sure every line is its strongest."

Eleanor didn't know if she should step on his foot or slap his face. "I'm surprised you are willing to say such things with a woman on the throne."

"Ah! Another great fallacy of our time! Queen Victoria is ordained by God himself. She isn't merely a woman, though she is doing a fine job of keeping up with her lineage, as required by her biology, but able to govern, as appointed by God."

They passed several moments in silence, spinning and swaying, and Eleanor could not wait to be free of him. "Would you have spoken to me at all during this dance if I had not spoken first?"

"No," Mr. Fulk admitted. "For what is the point? I intend to court you, pay suit, woo you as it were, but the conversations must be held with your father, not you. Conversing with you is..."

Eleanor's eyebrows were so high up her forehead, it felt like they might lift off like birds. She could not believe the gall of this man.

"...extraneous, at best. But like petting a dog, or brushing down a horse after a long canter—"

Eleanor could take it no longer. The dance was still going, the music still playing, but she thrust herself away from him, shaking loose from his hands. "I am no dog, sir. Good evening." She spun on her heel and marched over to where Ophelia was standing with Justine and the woman who must be the American Mrs. Cabot.

"I'll climb your bloody mountain if I die doing it." Eleanor stomped off to get some air.