Chapter Four

"T hank you all for coming," Ophelia announced, looking around at their small assembly. His sister looked through him, as if he were any other member of the team. He stifled a smile, in case she thought it was to mock her, when he was just so proud of his baby sister. She was doing it. She was leading her people.

It was the first real expedition meeting they'd held. This wasn't a salon, nor was it a tea. This was for budgeting, scheduling, working out the nuts and bolts of their plan. The Ladies' Alpine Society was assembled, Ophelia, Bad News, Miss Piper and the new one, Mrs. Cabot. But there was more to the team than just the lady mountaineers: there was his father, Tristan himself, and the expedition financier, Mr. Leopold Moon. He handled the books for all aspects of the expedition, and there wasn't a single shoelace he hadn't accounted for. Tristan had suggested he come, not trusting they would remember every detail of what would be required of them, even for their trial climb of Ben Nevis.

He hadn't been properly introduced to the new woman in the crowd, but Tristan had a hard time thinking of manners when he was doing his best to stay on the opposite side of the room as Eleanor Piper. All the ladies were dressed in their most serviceable gowns, hair tied back in severe chignons, and he did not know why, because it made no sense, but it made Eleanor Piper look even more regal.

They sat in the Rascomb drawing room. But this time, they were all business. Spring was nearly over, and that meant they needed to train if they would be climbing Ben Nevis in May.

Even with this temporal urgency, he could not stop thinking of Eleanor. His forearms prickled with awareness. He'd held her in his arms while they danced last night, his gloved hand resting on her small, pinched waist. The only thing she spoke of was Ol' Fulker, and she was spitting mad. It was glorious. Her anger had her heaving, and he almost tripped over his own feet not looking at how her chest moved in response. That lovely expanse of skin was tantalizing. Smooth as cream, and he wanted to be the cat to lick up cream such as this. A rough tongue that would make her eyes widen in pleasure and—he cleared his throat, flexing his thighs to clear the blood that was beginning to build in his trousers. Enough. Time to pay attention.

"This, if you have not yet been introduced, is Mrs. Cabot. She is from Minnesota, and she is a widow, and she is joining our expedition."

"That's one more mouth to feed," murmured Mr. Moon to himself, flipping open his ledger and notating it. Ophelia shot him a quelling look that he did not notice.

"Tristan, would you like to come up and tell everyone about what to expect on Ben Nevis?" Ophelia prompted him.

Tristan took his weight from the curve of the pianoforte and sauntered to the front of the small assembly. "Greetings to you all, thank you for being here. Our goal is to climb the Matterhorn, and make my sister Ophelia the first woman to summit the mountain. I would be happy to add your names to the list of ladies to summit its height as well. As you may know, Mr. Edward Whymper was the first to do so last year. However, you may also know that this is a treacherous, difficult climb, both up and down, and it killed four of his expedition, including Lord Francis Douglas, Mr. Charles Hudson, Mr. Douglas Hadow, and Michel Croz."

Tristan surveyed the ladies to see if any of them blanched at such a prospect, but they all remained stoic. They must know of the danger in this attempt.

"Some believe," Tristan continued, doing his best to not look at Eleanor, "that Mr. Hadow was at fault for being inexperienced. I knew Hadow from finding him in those places of mountaineering, and indeed, from his spectacularly swift climb of Mont Blanc. He was young, and in excellent shape. But I believe he did not understand snow, and that, my friends, is what we are going to prevent in our excursion."

Eleanor lips pushed off to the side in an off-center purse, as if she were chewing the inside of her cheek. Her lips were a distraction. He had to stay focused! He was the safety expert, after all.

"This summer, we will be climbing Ben Nevis in Scotland as a practice expedition. Before then, we will be training with ropes, terrain, and yes, even vocabulary. Hearing each other on a mountain can be very challenging, especially if we hit bad weather, so we will be going over the words we use to describe specific emergencies."

Bad News seemed to actually pay attention, which was shocking in and of itself. This was the first time their proposed expedition felt real. They might actually go to Switzerland. This could be an actual ascent. He was happy to share the accomplishment with his sister, and did not care a whit if she gained notoriety for it. This was the challenge of a lifetime.

"We will be hearing from Mr. Moon regarding our expenses, and then, as no doubt you all saw from the rigging on the staircase, we will be practicing a climb."

"A climb from the entryway to the drawing room?" Bad News asked.

He hadn't heard any of her usual disdain dripping from her words, which was a welcome change. "Yes. We are going to practice tying into a rope, set the order of our climb, and get familiar with our equipment. Any questions?"

Eleanor continued to chew on her cheek, but raised a finger. Tristan nodded at her, because he couldn't chance saying her name aloud. He wasn't sure he could address her formally as was her due and the correct thing. He'd been thinking of her first name because it was so soft and musical. And then it became habit, and now he had to concentrate to address her properly.

"I was under the impression that in the case of the Matterhorn expedition the rope snapped, and that was the cause of the fall?" Eleanor said the statement as a question.

"The rope did indeed snap, yes," Tristan affirmed. "However, it was likely secondary to the fall. If you've spent time in the mountains, you'll realize that the give-and-take of the rope between climbers does not often grow taut. So if it snapped, perhaps because of an inherent weakness, or a sharp rock, it was because there was some undue strain, like a fall."

Eleanor nodded. "What kind of rope was used?"

Tristan grimaced. "That news has not yet been provided."

"So we'll need something that is both flexible and strong. That will not rot or degrade in wet conditions, is that correct?"

"Yes, though we do have some ropes already—"

"Equipment discussions can happen at a later time between you and Miss Piper, son." Rascomb stood as he said it, perhaps not only to forcibly take control of the conversation, but also to remind everyone that it was at his grace that everyone was going. Despite giving Ophelia the lead, he was allowing his daughter to go, he was funding the bulk of the mission, and it was his time they were wasting. "Let's get to the finances, so that we can get to the training."

"Of course. Mr. Moon?" Tristan gestured to the tall man as he unfolded himself from his chair. "The floor is yours."

*

Eleanor looked up to the fourth step of the Rascombs' front staircase where Tristan stood with his father. They were demonstrating how to tie into a rope, using the figure eight noose Eleanor had taught them, and it was very hard to pay attention as Tristan stood in only his shirtsleeves, so that the view of his waist wouldn't be obscured. Her cheeks colored, and she looked down.

This was why women didn't climb. Who would allow their daughters to gaze so unashamedly on the male form? Eleanor tried to think of Tristan as a classical statue instead. Many of those stood around London and in museums. If she was allowed to appreciate that beauty, then learning about the safety provisions that might prevent her death was entirely appropriate.

"As you walk up the mountain, you will have your hands free to use your walking poles, or what have you. And on descent, you will be able to use your hands to steady yourself. Please try to stay upright at all times. The lives of your fellow mountaineers depend on you." Ophelia stood on the bottom step of the staircase, addressing them all. Her brother and father descended and moved to their places in the order of climbing.

Oh, she liked that, being called a mountaineer. She could just picture Mr. Fulk sneering the word at her. The mountaineers stood in a line, spaced out by a few feet, wrapping through the black-and-white checked foyer with the heavy hemp rope snaking alongside them. Ophelia was first, naturally, and behind her was Justine. Tristan tied into the rope as the third member of the team, then Eleanor fourth, Mrs. Cabot came fifth, and Lord Rascomb was sixth. Two men, four women. Mr. Moon was up in the drawing room, likely enjoying tea and cakes and thinking about how absolutely mad they all were.

She watched as one by one, the party tied into the solid hemp rope with the figure eight noose she'd taught them. Then it was her turn, noting to speak to Tristan about changing out the hemp rope for a sturdy manila rope. Hemp was excellent for many things, but it had a tendency to rot in wet conditions. While it was commonly used aboard ships, it was also regularly painted with tar to protect it from the saltwater spray.

Their first goal was an ascent of the volcano Ben Nevis, in Scotland. She'd never been there, and certainly not to Switzerland, but she doubted either place would be exceptionally dry. She wouldn't want to risk rope rot, not when she knew better. And it turned out, Tristan was the one to speak to about equipment. So she must speak to him. For purely safety reasons.

"We are going to practice going up as a team first, then we will get into harsher scenarios. Everyone ready?" Lord Rascomb boomed.

Ophelia's face was shining with anticipation. Clearly this was her passion, her one true love. Eleanor envied that certainty. Ophelia knew that there was no other place she'd rather be. But Eleanor? What did she want? A tepid marriage? The agony of childbirth? But why would she think it was so awful, when the rest of the world seemed to celebrate those very things? Because it didn't seem like enough to her. But what enough meant, she had no clue.

"Am I to just go?" Ophelia turned and asked her father.

"Is that a bit of vocabulary we should discuss?" Justine asked, turning as well.

There was enough slack in the rope that their movements didn't impact her or Tristan. Still, Eleanor felt the itch to move. She closed her eyes and whispered, "Just go, for heaven's sake."

Tristan snorted and glanced back at her.

Oh. She hadn't said that as quietly as she thought she had.

"What about a one-word description of what you are about to attempt?" Rascomb suggested gently.

Ophelia thought for a moment, turned back around and announced, "Climbing!" And began a slow ascent of the staircase.

It was a bit silly, to stand in a fine entryway in Belgravia Square with marble accents, roped up as if they were defying God's wrath, but if such rehearsal would help them in the end, Eleanor would do it.

They practiced ascents and descents, falls and group rescues. All seemed so theatrical, not at all what such peril would be like in the real world. But then, not a bit of it felt real. And that seemed ominous to her. The danger proposed was quite true. So why did it feel like a game?

"Refreshments will be served in the drawing room," Ophelia said, unknotting herself from the heavy rope, once Lord Rascomb pronounced them finished for the afternoon. "Tristan, Eleanor, perhaps this is a good time to discuss whatever concern you had regarding our equipage?"

Eleanor nodded, picking at the knot around her waist, fumbling with the heavy fibers. Ahead, Justine huffed and puffed, unable to undo her figure eight. Frustrated, she sucked in her gut and slid the rope down her body, wriggling free of it as if it were a petticoat. Eleanor was shocked on a number of levels—what did Justine think she was doing leaving a rope knotted like this? And why did the rope not cinch as it was supposed to? Tristan eyed the knotted rope lying on the stairway, shaking his head at Justine as she abandoned her place and went to the drawing room.

Mrs. Cabot moved silently behind Eleanor, giving her an encouraging smile as she ascended the staircase. Eleanor pondered her as she went. She seemed of the same age as Eleanor, even if she were already a widow. But at her stagnant age of twenty-five, it was not all that surprising. She'd heard shocking tales of the American frontier. And unlike the Americans gossiped about in Society, Mrs. Cabot had not spoken to Eleanor other than to say, "How do you do."

Her beautiful honey-blonde hair, darker and redder than the flaxen Bridewell trait, was something that Eleanor would have given her dowry for. She watched Tristan's gaze as Mrs. Cabot passed him, wondering if he would notice her.

A silly part of Eleanor was relieved when Tristan didn't bother to look up at the trim figure of the newcomer. Given that Ophelia and Justine were bosom friends, it made sense that she and Mrs. Cabot would pair off as well. But what did she have in common with an American widow? But then, they hadn't had time to have a proper chat. Perhaps in the months to come.

Tristan wasn't yet untied, but he went over to Justine's mess and began the task of unpicking the knot. "Your concerns, Miss Piper?"

Eleanor's eyes snapped to his form. Yes, she had concerns. Standing next to him for seven hours as they ascended a mountain might be one of them. No, no it would not, because he was unattainable—any man who looked like that would be. "Ropes."

He looked up at her, snaring her with his cornflower blue eyes. "Ropes? Yes. We have many." Once he looked back down at the knot, she could think once again.

The heavy rope around her waist helped ground her, and now that she had slack from behind, she was able to work on untying herself as well.

"I mean that the hemp rope as the actual climbing rope is a poor choice."

Tristan picked at the knot, until he snatched away his finger. "Bloody hell!"

"Did you bend back your fingernail?" Eleanor asked, stepping closer.

Tristan popped the offended digit in his mouth, biting down on his nail. "Felt like the whole bloody thing would pop off."

Eleanor clucked in sympathy, ignoring his curses. Nothing she hadn't heard from Mr. Smythe or her father. She knew the feeling. "May I? I have a pricker."

His eyes looked like they might pop out of his head. "A what?"

Eleanor tried not to blush as she produced the small metal spike with a beautiful wooden handle. "It's a sailor's tool to help untie difficult knots."

Tristan handed over the rope, the size of a crabapple. Because the heavy rope stretched end to end on the staircase, she couldn't move far from where he stood. Besides, he was still tied in, and she worked the knot in the rope in the place in front of him. He loomed over her as she picked at Justine's sloppy, mess of a figure eight. She worked gently, giving slack at one end.

"You have a great deal to teach us, don't you?" He seated himself on the step, so that their heads were almost at a level, as she stood on the step below.

She shrugged. "Only what is useful. And I'm still learning what that is in these situations." Glancing up from the knot, she realized she had licked her lips. She hadn't meant to; it just happened. He seemed to be looking right at them. "This doesn't feel real."

His eyes seemed transfixed. "No," he said softly.

She swallowed and went back to the knot. "I know knots that are strong, knots that are flexible, knots that can haul a great deal of weight—oh!" Suddenly the knot popped free. She slid the rope out of its hold and pocketed her pricker. "There it is."

He stood quickly, the rope slithering down the polished wood stair with a distinctive hiss. "Watch out," he warned, grabbing at the top end.

The movement sent her backwards, off-balance. Instinctively, she pulled at the rope in her hand, which was still wrapped around Tristan.

Afraid she would tumble backwards and hit her head, she pitched forwards, falling onto him, as the rope cinched behind his ankles. With a shout, he fell on his bottom, pulling her down with him.

They slid down the stairs, Eleanor scrambled for purchase, but couldn't stop the fall. They landed on the floor with a thud.

"Oof." Tristan moaned.

Eleanor blinked, trying to get her bearings. Her ankles were tangled in rope. She was gripping the deep V of Tristan's waistcoat. Her teeth felt like they might rattle out of her head. Wincing, she lifted her head to look at Tristan. He was so very close to her. His chest was very firm under her, and she realized his arm now snaked around her waist, his hand resting on her hip.

"How are you faring?" Tristan asked, letting his head rest on the stair behind him.

"I—" How was she supposed to speak when she could smell him? A tinge of horse, a bit of pine, definitely the earthy hemp—

"That good, eh?"

She ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure they were all still firmly in her mouth. The action drew his attention, and she felt a new heaviness. She did not want to stand. "You're quite the ride."

Tristan's mouth opened and closed.

Then she realized what she'd said, and blushed furiously. "I mean because of how that happened, and the falling, and..." His hand bunched the skirt fabric at her hip, catching some of her skin. It was so absurd. All of this was absurd. She burst out laughing. She covered her mouth, leaning more of her weight on him.

A moment later he joined her. He moved his hand off her hip, which left that area feeling surprisingly cold. "I'm so glad you are on my safety team," he said between chuckles.

"We are the experts," she said, her smile so wide it hurt her cheeks.

If she hadn't been half in love with him before, how was she supposed to not be now?

"What is taking so long?" called Ophelia from the drawing room. She let out a frustrated huff. "Get in here, Tristan! Stop flirting with Eleanor. We have plans to make!"

*

The days sped by in a flurry of mundane activities. Or at least, it seemed that way to Tristan. Ophelia bemoaned the slowness of the days until they reached Berringbone Hold, their family's ancestral seat, which was nothing more elaborate than a pile of stones. It was once the site of a town and a Roman fortress that became a Norman fortress, but ever since that fateful plague centuries ago, no one had bothered to return to it. Not even an abbey or a hut had graced Berringbone Hold in the intervening centuries. But it belonged to the family, and more importantly, to Herringbone's honorary title, and it was an ideal place for the Ladies' Alpine Society and friends to hone their outdoor skills even further.

Tristan was in a daze, and he knew it, as his sloppy grin had been ridiculed at the card tables around town. Blakely had openly mocked him, but he didn't care. He was going to climb a mountain! They would change the face of climbing! And all with Miss Eleanor Piper gazing up at him with those liquid brown eyes that made him go soft in the head and hard everywhere else.

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. Nothing should happen, so nothing would happen. 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 he happened 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."

Blakely found his way to their huddle. "I say—"

Ophelia waved away his commentary. She turned to her brother. "You announce the price to this crowd and the ones downstairs. I'll organize the maids to open the ballroom and the footmen to carry chairs and stand guard for any house wanderings."

Their mother smiled broadly at their cooperation. "I shall go speak with Cook about refreshments for such a crowd."

It felt good for them to work in concert. This was how it was when they were on the mountains; why it fell apart in town, he didn't understand. But they were back to it. Tristan clapped his hands to get the attention of the crowd as his mother and sister slipped out of the room.

Not long afterwards, the ballroom was full of patrons, a soup bowl was full of shillings, and Miss Eleanor Piper stood in front of a crowd of strangers with surprising aplomb. The ballroom had gas lighting—an extravagance that their father insisted upon after he'd had the experience of gas lights in Parliament. Indeed, it was convenient this afternoon to turn keys on the gas-lit chandeliers as opposed to lighting hundreds of candles, which would be far more time consuming.

Tristan sat in the front row with the other members of the expedition, including his father. The second row sported Mr. and Mrs. Piper, Mr. and Mrs. Brewer, Francis, Blakley, Jacobs, and a few others. The clamoring strangers sat in the rows behind them.

Ophelia spoke to the crowd about the Ladies' Alpine Society, Ben Nevis, the Matterhorn, and the efforts they would go to in order to prepare for each project. Beside her stood Bad News, Eleanor, and Mrs. Cabot.

"Now for why you came this afternoon. Miss Eleanor Piper will instruct us all in the art of knot tying, and specifics to what an expedition team such as ours will require. Miss Piper." Ophelia ushered the other women to sit down in the front row, while Eleanor stepped forward.

She swallowed pointedly, but then collected herself. Unlike what most pictured when thinking of an adventurer, Eleanor looked sweet, almost delicate, with her hair piled on top of her head, dressed in a fashionable green and white day gown. She pulled her gloves off and laid them on a small table next to her. Lengths of various types of rope were carefully stretched out on the table as well. She cleared her throat, picking up one of the ropes. She talked of snowy conditions and dunked three of the lengths into different buckets of water, which a footman hauled away.

"One of the issues that came to mind after hearing details of Mr. Whymper's ascent of the Matterhorn was the idea of splices." Miss Eleanor Piper took two steps forward, taking two different lengths of rope from her display table. "A splice, as some of you may already know, is tying two lengths of rope together in a way that strengthens the line instead of weakening it. One might need to do this in the case of a break."

Murmurs went through the crowd, no doubt familiar with the tragedy of a broken rope that killed the four men. Like the rest of the exhibition, Tristan had his own selection of ropes so that he might rehearse along with her. He hadn't thought about a splice before, which was ridiculous. Nor had he believed that knotting two separate ropes together would ever equal or outweigh the strength of a single line.

"Not one in twenty sailors can do a decent splice," a man from the back protested.

"Everyone knows once a line is cut, it's done," yelled another man.

Tristan turned to look at a young man who had scoffed, but who now got to his feet several rows back. He was well dressed, but not someone Tristan knew. Either new to London, or a scion of the merchant class, straining to climb into the aristocracy. He had light brown hair worn in a sloppy longer style. Tristan disliked him immediately and immensely.

"I'm not sure how I can possibly prove it to you," Miss Piper said. "Unless you have a suggestion."

The young man glanced around as if garnering support. "Why should anyone take your word for this? How many alpine ascents have you made?"

Eleanor put the ropes down on her table and folded her hands together neatly. "None."

The young man scoffed, again looking 'round. "Then how would you know?"

"I've learned all of this at the hands of one of London's best captains. My knowledge is from the sea trade, not mountaineering."

"And you've been aboard ships, is that what we are to believe? You, miss, are a fraud!" He pointed his finger at her.

Tristan wanted to snap it off his hand. He moved to get to his feet, but a single look from Eleanor quelled him.

"Would you be a better tutor? If so, I invite you up to share your knowledge." Eleanor gestured to her demonstration table.

"I would. I, too, grew up with the shipping trade. And I'd wager I had far more training as the eldest son than you ever had." The man edged his way past the other seated guests, shuffling to the aisle.

"Your name, sir?" Eleanor still maintained a very calm, decorous manner.

Tristan had found, in his short life, that it was the inexperienced or incompetent who would screech and protest their proficiencies. The capable and qualified knew where their strengths lay and where they needed knowledge. Eleanor's calm seemed very much like those old men they'd met in mountain huts—ancient, quiet, shockingly strong, and reliably competent.

"I am John Martell," the young man said with a bearing that seemed to indicate all should know who he was.

Indeed, recognition flared in Eleanor's eyes, and a snort came from Mr. Piper behind him. Must be a rival of sorts.

"Ah yes, Mr. Martell. I'm sure you know exactly who I am, then." Eleanor gave him a very polite smile as she made way for him up front. The subtle bend in her tone seemed very much like she was laying a trap. "What sort of knot would you believe would work best for this expedition? Our very safety relies upon it."

"First of all, I would recommend cotton rope, as it is far more comfortable on the skin, and much lighter weight." He looked across the crowd with a smile, as if he were discussing how very silly Eleanor's suggestions had been.

Tristan found himself balling his hands into fists with such ferocity that his knuckles ached. That smug bastard. He had no idea. But Eleanor politely stood by as he spewed his idiocy.

"Of course, a simple square knot does the bulk of the work." He picked up one of Eleanor's ropes and tied a quick and clumsy square knot.

Even to Tristan's barely trained eye, it looked sloppy. Eleanor signaled a footman, whom she whispered to discreetly before sending him on his way.

"Any others?" Eleanor prompted this rude interloper.

Mr. Martell stared at the knot, thinking. "Perhaps a slip knot?"

Eleanor said nothing, but gestured for him to continue. Mr. Martell fumbled with the rope, the point of his tongue darting out to the side. Tristan was unimpressed.

The footman returned, hauling a bucket full of water. While Mr. Martell struggled, more footmen hauled in two more buckets, and then handed Eleanor a twig. She thanked them and turned her attention back to Mr. Martell who had finally executed a simple slip knot.

"Thank you, Mr. Martell. Very informative." Eleanor gave him an encouraging smile, which seemed to confuse him. She should be red-faced and indignant in his estimation, no doubt.

"Of course, this is simple common sense. Any right-thinking person would know this. Frankly, it's clear that giving this kind of education to females only muddles their brains." The man didn't know how to exit the stage.

Eleanor didn't crack, even though Tristan heard Bad News shifting in her chair. Ophelia was pale with anger. Indeed, Tristan wouldn't mind taking this man to task for his arrogance.

"Indeed. Perhaps I can show you why I didn't consider your suggestions in the first place. Now, Mr. Martell, you were late to the demonstration, so you weren't here for the section where I dunked a length of hemp, manila, and cotton ropes into these buckets of water."

Martell shook his head, folding his arms. "And?"

"So, while cotton is a tempting option because of how much smoother it is on human skin, I'd like to demonstrate what happens to cotton fibers when they get wet. And, when climbing in snow, the rope will likely get wet." Eleanor used metal tongs and pulled the length of cotton out of the bucket. It dripped, but she took it in hand, putting the tongs down. She pulled it apart, and it stretched further and further. "Now, with the fibers stretched so thin, we can infer that the strength of these fibers has been compromised. As the son of a prominent shipping merchant, I'm surprised this was not one of the first lessons you were taught. Myself, I spent time down at my father's office and watched how impossibly heavy crates were taken off ships. These jobs were typically done with manila fiber ropes because they fare so much better in wet weather."

Martell had the sense to duck his head.

"Indeed, hemp, which is typically used on board ships, is very strong, however—" she pulled the hemp length from the bucket, "while it doesn't have the stretch the cotton fiber does, you'll see that it is very absorbent." She wrung out the rope, producing a stream of water so prodigious that the audience squirmed and chuckled at the prolonged cascade. "If you spent time aboard your father's ships, you would have seen them applying tar to the hemp ropes to prevent the rot that can occur in the saltwater. While we won't be in seawater, given the location of the Matterhorn in landlocked Switzerland, rot could still occur should we be trapped on the mountain for any length of time, which would lead to breakage."

Martell huffed and reddened. Tristan smiled as Eleanor calmly picked him apart in front of the crowd.

"As for a square knot," Eleanor made an apologetic grimace to the audience, swiftly tying a knot and producing the twig the footman had given her. She shoved it right through the middle of it. "A knot that is so easily compromised isn't strong. It can collect debris, and is easily broken when pulled taut across boulders, as could have been the case in Mr. Whymper's expedition. Any sailor will tell you that a square knot is responsible for more deaths than any other knot." Eleanor smiled sweetly, as if she was thanking Martell for a dance. "So you see, Mr. Martell, anyone with the knowledge and experience with these materials understands that there is a deeper level of thought required when entering these life-or-death situations."

Ophelia applauded, as did Bad News. Tristan dropped the practice rope he'd been death-gripping to applaud as well. Soon the entire crowd did so, and Martell slunk out the door. Eleanor finally blushed, the color high on her cheeks in a way that charmed him even further. While Tristan wanted to protect her from a blow-hard idiot who hated women on principle, Eleanor proved she didn't need it. She was quite capable of holding her own against a man like that.

Ophelia urged Eleanor to curtsy, as if she were an actress on the stage. She did, humbly, and Tristan's heart surged. He got to his feet to control the crowd. It gave him the opportunity to whisper excellent job in her ear and touch her back to usher her to a seat.

He thanked Eleanor for her expertise and patience, made a plea for money, announced refreshments, and then dismissed the crowd.

Bad News was up like a shot, pulling Eleanor to her feet again. Tristan wanted to take her hands. He wanted to beam at her. But no, as a gentleman, he couldn't be seen engaging in that sort of behavior in public. But by God, that was impressive. The woman should run for Parliament, if they'd only have her.