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sneaking off on her own—she thinks I don’t know, but she slips out to bookstores and millinery shops every chance she gets.” He paused. “You go that way”—he pointed east—”and I’ll go this way. If she’s made it home . . .” He shuddered. “My father will have to step in.”
    Tristan wondered why he’d never noticed this spineless side of Bennet before, but he just nodded. Bennet nodded back before taking off to the west, striding down the street as though he longed to burst into a run.
    He turned and strolled east, toward the shops. Where would a young lady go, alone? He hadn’t noticed a maid waiting on the steps, and no servant had accompanied her into the house, where chaperonage was most needed. Most likely she’d gone home to lay the spoils of victory at her mother’s feet. And if Bennet was such a coward to sign that damned paper at all, Tristan privately thought he deserved whatever he reaped.
    But still. Bennet had offered him a place to stay in town where he could easily and conveniently supervise the repair of his roof, allowing him to get the work done without causing a stir. His aunt would seize any opportunity to upbraid him about his management of the estate, even though in this case he was repairing a century-old roof that his uncle couldn’t be bothered to replace. If Uncle Burke had properly seen to the roof, it wouldn’t have leaked for the last ten years, quietly rotting the upper story of the house before collapsing under a heavy rain last month.
    He turned into Bond Street, halfheartedly looking for a flash of pink-striped skirts. God knew they were wide enough, he should be able to spot them from half a mile away. How on earth was it that women didn’t learn how to dress themselves well? Why must they go like sheep after the latest style, whether it flattered them or not? Gold was definitely Miss Bennet’s color, and richer, darker tones that would reflect well with her dark hair and creamy skin. Not pink, for certain.
    And what the devil was he supposed to do once he found her? She wouldn’t surrender that paper without a battle royal, and Tristan had no intention of engaging her in the middle of a milliner’s shop. He told himself he wouldn’t want to face her in private, either, no matter how satisfying it would be to take her down a peg.
    He paused outside a display window, and studied the bolts of silk temptingly draped there. That shade of blue would also suit her, he thought—and then swore under his breath. A virago. A she-devil. And the sister of a mate. Not a woman who would look good in any shade of blue.
    He turned away from the window, striding down the street at a brisker pace. It wasn’t his fault Bennet couldn’t stand up to her. It wasn’t his concern if Bennet found himself bundled off to the Malcolm ball or the Macmillan ball or any other ball to dance with half the girls in Britain. Judging from the way he’d cowered before his sister, Bennet would be married off within a few months anyway, likely to another Fury; females like that tended to stick together. Lady Bennet no doubt already had the girl all chosen, and would bend her son to her will the way a stiff breeze bowed a spring sapling. It would be a pity, of course, to lose so jovial a companion, but Tristan had no desire to get between a Fury and her object. Bennet would have to save himself. It was ridiculous to take orders from a woman—any woman. Really, if Tristan wanted to help his friend, he would do better to find him and tell him to be a man, and put his sister in her proper place.
    And then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of pink stripes as she vanished into a small bookshop. His steps slowed, and a slow smile spread over his face. Quite forgetting that he had just pledged to avoid her like a deadly plague, he flexed his hands and followed her.

 
    Chapter 3

    A little bell above the door tinkled as Joan stepped into the cramped bookshop. She paused on the