How the Scoundrel Seduces Read Free Page A

decent fellow, back when he’d worked for Father as house steward. George was already in school and Dom was still at home, so Hucker used to sneak treats to Tristan and Dom whenever they set out for their adventures in the cave near Flamborough Head. It was Hucker who’d taught Tristan the rudiments of accounting, Hucker who’d given Tristan his first cigarillo at the tender age of eight.
    Then George had come home after finishing at Harrow. While Father had been on one of his trips, leaving George in charge, George had promoted Hucker to his personal man of affairs and everything had changed.
    Now Hucker was as mean as George. Dom liked to say Hucker had been infected with the George and wasn’t likely to recover.
    “I don’t know how you can work for him,” Tristan said. “He’s a cheat and a liar.”
    “He’s the master. I do as I’m told.” Hucker slanted a glance at him. “If you was wise, you’d do as you’re told, too. There’s naught to be gained from going against him. You ought to have learnt that by now.”
    “So I’m supposed to forget that he stole my inheritance from me, that he means to destroy my family?”
    Hucker didn’t even ask him to explain. “You’re a bastard. There weren’t much chance for you anyway. It’s just how things are.”
    Tristan was well used to being called a bastard, but the fact that Hucker could be so cold stoked his temper. They were passing the stables now, and Tristan tensed.Blue Blazes was in there. His Blue Blazes. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair, damn it!
    They were halfway to the cottage when Hucker finally left him. Tristan walked only far enough to be out of the wretch’s sight. Perhaps he should wait for Dom to arrive, in order to warn him about what George had done.
    Then what? George was right about Dom siding with his legitimate brother. Dom had no choice; as long as he stood with George, he’d be safe. And it wasn’t as if Dom could do anything to help them. He had no property of his own.
    Which meant that Tristan and his family would starve. The cottage belonged to the Rathmoor Park estate, as did most everything in it. Bloody hell, if George wanted to, he could throw them out tomorrow.
    How were they to live? Where could they go?
    The sound of violins drifted to him through the forest, jerking him from his dark thoughts. It was the Gypsies—or as they preferred to call themselves, the Romany people. Having a nomadic spirit himself, Father had always allowed them to camp on the land, but that would no doubt change once George was in charge. They, too, would be kicked out, if not tomorrow, then soon. Perhaps he should warn them.
    He headed through the forest toward their campfires. At least his friend Milosh Corrie, the horse trader, would understand the injustice of his losing Blue Blazes. Milosh appreciated the beauty and spirit of such a beast.
    Damn George. All right, so perhaps Tristan could never have afforded to keep Blue Blazes, but he still could have sold the horse to Milosh for a good price, and then . . .
    That stopped Tristan in his tracks. Milosh would be eager to buy such a fine gelding. He’d have the money for it, too, perhaps enough to enable them all to live until Tristan could find work. And the horse was Tristan’s by right, no matter what George said. If Tristan took it, he’d only be honoring Father’s wishes.
    He could do it without being suspected. The grooms would be having supper. He could be in and out with Blue Blazes while they were still above the stables. If he left the stall door open, they’d think the gelding had wandered out.
    It could be done . . . but only if he went now. And only if he convinced Milosh to buy what the world would consider a stolen horse.
    I promised him to . . . your half brother last year. Tristan picked the Thoroughbred for me, so the lad should . . . have him.
    Father’s words decided him. To hell with the world and its unfair laws. Blue Blazes was his, damn it.