“You did what?” Tristan demanded, aghast.
“Poisoned him,” Prudence repeated. “But only a little.” She patted the beaded reticule on her lap. “I never go anywhere without my little vial of blackthorn syrup. One never knows when it might come in handy. I slipped a few drops into Caseby’s port, to spare poor Lady Carys his company.”
Tristan raked a hand through his hair. “Good God. What does it do?”
Prudence’s smirk was triumphant. “It’s a purgative, helps empty the bowels. It worked like a charm. Not fifteen minutes later, Caseby was taken ill with a bad case of stomach cramps and had to go home.”
“Serves him right, the old lecher.” Constance chuckled.
Tristan shook his head, torn between fond awe and utter disapproval. If Pru had administered the same medicine to Christopher Howe that evening, Howe would have gone home prematurely and Tristan would never have discovered Carys’s secret.
He’d never have made his impetuous suggestion.
Never have made love to her.
That would have been a tragedy. For all his misgivings, he wouldn’t change what they’d done for the world.
He sent his two aunts a chiding glare. “You’re like the witches in Macbeth. One of these days you’re going to get into a lot of trouble.”
Constance waved her hand. “Oh, pshaw. Whoever would suspect two sweet little old ladies like us? Do you know, Pru, I rather think we could get away with actual murder, if we put our minds to it.”
“Do not ever put your minds to it!” Tristan growled. “However tempted you may be. And let me tell you now, Carys is not the person to ask for any eye of newt, or ear of bat, or whatever it is you need for your witchy concoctions. She loves all animals.”
Both aunts chuckled; then Constance became serious once more. “You know, if we’re the witches from Macbeth, then Lady Carys is Katherine, from The Taming of the Shrew.”
Prudence nodded. “Men like Caseby think they need to ‘tame her,’ to crush her spirit, but they’re wrong. Her spirit is what makes her so attractive. But most men are too insecure to want a woman who can outwit them.”
His aunt was right. Tristan loved Carys’s intelligence, her irrepressible energy. He loved the fact that she challenged him constantly.
Lavinia had never voiced an opinion that didn’t exactly correlate with his own. Now that he thought about it, it was surprisingly annoying. If he wanted a companion who simply repeated everything he said, he might as well borrow one of Carys’s parrots.
Constance took a sip of ratafia. “Yes, well, most men are fools, Prudence.” She sent Tristan a sideways glance. “Present company excepted, of course.”
“Thank you,” Tristan muttered. “And you’re right, only a fool would want to change her. She’s perfect as she is.”
Both aunts raised their brows and looked at him with identical, knowing expressions. He’d seen that look a hundred times in his childhood: when he’d said or done something stupid and they were waiting for him to realize what it was.
Prudence sent him one of her wicked, stirring-the-pot grins. “You should ask Lady Carys to dance, Tristan.”
Tristan clenched his jaw and sent them both another stop meddling glare. “Do you know, I think I will.”
He strode off to the opposite end of the ballroom, grateful to escape.
Prudence took another sip of her wine and watched Tristan’s hasty retreat.
“Do you think the poor boy knows he’s in love with her?”
Constance snorted. “I doubt it. Our dear Tristan is as stupid as the next man when it comes to matters of the heart. He thinks the reason he can’t stop thinking about her is because she’s the most vexing creature on the planet.”
Pru chuckled. “Should we tell him, do you think?”
“Oh, heavens no. We’ve done quite enough interfering. Let’s just hope he manages to arrive at the right conclusion before he does something truly stupid, like propose to that dreadful Purser girl.”
Pru patted her reticule again. “I might put some blackthorn syrup in his brandy, if he does.”