THREE
3
T ristan stirred as the coach rocked to a stop in front of Gilbert House in Grosvenor Square in London.
Night had fallen hours ago. Quiet ruled over the street, broken only by the patter of rain on the pavement and the occasional steaming hiss from the gas street lamps.
Tristan peered out the carriage window to his townhouse, careful not to disturb Isolde lying asleep on his chest. He stared up at the five stories of his home, frown deepening with each passing second.
The entire edifice was dark, stone gleaming in the rain.
What the devil was going on? Gilbert House should be lit up like a Christmas bonfire in anticipation of their arrival—windows blazing with light and staff waiting to greet them with dinner, warm baths, and clean linen.
But, no, the gas lamps to either side of the door remained unlit, relegating the front stoop to gloomy shadows. In fact, except for a flickering candle in a window, the entire house appeared abandoned and foreboding.
Concern and worry sat heavy in his bones.
Something was not right.
The unease had begun when the SS Statesman had docked in St. Katherine’s Wharf just south of London. Tristan had sent a telegram from Norfolk, apprising Mr. Adam Ledger, the secretary in charge of his social calendar—and, by extension, the rest of his staff—of his and his duchess’s imminent arrival. Further, Tristan had requested the ducal carriage be waiting for them at the docks. However, no such carriage had been sent.
Refusing to take a common hack—Tristan shuddered to ponder the sticky floors and rank interiors of such vehicles—he had finally sent a deckhand to hire a carriage from a nearby coaching inn. Allie and Penn-Leith had braved a hack and would be arriving shortly. Thankfully, Lord and Lady Hadley had opted to take the train down from Scotland and would be staying in their own home in Town.
Isolde stirred on his chest, lifting her head. “Are we arrived at last?”
“Yes, my love.”
Even tired, rather disheveled, and dimly lit, Isolde’s timeless beauty—wide-set blue eyes with a constellation of freckles dotting her skin—kindled an ache in Tristan’s chest. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
They waited as the coachman lowered the steps, chin tucked against his great coat to avoid the worst of the wet weather. Tristan descended and turned to help Isolde alight. Her gaze skimmed the dark facade, lips pinching. His clever wife had no doubt reached the same conclusion as himself—why were the staff not anticipating their arrival?
Hand in hand, they raced up the front steps, eager to escape the drizzling rain. Tristan’s concern deepened as he noted the laurel wreath hung with black crepe adorning the front door—a sign of a death in the family.
“Is all well with your relatives?” Isolde pointed at the wreath.
“I have received no communication to the contrary.”
“Certainly the wreath isn’t for us?”
“I cannot imagine. The staff know we survived the shipwreck.” Tristan tried to keep the irritation out of his tone. “I sent Mr. Ledger back to London with clear instructions to inform others of our miraculous recovery.”
After their supposed drowning, Ledger had accompanied Lord Hadley north to Scotland, intending to retrieve Tristan’s body. Instead, Tristan had greeted his secretary in person and sent him back south with correspondence and instructions for managing the dukedom’s affairs, as well as a charge to inform others of Tristan’s health and wellbeing. Since then, Tristan had received the occasional communication from Ledger, but as there was little to report, his secretary wrote infrequently. Barring some tragedy, Ledger would be on the receiving end of Tristan’s displeasure. First, the lacking carriage, and now this—his house unprepared for their arrival?
Such incompetence was unacceptable in his employ.
Tamping down his frustration, Tristan tried the handle of the front door, only to find it locked.
Gritting back an oath, he thumped the knocker with thunderous force.
Boom, boom, boom.
The sound echoed through the entrance hall beyond.
And then . . .
. . . nothing more.
He pulled Isolde in front of him, trying to shelter her, his own shoulders hunched in his overcoat as rain pelted his back.
This was ridiculous. He was a duke! Dukes did not stand on their own front stoop in the dripping wet, pounding to be admitted.
He could feel his Kendall self rising—the haughty, autocratic epitome of his loathsome father. A tyrannical man, yes, but one who marshaled underlings, commanded obedience, and ensured competence.
After another moment, he knocked again, louder this time.
Boom, boom, boom.
His wrath rose with each resounding thud.
Someone’s head would roll for this debacle. He might have spent the last five weeks on his honeymoon, but that was no excuse for slipshod household management in his absence.
Boom, boom, boom.
Finally, a scuffling noise sounded from within, feet scrambling on marble.
The lock turned with an echoing sha-shunk, and the door opened a crack, revealing the face of a young hall boy.
“Who goes—” was all the lad got out before Tristan pushed the door wide and stepped inside, pulling Isolde with him. The youth stumbled back, toppling onto his bottom in the middle of the grand entrance hall, mouth agape as if seeing a ghost.
“Y-Your Grace,” the boy stammered, skittering backward on the marble floor.
Tristan kicked the front door shut with a satisfying thwack that rattled the windows in their casements and echoed up the stairs.
“Fetch Fredericks, boy,” Tristan barked. His butler should have answers. “Also, summon Mr. Ledger immediately. And light the lamps.” He spared a glance at the one candle lit on a side table. “This place is hardly a graveyard.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace.” The lad jumped to his feet. “I-immediately, Your Grace.” The boy disappeared down the hall toward the servants’ quarters.
Good.
Someone needed to restore order here. Though a cursory look around the entrance hall with its shined marble and impressive rising staircase showed the house to be tidy and clean. At least his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was doing her job.
Tristan turned to Isolde who remained silent and tight-lipped at his side. “I am most sorry you had to arrive home to this, Duchess.”
“Hush. All is well, my love.”
“It is not well, Isolde. It is an utter disgrace.”
His wife touched his arm. “Surely, there has been a misunderstanding that shall be easily righted. There is no need for such alarm.”
Tristan ignored the reproach in her tone. “We shall see.”
Some lackadaisical person would feel the sharp edge of his anger before the night was over. If Tristan had to be Kendall in order to protect and provide for his duchess, then so be it.
Stripping off his gloves, he dropped them inside his hat and deposited the whole on a sideboard. Isolde followed suit with her own gloves and bonnet. Tristan had just shed his overcoat when a voice carried down the central stairs.
“What the devil is this racket?! Fredericks!” A stout figure in a lavish dressing gown stomped down the stairs, a flickering candle held aloft. “Fredericks!” the man called, leaning over the railing.
Fury rose so quickly in Tristan’s chest, he worried steam would pour from his ears.
This explained much.
The man turned his attention to Tristan and Isolde.
“How dare you call at such a late hour, sirrah!” he shouted, stomping down the stairs. “I do not care what your business here regards or how important you presume yourselves to be, you will return at a civil hour! Fredericks!”
Tristan’s rage coalesced under his sternum, anger retracting and turning to ice, hardening his ribcage to frosty steel. Stepping into the light of the single candle on the side table, he stared up at the man.
“Cousin Aubrey.” Tristan’s voice vibrated with the ducal outrage of every Kendall who had preceded him. “You will refer to me as Your Grace if I ever deign to speak with you after this outrage.”
Mr. Aubrey Gilbert—Tristan’s cousin and heir—staggered back on the steps, shoulders hitting the wall opposite the banister, face blanching pure white in the light of his candle. His mouth flapped open, like a spawning salmon gasping for breath.
“Furthermore, how dare you commandeer my household,” Tristan continued. “It is appalling to return home and find you here—uninvited, unannounced, and decidedly unwelcome.”
“K-Kendall,” Aubrey stammered.
“Your. Grace. You will refer to me as Your Grace . What part of that instruction was unclear?”
“You’re alive!”
“Your. Grace. Truly, Cousin, I question your mental abilities.”
“Alive . . . . Y-Your Grace.”
“Of course, I’m alive, you dolt! Ledger informed you of that fact, I am sure. But perhaps your diminished mental acuity could not comprehend such simple information. Shall I have a doctor summoned?”
To his credit, Aubrey rallied, standing and continuing down the stairs. Though scarcely older than Tristan’s own thirty years, Aubrey’s receding hairline and rotund belly gave him the appearance of a man a decade older. Only the set of his eyes and the gray peppering his dark hair echoed his familial ties to the Dukedom of Kendall.
“I-I am g-gratified to see you well, Your Grace.” Aubrey managed a stiff bow. He flickered a glance at Isolde.
“Spare me your lies,” Tristan snorted. “It appears you heard rumors of my demise and raced to London to claim my home and title before receiving confirmation of my cold corpse. Such appalling behavior is beneath any gentleman, particularly one who claims the surname Gilbert. Perhaps that should be reevaluated.”
Aubrey blanched. “W-We truly did not know, Your—”
“Nonsense! Did Mr. Ledger die on his way to London? Or did he arrive mute and dumb and unable to speak?”
“N-No, I gather he is well, but—”
“But what , Cousin?”
Aubrey spluttered for a moment, proving yet again why Tristan considered him a prize idiot. Honestly, he and Isolde needed to produce a son post-haste. The dukedom wouldn’t survive a year with Aubrey at its helm.
“Husband? Whatever is the matter?” a female voice called from the top of the stairs.
Tristan took in a deep breath before looking up.
Of course.
The true architect of this debacle.
Lady Lavinia Gilbert, Aubrey’s aristocratic wife.
Not registering Tristan’s presence, she descended the stairs in a cloud of French perfume and a fashionable silk dressing gown, an expensive beeswax candle held aloft in a silver holder. Short and thin with a large nose and a pinched sort of face, she resembled a ferret. Or rather, Allie once remarked upon the similarity and now Tristan couldn’t unsee it. A pretty ferret but a weasel nonetheless—sneaky and conniving.
“Who has come calling at this late hour to inconvenience our househol—”
Lady Lavinia froze on the second to last step, eyes widening as she finally recognized who stood in the entrance hall.
“Look who has arrived home, Wife,” Aubrey said with forced cheer. “Is it not a miracle?” He waved a hand in Tristan’s direction.
“Yes. A miracle,” Lady Lavinia said, voice monotone. “Welcome home, Your Grace.” She curtsied, elegant and neat, her candle flickering with motion.
The youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Andover, Lady Lavinia took her husband’s designation as heir to the Duke of Kendall as a proclamation of fact—Aubrey would be the next Duke. Never mind that Tristan was hearty and hale. Never mind that his lovely duchess currently stood at his side, possibly already carrying his heir.
No, Lady Lavinia, along with her parents, assumed that their daughter would one day wear the eight golden strawberry leaves of a duchess’s coronet—Tristan and Isolde be damned.
“Lady Lavinia.” Tristan inclined his head. He turned to Isolde at his side. His clever wife hid her surprise well. Her expression remained bland and impassive though her eyes sparkled with some emotion. Outrage, like himself? Or was it . . . hilarity?
Regardless, he took her hand in his. “Duchess, may I present my cousin and heir, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, and his wife, Lady Lavinia Gilbert?”
Isolde dipped her head the precisely proper amount for greeting a social inferior, proving her impeccable manners. “Mr. Gilbert. Lady Lavinia.”
“Duchess,” they both echoed, bowing and curtsying as appropriate, though Tristan did not miss the faint sneering curl of Lady Lavinia’s lips illuminated by her candle. Ferret scurried through his brain.
Lady Lavinia’s rancor likely stemmed from the fact that Tristan had spurned her advances years ago. Well, spurned might be too strong a word. Ignored, more like. She had thrown herself at him over and over—at balls, at dinners, at soirées—and he simply had pretended to not notice. Hell hath no fury and all that.
But that certainly did not excuse either Aubrey or Lady Lavinia’s current appalling behavior.
Cold rage continued to band Tristan’s chest.
“Lady Lavinia,” Tristan said, “I have been attempting to understand why my secretary’s description of my health and wholeness was unable to penetrate my cousin’s thick skull. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
Lady Lavinia smiled—the strained sort of expression one makes when scrambling for a believable fib—and turned to her husband.
“Secretary?” she asked with a feather-headed laugh.
“Mr. Adam Ledger,” Tristan supplied blandly. “Tall fellow, brown hair, brown eyes, spectacles. He has a room beside the butler’s in the servants’ quarters.”
Given how Aubrey blanched once more, they knew to whom Tristan referred. They had to have heard Ledger’s account of meeting with Tristan in Oban from the man himself. So . . . why had they assumed Tristan to be dead?
Lady Lavinia rallied. “I believe, Your Grace, there were concerns over the veracity of Mr. Ledger’s statements. It seemed odd that you yourself hadn’t returned to London.”
“Why should I have needed to return to London in order for firsthand accounts of my health and continued breathing on this earth to be believed? If you readily accepted hearsay of my death, why not also believe verified reports of my survival? Truly, such logic is deeply flawed.”
Aubrey stood tall. “There were rumors that you had suffered a terrible blow to the head, Your Grace, and were no longer of compos mentis .”
“Do I appear injured, Cousin?” Tristan spread his arms. “Or of a diminished mental capacity?”
“Of c-course not,” Aubrey stammered.
Before Tristan could continue his questioning, the door to the servants’ quarters at the back of the entrance hall clacked open.
A flustered Fredericks burst through, a dressing gown hastily tied around his waist. Two footmen in shirtsleeves and the hallboy followed at his heels.
“Your Grace!” the butler all but crowed.
“Ah, Fredericks.”
“Your Grace!” Fredericks bowed, eyes shimmering with emotion and, if Tristan was reading the man’s expression correctly, no small amount of relief. “We are all deeply grateful to find you and Her Grace alive and well.”
Fredericks motioned for a footman to begin lighting the gas lamps before stepping forward and sliding Tristan’s damp overcoat off his shoulders. The other footman followed suit, assisting Isolde with her pelerine.
“Thank you, Fredericks. We are pleased to be home, despite the current circumstances.” Here, Tristan spared a scathing glance for Aubrey before looking back at the butler. “Would you please have the ducal bedchambers readied? Also, Lady Allegra and Mr. Penn-Leith are not far behind us, so please see to their rooms, as well.”
Tristan did not miss the panicked look Fredericks sent to Lady Lavinia.
“Is there a problem, Fredericks?”
“Of course not, Your Grace.”
But Tristan knew his butler well enough to understand the man was flustered.
It didn’t take a genius to understand what had occurred. And just when Tristan had supposed his temper could not be stoked any higher.
“Let me guess.” Tristan turned to Aubrey. “You and your wife have not only usurped my household—uninvited—but you have made yourself at home in my own, private chambers.” His voice rose with each word, ending with the crack of a whip.
The thought of Aubrey pawing through his personal possessions set Tristan’s blood to boiling. His bedchamber and personal study were his sanctum. No one was admitted there without his express permission.
“Cousin . . .” Aubrey began, extending a consoling hand.
“Your. Grace!”
Aubrey flinched. “Your G-Grace, we had presumed that—”
“You presume nothing!” Tristan snarled, taking a step toward the man.
Aubrey staggered back like the coward he was, clutching Lady Lavinia’s arm.
“How. Dare. You.” Tristan enunciated each word with the precision of a pistol shot. He loomed over his cousin. “You took the flimsiest of opportunities and grabbed it with both hands. I will be taking a thorough inventory of my possessions. If I find even so much as a silver button misplaced, I will be calling the constabulary.”
Aubry’s face drained of blood.
“Surely, you do not wish such a scandal, Your Grace,” Lady Lavinia said, voice dulcet and coaxing. “Why, the dukedom would become the talk of the ton .”
Tristan whirled on her. “No, Lady Lavinia. My cousin’s reprehensible behavior and attempt to steal my possessions and my title would be the subject of gossip. I anticipate the duchy itself would weather the scandal with outraged dignity.”
“Gracious, certainly matters do not need to come to that.” Lady Lavinia’s nose twitched, enhancing her weaselly appearance.
Tristan smiled tightly. The chilling sort he had learned at his father’s knee. The smile he knew made others’ blood run cold.
Lady Lavinia faltered.
Tristan turned his attention back to Aubrey. “Though I am sorely tempted, you should be grateful I am a decent human being, and therefore, will not hurl you into the street this instant. However, you are no longer welcome here, Cousin. I will not tolerate such upstart behavior under my own roof.” He pivoted to Fredericks. “My duchess and I will retire to the library. Please have a light repast sent in while Mrs. Wilson and the maids prepare the rooms I require. Deal with their effects —” He shot another basilisk look at Lady Lavinia. “—as you will. Mr. Gilbert and Lady Lavinia will be departing at first light.”