EIGHT
8
T ristan knew Isolde was overset. Given the events since their arrival in London, she had to be.
But his resilient wife refused to buckle. Though her pale cheeks and red-rimmed blue eyes spoke to turmoil within, her determination held firm.
Moreover, he knew that his lovely wife blamed herself for their current predicament.
“This is not your fault,” he told her after they retreated to their rooms to dress for the day. Still in shirtsleeves and trousers, he walked into his private study. Isolde paused in the doorway, his banyan engulfing her thin frame.
“Of course, it is my fault.” She shot him a look of pure disbelief. “I am the one who cavorted with a married man.”
“As your mother said, you didn’t know he was married. You certainly would have behaved differently had you known.”
“That hardly matters, as well you know.”
Anger surged through Tristan’s veins. He wanted to track down the blasted artist who drew that bloody cartoon and beat him senseless. He wanted to swaddle Isolde tightly, take her to Hawthorn, and spend the next year ignoring the outside world.
Isolde sighed and, pushing off of the door frame, walked into his study and slumped into an armchair. She propped her head in one palm, causing his dressing gown to slip low on the opposite shoulder and uncover an expanse of her creamy skin. His lips tingled to kiss it. “That truth is unfortunately irrelevant. Gossiping tongues will not trouble themselves with details as mundane as facts.”
“Perhaps, but I refuse to let you carry the blame for this.”
“Ye be kind, my love, but it scarcely matters. Ye cannot force the ton to accept me.”
“Can I not?” He rather liked the thought of storming through the drawing rooms of Mayfair, demanding one and all treat his wife with respect.
“We both know my behavior is the only thing that will see this righted. I must be unimpeachable in my ladylike manner and address.”
“Isolde—”
She held up a hand to silence him and rose to her feet. Crossing, she slipped her arms underneath his banyan and wrapped them around his waist. Tristan pulled her against him.
Isolde pressed a kiss to his throat, her hands working to pull his shirttails from his trousers. “I know your magnificent heart wants to protect me, keep me wrapped in wool batting and—”
“Cotton,” Tristan grumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Cotton batting. I wish to keep you in cotton batting, not wool.” He slipped the dressing gown off her shoulder entirely, exposing her clavicle and more of her lovely bare skin. “Less itchy.”
As he intended, Isolde laughed. “Cotton then, if you insist.”
He dragged a thumb across her collarbone. “I can’t bear the thought of anything marring your skin.”
She showered kisses on his jaw as a thank you for the compliment. “I know it will be difficult for yourself, but ye need to let me mend this situation on my own.”
“Isolde—”
“Tristan, I am asking ye to trust me.”
He greatly disliked where this conversation was heading. “Of course, I trust you.”
“Ye ken that’s not precisely what I mean—the general promise of my trust. I want your word that ye will let me rehabilitate my reputation in my own fashion. No bloodying newspaper editors or throwing verbal daggers at gossiping matrons.”
“Now you are spoiling my favorite pastimes.”
His beautiful wife laughed again, sliding her hands under his shirt and up his bare back. The heat of her palms singed his nerves. “For your own sake, ye may look imposing and autocratic. I will also say nothing if ye decide to toss Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia into the street.”
Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tempt me. It’s bad enough to be stuck in Town, but to be forced to endure my odious cousin and his wife . . . I should have kicked them to the curb when I had the chance. If I do so now, it will look unforgivably petty and add to the furor surrounding us.”
“Aye, having them in our home will be trying while attempting to heal my reputation. Again, I am asking ye to let me fight this battle in my own way.”
Tristan sighed. Yes, this was what he feared. “I don’t like that idea.”
“I know ye don’t, but I’m asking ye anyway.” Her clear blue eyes held his. “Promise me?”
He stared at her, at the love and pleading shining in her gaze.
Curse her. He could not deny her this. “Very well. I promise.”
She grinned in triumph.
“But know that it is under duress,” he continued, “and if at any point you feel overwhelmed, you will tell me.”
“I will. But my mother has the right of it, and her ideas are sound. She and I will make calls, send out invitations, and prepare everything for us to host our first ball. As ye said earlier, all will be well, my love. Trust that I shall see to it.”
Tristan frowned, a host of objections marshaled atop his tongue.
But then his diabolical wife slid her hands up his spine and pressed her lush mouth to his and all coherent thoughts fled.
Tristan suspected he would see little of Isolde during daylight hours for the next few weeks. After dressing, Isolde had left with Lady Hadley and Allie to begin their “war room” planning, as his twin put it.
The thought frustrated him. He itched to help, too. He wanted to be part of the ladies’ fight. But that wasn’t how their world functioned. Not in this, at least.
Within Polite Society, lords and ladies inhabited different spheres and, consequently, led essentially separate lives. Basically, the higher the rank, the greater the wealth, the less time one spent with one’s spouse. To London’s elites, husbands and wives should focus on their own domains and, consequently, interact as little as possible. Doting upon one’s wife was viewed as emasculating and weak.
Who the bloody hell had decided that? They clearly had not had a wife as enchanting and clever as Isolde.
So in order to change opinions of her behavior, Isolde needed to be seen about Town with Lady Hadley and Allie, calling upon friends, attending visiting hours, and behaving exactly as a typical lady of her station should behave . . . no Tristan in sight.
The very notion was ludicrous. Tristan wanted to escort Isolde through London drawing rooms himself and scowl threateningly at anyone who said anything even faintly rude. And then return home and spend the rest of the day closeted together—reading alongside one another, debating a scientific article, perhaps raiding the kitchen larder for biscuits in the wee hours of the morning.
That said, the political side of his brain understood the wisdom in Isolde’s reasoning and the strategic logic in adhering to societal norms. So, though trying for himself, Tristan would respect her request.
However, there remained little for Tristan to do in London.
Mr. Eliason and Mr. Cartwright were busy tending to the duchy’s properties, and they certainly didn’t need, nor even want, their employer’s interference. And Adam Ledger had yet to surface.
So how was Tristan to organize his days? Dine at White’s, his gentleman’s club, and try to resurrect the few acquaintanceships he had managed before his marriage to Isolde? Visit Tattersalls and contemplate new horses for his stables? Or do as most gentlemen of his set, frequent gaming hells in Covent Garden and develop a gambling addiction?
None of those options sounded particularly appealing. He needed to discover how to spend his time now that his political ambitions had evaporated. A way to merge his Kendall and Tristan selves into something useful and admirable without Isolde on his arm.
Establishing a purpose for his days would be simpler if he had a secretary. There was always correspondence to assess and letters to be written. Therefore, the issue of Mr. Adam Ledger’s whereabouts remained problematic.
Naturally, Tristan could simply hire another secretary.
But . . . the thought filled him with repugnance, though he could scarcely say why.
Ledger had been dismissed without a letter of recommendation—Aubrey and his disgraceful behavior be cursed. Such an act was calamitous for an employee, as Tristan’s cousin well knew. All hiring of staff was based upon provided references. Without them, a man or woman would find themselves unemployable. Tristan was furious that Ledger had been discharged in such a fashion.
Perhaps that was why, after everything, he felt some loyalty to Ledger and a need to make amends. Tristan had been raised a duke, after all. His entire existence hinged on his ability to assist those within his care.
Initially, Tristan had assumed that locating Ledger would be a simple task, but it had been over a day and no one had uncovered his whereabouts. That, in and of itself, wasn’t quite cause for alarm. But it did underscore that Ledger hadn’t been waiting around for Tristan to return, nor had he attempted to send word to Tristan directly. So where had the man gone?
Unfortunately, despite Ledger having been his secretary for several years, Tristan knew little beyond Ledger’s behavior as his employee—dependable, competent, quick to enact verbal instruction, and patient with his brisk, occasionally volatile ducal employer.
But Tristan understood next to nothing of the man’s history or background, and what he did know was sparse. Ledger was around Tristan’s own age and unmarried—hence his lodging under the roof of Gilbert House. He was tall, brown-eyed, and brown-haired, with pallid skin from his time spent indoors.
That was rather the sum total of Tristan’s knowledge.
How odd, he thought. To know intimately the shape and weight of Ledger’s handwriting—the unique turn of his phrasing, the deep timbre of his voice—but almost nothing else.
“I cannot say I know much more than Fredericks, Your Grace,” Mrs. Wilson said when he asked her about Ledger. They were seated in his large study. Rain pattered against the window at Tristan’s back and cast the room in gloomy blue light. “Mr. Ledger generally kept to himself, as befitting one of his station. Like a governess or lady’s companion, Mr. Ledger is a gentleman and behaved like one at all times. I am sure that is why he became so agitated over Mr. Gilbert’s behavior.”
“Mr. Gilbert’s behavior?” Tristan’s eyebrows lifted. “What do you mean? My cousin’s dismissal of Ledger?”
“No . . .” Mrs. Wilson paused, chin lifting. “Did Fredericks not mention the incident?”
“Incident?” Tristan sat up straighter. “What incident?”
The housekeeper bit her lip.
“Out with it, if you please, Mrs. Wilson,” he beckoned.
The woman practically wrung her hands. “You must understand, Your Grace, that I do not have a habit of listening at keyholes.”
“Of course not, Mrs. Wilson.”
“But the presence of Mr. Gilbert and Lady Lavinia has been trying.”
“Naturally. My cousin and his wife would try the patience of the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, so that is understandable. Please tell me what occurred.”
Mrs. Wilson swallowed. “Very well. On the day Mr. Ledger was let go, I did chance to overhear an argument between Mr. Ledger and Mr. Gilbert. I gathered that Mr. Ledger had discovered Lady Lavinia and Mr. Gilbert rifling through papers in Your Grace’s private study.”
Tristan stilled. He had suspected as much, but now it was confirmed. “I had noticed items had been disturbed there.”
A sick queasiness rippled through his gut. The pair had surely returned to ransack his private domain more than once. What had they discovered? Heaven knew he had all sorts of damning papers in his private study, including his notes on Hadley’s interactions with Jarvis and Isolde’s indiscretion. A vision of the satirical cartoon danced before Tristan’s eyes. Had Aubrey and Lady Lavinia provided the information to The Tattler , as well?
Tristan breathed slowly through a surge of white-hot anger.
“Yes, well, Mr. Ledger took Mr. Gilbert to task, repeating that Your Grace was indeed alive and would not look kindly on Mr. Gilbert or his wife disturbing Your Grace’s possessions. Mr. Gilbert replied that he didn’t believe Your Grace to be living. He insisted that Your Grace would have returned to London if you were indeed well and whole. Ledger called that balderdash.”
Astute man. Yet another reason to like Mr. Ledger.
“The altercation led to Mr. Ledger’s dismissal on the spot,” Mrs. Wilson finished.
“I see.” Poor Ledger. He had merely been doing his job. The man deserved a commendation and a raise in pay, not the abysmal treatment Aubrey had delivered. “And you have no inkling of where Ledger may have hied off to? A relative, perhaps?”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “He does have a sister who lives here in London. Somewhere near St. Paul’s Cathedral, I think. Mr. Ledger would visit her every Sunday afternoon for dinner.”
The fact of a sister was more than Tristan knew.
“Do you know the address or any other helpful thing about the sister?”
“I can’t say that I do, Your Grace. However, Mr. Ledger was let go so quickly, he did not have time to arrange other accommodations first. Instead, he packed his trunk and asked if he could leave it with me until such a time as he could send for it.”
“Ledger left his trunk?” This was the first Tristan had heard of it. “And has Ledger sent for it?”
“Not as of yet, Your Grace.”
“Hasn’t it been over three weeks since his dismissal? I find that odd in the extreme.”
“As do I, Your Grace.”
Damn and blast! Where had the man gone? Worry set its claws into Tristan’s shoulders. It beggared belief that the capable, organized Ledger would have waited weeks to collect his trunk were he in Town. But perhaps he had returned home, wherever that might be?
Tristan was unsure what to do. Ledger’s trunk could be a potential treasure trove of information about the man, and Tristan hated the thought of waiting for Ledger to reappear. But rifling through Ledger’s personal effects in search of clues felt like the height of betrayal, particularly if the man had merely washed his hands of the dukedom. Tristan would only stoop to opening the trunk if absolutely necessary.
The information that Ledger had a sister in Town was helpful. “Mrs. Wilson, could you inquire of the staff if anyone knows where Ledger’s sister resides? I wish to locate him and right this wrong. Perhaps he is lodging with her.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I shall do so immediately.” Mrs. Wilson bobbed a curtsy and took her leave.
Tristan stared at the closed door of his study, fingers drumming on his desk. His first impulse was to hire an investigator to look into Ledger’s disappearance, but even he knew that such an action was premature.
And yet . . . why did he feel such urgency with this issue? It was odd. Surely, Ledger was merely staying with some relative, licking his wounds and searching for new employment, content to leave his trunk here until he had a new home for it.
Regardless, Tristan would locate his former secretary and make what restitution he could. His conscience demanded no less.