NINE
9
T he next day, Tristan found himself desperate to escape his house.
Escape! His own house!
When he arrived in the breakfast room, he discovered Cousin Aubrey already seated at the table—looking and acting as if he were the lord of the manor—one hand tipping a teacup for a loud slurp and the other holding Tristan’s copy of The Times that Fredericks religiously ironed every morning.
“Dreadful business with that cartoon yesterday, Your Grace,” Aubrey said with oblivious cheer. “Terribly shocking to see the duchess being accused of such a scandal.”
Truly, the man was a prize idiot.
Tristan merely stared him down with the piercingly cold look his ducal father had modeled. How was he to merge his Kendall and Tristan selves with imbeciles like his cousin breathing down his neck? Being haughty Kendall was the only way to deal with the Aubreys of the world.
After a moment, Aubrey’s bravado faltered. He looked away and set his teacup down with a clink. Tristan crossed and removed the newspaper from his cousin’s grasp with a sharp tug.
“As I will be in residence for several more weeks and I wish to enjoy a modicum of privacy and respect in my own home,” Tristan said in unnervingly quiet tones, “I request that you refrain from making even obliquely disparaging remarks about my duchess. They will not be tolerated under my own roof.”
Aubrey swallowed.
“Furthermore, if you wish a copy of The Times , you may purchase one from the seller on the corner or wait until my duchess and I are done with our copy. Am I clear?”
Aubrey swallowed. “Y-yes, Your Grace.”
“Goodness, such a stern demeanor so early, Your Grace,” a feminine voice said from the doorway.
Tristan turned and watched Lady Lavinia all but flounce across the room to sit beside her husband. A footman along the wall instantly moved to fill her teacup.
Gritting his teeth, Tristan sat at the head of the table, motioning for the footman to fill his cup with tea as well. He resisted the urge to request a finger of brandy to accompany it.
“Did Aubrey mention that dreadful cartoon we saw yesterday in The Tattler ?” The glee in Lady Lavinia’s voice utterly contradicted the seriousness of her words.
Tristan merely let the absurdity of her tone echo around the room as he speared her with the same look he had leveled at her husband.
Unfortunately, Lady Lavinia was made of sterner stuff and was therefore undeterred. “Mamma was horrified, as was Her Majesty. Truly, Your Grace, you have scarcely been in London for two days, and already the duchess has shocked London with—”
“Lady Lavinia,” Tristan cut her off with venomous bite, “before you say anything further, permit me to repeat what I just said to your husband—anyone who wishes to reside under my roof will refrain from making disparaging remarks about my duchess. Is that understood?”
The woman’s back straightened, her lips drawing down into a thin line. Of a surety, her meddling mother would hear of his sharp words and would use them to justify spitting more vitriol.
Tristan turned his gaze to Aubrey. “Additionally, I know you ransacked my personal papers—the ones housed in my private study—on more than one occasion. If I find that either of you—” Here he darted his gaze between Aubrey and Lady Lavinia. “—have been complicit in besmirching the character of my duchess, well . . .” He let his threat dangle off ellipses.
Silence crackled in the room.
Lady Lavinia wet her lips. “Well, what . . . Your Grace?”
A terrible astonished silence met her words, as if even the footmen standing at attention against the walls held their breath to see how Tristan would respond.
Damn, this woman was an abomination. Her cheek knew no bounds.
“Well,” Tristan continued in his silkiest ducal voice. The menacing one that had sent chills down his spine to hear on Old Kendall’s lips. “You shall both understand how thoroughly I learned lessons at my father’s knee.”
Old Kendall’s cruelty was well-known, particularly among their family.
Given Lady Lavinia’s inhalation, she was not immune to Tristan’s threats, thank goodness. Of a surety, every word he spoke would be reported back to her mother and on to the queen. For a man who wished to ensure Her Majesty believed him to be of sound mind, his behavior likely needed to be more temperate. That knowledge was the only thing stopping him from evicting Aubrey and Lavinia on the spot.
Tristan could feel a headache forming between his eyes. He and Isolde should have ignored the Queen’s summons, retreated to Canna, and spent their days blessedly oblivious to the machinations of the wider world.
“Good morning,” Isolde said from the doorway.
Standing, Tristan turned to his wife. As usual, his duchess was unbearably lovely in a lace-trimmed walking dress that accentuated her lithe height and small waist. Against the cream of her skin and the burnished copper of her hair, she stole his breath as surely as a Highland breeze.
Isolde appeared every whit the wealthy duchess she was, which was fortunate as she and Lady Hadley were to leave calling cards today.
However, one look at the expressions of everyone in the room, and Isolde faltered. Oh, Tristan doubted that Lady Lavinia or Cousin Aubrey noticed, but he knew his love. He could see the dismay flicker behind her eyes and the quick intuitive understanding that scurrilous words had recently been said about her. Moreover, the faint purple smudges under her eyes spoke to her own restless night. She claimed it was nothing, but Tristan feared the tumult of the past twenty-four hours was already taxing her fortitude.
“Good morning.” Tristan pulled out the chair next to his and, pressing a hand to the small of Isolde’s back, guided her to sit. “Permit me to fetch a plate for you, my dear.”
He crossed to the series of dishes sitting on the sideboard, but not before hearing Lady Lavinia’s faint snort of derision.
Bloody hell, the next month was going to prove long.
Lady Hadley arrived shortly after breakfast. And though Tristan could scarcely believe his own thoughts, he was eternally grateful that Lord Hadley accompanied her. It was a comfort to see a familiar male ally.
The ladies quickly gathered their things and drove away in the gleaming ducal carriage. Watching the coach melt into the traffic of Grosvenor Square, Tristan bemoaned, yet again, that accompanying Isolde would be frowned upon. No wonder aristocratic marriages were generally business-like, chilly affairs.
“Care to join me today, Kendall?” Hadley asked from behind him. Tristan looked back at his father-in-law standing in the main entrance hall, hat in hand.
“I would be delighted, Hadley.” Though the men had moved on to a first-name basis with one another, they continued to use their titles in company.
Hadley grinned. “I haven’t mentioned where I might be going.”
“It hardly matters,” Tristan muttered, his eyes sliding toward the breakfast room where Lady Lavinia’s strident voice could still be heard. He motioned for Fredericks to fetch his coat, hat, and gloves. “Wherever you are going, Hadley, it’s not here, and that makes it perfect.”
“Let’s see what ye have to say about it in a few hours’ time,” Hadley chuckled.
Minutes later, Tristan happily climbed into Hadley’s town carriage, sitting beside his father-in-law.
Their first stop? The offices of The London Tattler .
“Bless you,” Tristan murmured as he stepped from the carriage. “How did you know I needed to release a head of steam?”
Chuckling, Hadley patted his back. “Consider it a belated wedding gift.”
Tristan donned his haughtiest look and demanded to speak with the editor. The man emerged from a back room, unconcerned and arrogant.
After ten minutes of Tristan’s blistering set-down and threats of legal action, the man was reduced to white-faced, stammering apologies. He admitted that the information had been sent anonymously to the newspaper. Recalling Lady Lavinia’s smug expression earlier, Tristan suspected he knew the source.
Needless to say, the editor would think thrice before publishing anything so incendiary about the Duchess of Kendall again.
“I must say, witnessing all that Kendall vitriol wielded on behalf of my daughter rather warms my heart,” Hadley said as they settled back into the carriage. “We should have brought yourself over to our side years ago.”
“Do not push your luck, Hadley,” Tristan snorted. “Your fair daughter possesses many fine qualities that you yourself lack. Where are we off to next?”
“Ye shall see.”
It became something of a lark after that, trying to decipher beforehand where they might go.
Hadley took Tristan to visit his haberdasher, purchasing a new top hat while Tristan browsed kid leather riding gloves.
Then, they consulted with Barkers, the foremost carriage-maker in Town, on the building of a new coach. Tristan offered opinions as Hadley selected an elegant style of brass fittings for the black lacquered doors.
After, they took a leisurely lunch at an inn near Whitehall, supping on roasted lamb and potatoes.
All in all, Tristan was having an agreeable day.
“One more stop for the day,” Hadley announced as they ducked into the carriage after lunch.
Half an hour later, the coach rocked to a halt. Tristan peered out the window.
“Brooks?” He spat the word like an epithet.
Hadley laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that. Come. I ken ye will find Brooks a welcoming place.”
Brooks was the gentlemen’s club of choice for the more liberal Whig segment of the House of Lords. White’s was the preferred club for Tory conservatives.
Generations of Kendalls had passed through the door of White’s. However, Tristan suspected today would mark the first time a Duke of Kendall had darkened the halls of Brooks.
It was . . .
Well, Tristan was unsure how to feel.
His father was likely raging in Hell at the blasphemy, so Tristan counted that as a positive. And his marriage to Isolde had dashed his political prospects, so attending Brooks would have no repercussions there. Not to mention, being seen in Hadley’s company would bolster their claims of familial harmony.
But would Tristan himself enjoy it?
Perhaps Hadley was right. This could be a new place to belong. As he handed his hat to the doorman, he realized he was about to find out.
On the whole, Brooks appeared similar to White’s—acres of rich wood paneling, thick carpets, overstuffed armchairs, and the lingering smell of pipe smoke.
But the atmosphere . . .
White’s was a quiet, staid affair. Murmured conversations, the rustle of newspaper, the occasional snore from an elderly member napping in a chair.
By contrast, Brooks was laughter, back-slapping, and hollered greetings. No one could nap in this place.
“Hadley!” A liberal lord at the back of the main sitting area called, shouting the earl’s name with the same fervor as that of a returning hero.
Heads turned their way.
“Hadley!” another called. “At last! You’ve returned to Town!”
Another gentleman immediately crossed to greet him.
“Terrible business with that impeachment, Hadley. So glad that is behind you! That damned Kendall can go rot in—” The man paused, abruptly realizing who stood at Hadley’s shoulder.
“Ah, yes.” Hadley turned to Tristan. “As ye know, I had the good fortune to acquire Kendall as a son.”
The man’s horrified expression said louder than words his opinion on the matter.
The next twenty minutes did not improve—not in Tristan’s reception nor his own rapidly lowering mood.
Hadley continued his celebratory procession—hand shaking, shoulder gripping. And every time, Hadley turned to introduce Tristan to another acquaintance, the same scenario occurred.
The gentleman in question would freeze, his expression going rigid and his entire demeanor stiffening. As if Tristan were a foul-smelling breeze and the gentleman was unsure if he should press a handkerchief to his nose and suffer through or beat a hasty retreat.
Tristan could feel his Kendall mask hardening with every passing moment.
Clearly, this was no place for him.
He simply didn’t know how to be an open book like Hadley. Even the thought of attempting it felt too vulnerable, too exposed, particularly as gentleman after gentleman appeared uneasy in his presence.
In years past, Tristan had firmly believed himself to be unlikeable. Allie and Isolde—along with his half-brother, Sir Rafe Gordon—had disabused Tristan of that notion, and he now recognized the real harm his father’s abuses had incurred. But a lifetime of belief was difficult to erase entirely. And the response of gentlemen whom he had long viewed as adversaries rather confirmed his beliefs. That, for certain people, Tristan truly was repellent.
In short, despite the enormous adjustments he had made and how changed he felt as a result, he was still intrinsically unlikeable. He had simply managed to dupe Isolde and Sir Rafe into liking him. And, perhaps, Hadley and Penn-Leith. But then, Hadley and Ethan generally liked everyone, so that was hardly an achievement.
Perhaps there truly would be no place for him, no purpose outside of his ducal responsibilities to land and tenants. And given that he had promised not to interfere as Isolde faced the combined disdain of the ladies of the ton . . .
Jittery tension tightened his arm muscles and set his heart to pounding.
Ah.
He had forgotten this feeling. This unsettling energy that scoured his veins and urged him to lash out. To attack others before they attacked him. Since his marriage, the emotion had largely retreated.
But now . . .
Tristan swallowed.
Normally, Ledger would have arranged a bout with a fencing master for him. A gentlemanly way to release the frustration, the agitation, leaching into Tristan’s veins.
But Ledger had taken that knowledge with him, adding one more layer to Tristan’s unrest. Likely, Ledger didn’t wish to be found. After all, even before Aubrey’s arrival, Tristan had not been the easiest employer. The thought that Ledger was deliberately avoiding his company merely amplified the restlessness scouring his limbs. One more person who did not wish to be in Tristan’s orbit and had eagerly seized upon the opportunity to escape it.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity—though the mantel clock chimed barely an hour—Hadley noticed Tristan’s rigid shoulders and monosyllabic responses.
“Had enough, Kendall?” he murmured.
“More than enough.” Tristan gave a white-lipped smile.
Neither man said a word as the carriage made its slow way back to Grosvenor Square, fighting the tide of London traffic. Tristan pushed back his increasingly morose thoughts.
Isolde loved him and that was sufficient.
Upon arriving home, he would task Fredericks with acquiring some wood to chop in the mews. Anything to vent this anxious energy.
What was the use of being a duke if one could not embrace an occasional act of eccentricity?
Mayhap that should be his motto.