THIRTEEN

13

D espite his wood chopping and a delightful evening spent holding Isolde in his arms, the same nervous tension still tightened Tristan’s muscles the next morning.

He knew it partially stemmed from his lingering concerns over Lady Lavinia’s behavior and Isolde’s insistence on managing the harpy in her own fashion. Inaction did not suit his nature, particularly when his wife suffered.

However, Ledger’s continued absence dragged at Tristan’s heels like a leaded weight. He kept expecting Ledger to stroll through the doorway, spectacles on his nose and notebook in hand, ready to meet the day.

Fortunately, just as Tristan finished breakfast, a brief note from Mrs. Tolman arrived with the direction of a bank near Westminster where Mr. John Rutland was employed as a clerk.

Hallelujah.

Tristan couldn’t summon his carriage quickly enough.

He encountered Allie and Isolde in the entryway, preparing to leave for morning visits.

Isolde grinned when he told her the news.

“I hope you uncover good news about Ledger.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I will be cheering you on in spirit, my love.”

He carried that promise in his heart all the way to Westminster.

The bank manager nearly fainted when the Duke of Kendall was shown into his office.

“Y-your Grace,” the man stammered, rising from his seat, his walrus-like mustache quivering. “Mr. Augustus Fitzsimmons, at your service. How may our humble branch serve the vast financial interests of the mighty Dukedom of Kendall?”

Mr. Fitzsimmons punctuated his florid speech with a bow that could only be described as obsequious. He bent over so far, his mustache nearly grazed the ground, and he had to take a step forward to bring himself upright without toppling onto his head.

Tristan stared at the man. Such fawning did happen on occasion as a duke, and it was always jarring to encounter.

As if feeling the weight of Tristan’s gaze, Mr. Fitzsimmons produced a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the perspiration gathering on his forehead.

Tristan tapped his hat in his hands. “I am here on a personal matter, not a financial one, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I understand a Mr. John Rutland is in your employ?”

Poor Fitzsimmons froze. “John R-Rutland?” he squeaked. “N-nothing of a financial nature? Merely . . . John?”

Tristan could practically read the man’s thoughts. Was the Duke of Kendall asking about his employee a good thing? Or . . . not?

“I merely wish to speak with Mr. Rutland.”

Fitzsimmons stroked his mustache, fingers trembling, and then straightened his coat. “I p-pray Mr. Rutland has done nothing to earn your displeasure, Your Grace. He has always been an excellent employee here.”

“Again, my inquiry is of a personal nature, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I readily believe Mr. Rutland is an exemplary employee. I merely require information that he can perhaps provide. Nothing more.”

Another fraught silence ensued.

“Of c-course. I shall summon Mr. Rutland immediately. Shall I fetch a spot of tea, as well, Your Grace?”

“Tea?”

“Y-yes . . . it is an excellent dark blend? With shortbread?”

Why the statements came out as questions, Tristan was at a loss to say. Overall, he found himself nonplussed. He had never been asked to sit down to tea with a bank manager before, and he hadn’t a clue how to reply. His past had only taught him to stare threateningly at people like Fitzsimmons until they stopped talking and minded their own business.

The Kendall he had been a few months ago would have snapped in irritation.

The Tristan he was now—the man who loved Isolde with his whole soul—recognized that a modicum of kindness in this situation would cost him nothing. Augustus Fitzsimmons was flustered and out of his depth, not a caricature to be mocked.

Tristan needed no further proof as to how much he had changed. His measured reaction to this situation said it all.

“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Fitzsimmons, but tea is unnecessary. I merely wish to speak with Mr. Rutland.”

Mr. Fitzsimmons nodded. “Right, right. Of course. I’ll just . . .” He motioned toward the door, mustache wafting in the faint breeze.

The manager bustled out, and a younger man entered approximately two minutes later.

Unlike his employer, this man appeared more wary than ingratiating.

“Your Grace,” he bowed. “Mr. John Rutland, at your service. How may I be of assistance?”

So this was Ledger’s friend? Tristan assessed the man. Average in height and painfully thin, Rutland pushed his glasses up his nose once every ten seconds. His clothing, neither expensive nor poor, appeared well-groomed. But he held his shoulders stiffly as if waiting for a blow.

What worried Rutland?

“I am seeking Mr. Adam Ledger, my former secretary,” Tristan said. “I was told you might have information as to his location.”

Mr. Rutland swallowed, expression turning cagey. “Adam? You are searching for Adam? Even after his dismissal from your household?”

Tristan’s chin lifted. “Ah. He confided that to you, did he?”

“Yes, he did mention—”

Snick.

The office door opened and Mr. Fitzsimmons entered again, carrying a tray with teacups, a teapot, and a plate of shortbread. The crockery clinked as he set the tray on a small side table.

Both Tristan and Rutland stared at Fitzsimmons.

“The water is heating over the fire in the reception downstairs.” Fitzsimmons dabbed at the perspiration gathering on his forehead. “J-just in case Your Grace changes your mind about the tea.”

“I see,” Tristan replied, gravely. “An excellent dark blend, you said.” He glanced at the tea tray. “With shortbread.”

“Yes!” Fitzsimmons perked up. Even his mustache appeared to curl upward at the edges. “My wife makes a cracking shortbread. Best you’ve ever eaten. Melts on the tongue, it does.”

Tristan had a feeling that Fitzsimmons was biting his tongue to keep from sticking it out and showing them where the shortbread would melt.

Silence.

Truthfully, Tristan had never found himself in a situation like this before his marriage to Isolde—mostly because he would have considered such a visit beneath his purview—and therefore was unsure how to respond. Fitzsimmons’s intentions were kindly enough, though decidedly presumptuous.

He turned back to John Rutland.

“So . . . Mr. Ledger confided in you about his dismissal, Mr. Rutland?”

The younger man swallowed, glancing at his employer before continuing. “Just that he had been let go of his post due to Your Grace’s recent marriage.”

Fitzsimmons stood before his tea tray, making no motion to leave the room.

It seemed Tristan was to have an audience for this interrogation.

Lovely.

Suppressing a sigh, he focused on Rutland. “Mr. Ledger was dismissed in error. It was most certainly not my wish to terminate his employment. I am seeking him in an effort to make amends and offer Ledger his former post. Or if he wishes to move on, I will provide a favorable letter of recommendation.”

“Oh.” Rutland’s shoulders relaxed, and he pushed his glasses up his nose.

Fitzsimmons leaned forward. “That is so very gracious of you, Your Grace. I always say that a modicum of generosity never goes amiss when . . .”

The manager drifted off as both Tristan and Rutland stared, unblinking, at him.

“Pardon the interruption.” Fitzsimmons turned to the tea tray and began moving cutlery around.

“That is kind of you, Your Grace,” Rutland said, a flush rising up his cheeks, no doubt tied to his employer’s somewhat embarrassing behavior.

“It is the least I can do. Ledger has been a valuable, loyal employee, and it pains me to know that his loyalty was rewarded so poorly. Do you happen to know where I might find Mr. Ledger?”

Fitzsimmons moved two teacups, causing them to clink. Loudly.

Mr. Rutland winced. “I wish I could tell you of Adam’s whereabouts, but I haven’t the foggiest notion where he has gone. He came to me a few weeks back, saying he had just been dismissed and hadn’t the courage to tell his parents. They dote on him and will be sore disappointed when they learn of his dismissal. Adam asked to borrow a few coins and promised he would repay me once he found a new position. But he didn’t say anything further, and the money I lent was hardly enough to take him far. I assumed he would be staying with his sister and merely needed a few coins for hackney cabs as he searched for a new position.”

Dread settled in the bottom of Tristan’s lungs. “Ledger has not been to visit his sister or his parents. Mrs. Tolman was unaware he had been let go, much less where he had gone.”

“Blast!” Fitzsimmons interrupted.

Both Tristan and Rutland turned to look at him.

“God be thanked that this Mr. Ledger’s sister could point you to our humble offices, Your Grace,” Fitzsimmons continued.

“Yes,” Tristan intoned.

Rutland cleared his throat. “Now, I am well and truly concerned. I cannot imagine where Adam has got to. It’s unlike him to disappear without a word.”

“Agreed, though your information has been helpful. At least, I now know that Ledger has vanished in truth. If you do happen to hear from him, please pass along my apologies and ask him to call upon—”

A knock sounded on the door.

“The water!” Fitzsimmons beamed. “Come!”

A sweating clerk entered, carrying a steaming kettle.

Fitzsimmons clapped his hands with a crack. “Let us have tea, gentlemen.”

It took Tristan a solid thirty minutes to extract himself from Mr. Fitzsimmons’s exuberance and—here, he had to admit the truth—an excellent cup of black tea. The shortbread was also quite lovely. Predictably, Fitzsimmons pressed three pieces into Tristan’s handkerchief to “share with Her Grace.” The man had beamed so proudly, and waxed so poetic about his own wife’s cooking, Tristan hadn’t the heart to refuse him.

Mr. Rutland, in parting, promised to let Tristan know immediately if Ledger surfaced again.

And that was that.

Stepping out into the bustle of London traffic, shortbread in hand, Tristan frowned.

Damn and blast!

That had not gone as he had hoped.

The bank visit had merely solidified Tristan’s worry over Ledger.

Where the devil had his secretary gone?

Tristan climbed into his waiting carriage and directed the coachman to take him to the office of the London Times . It was time to employ more direct tactics to find Adam Ledger.

The notice he penned was short and to the point:

If any party has information as to the location of Mr. Adam Ledger, former secretary to the Duke of Kendall, please send word to Gilbert House, Grosvenor Square. Intelligence that results in locating Mr. Ledger will be handsomely rewarded.

He handed the notice to the print boy and set off for home, where he planned to corner Isolde, share the excellent shortbread in his pocket, and recount all events related to Augustus Fitzsimmons.

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