Chapter 2
Strathbourne Estate, Bedford, England
Tristan looked up from his ledger at the knock upon his door, a finger falling lightly into the left-hand column to hold his place.
“Enter.”
His mother appeared in the doorway, an anxious look on her strained face. The dowager duchess was an elegant woman aging with dignity, but since his father’s death a mere month before, Tristan had noticed hard lines gathering around her lips and eyes, and her gray hair had lost its luster.
He knew that much weighed on her mind as of late, and he thought again—as he had daily since losing his father—how he wanted to lift her cares and concerns from her frail shoulders.
“Mother.” He abandoned the ledger and stood. “Please, come in.” He gestured to one of two armchairs drawn up to the flickering flames of the study fireplace and took the other after she sank gratefully into hers.
“I am sorry to bother you,” she said weakly. “I know you are trying to focus on the matters at hand. How is it all coming? Is there much to sort out?”
Tristan forced a smile. He was now the Duke of Strathbourne, and the responsibility was not served up on a golden platter.
No, it had been handed to him by his dying father in the form of this tattered and disappointing ledger, filled with columns of debt and broken promises.
The ledger was a chain tying him to a dying estate and a daily reminder of the reason for his father’s untimely death.
“I am learning as I go,” he said hesitantly.
He nodded at the little letter in his mother’s trembling hands.
“Have you brought me more business to look over?”
She seemed reluctant to let the letter go but ceded it at last into his grip. “It’s a letter from our solicitor. I do not have the heart to read it. Considering everything, it cannot be good news.”
He set the letter aside without opening it. He would tend to it later. “There is another matter pressing upon you, I can see as much from your face.”
“You know me well, Tristan.” She sighed.
“I went out in my carriage today for a morning ride and came upon some of our tenants in a dispute. I could not, of course, get involved without a gentleman present to provide the appropriate protection, but when I asked Mr. Moles about the matter just now, he implied such disputes are quite common. Apparently, your dear departed father was rather too overwhelmed with his financial troubles to tend to the disputes. I hate to ask it of you—”
“I will see what I can do,” Tristan said quickly. As much as his mother hated to bother him, he hated to see her wringing her hands and fretting about the estate management. It was his burden to bear. “I will speak with Mr. Moles at once.”
Felix Moles was his father’s estate manager, a sour-faced man with a paunchy belly and a lame shoulder who seemed to take a particular disliking to Tristan.
Tristan could not imagine why, as Mr. Moles seemed always to get along quite well with his late father, but guessed it had to do with his ignorance and the steep learning curve his father’s quick passing necessitated.
Tristan chose to overlook the older man’s churlish behavior and hoped that, in time, the estate manager would overlook Tristan’s inexperience.
“We will settle Father’s debts,” he said to the dowager duchess, trying to sound more certain than he felt. “I know we will.”
He couldn’t help noticing how wan she looked, swathed as she was in black silk. Her clothing was, as it had always been, fine and stylish, but now her elegance was a sign of great loss rather than great status.
“What do you see in the books?” she asked, nodding toward the ledger on the table. “Is there hope for the land? Is it turning a profit?”
Tristan could not lie to her, but he chose his words carefully to spare her pain.
“I believe with more careful oversight, the land could be profitable indeed. I am quite blind at present, outside these lists of numbers, but I know our lands are fertile and quite impressive. If they are not yielding as they ought, there must be a reason, and I assure you I will find that reason.”
The dowager duchess lowered her eyes. “You are using beautiful language to say a quite ugly thing. We are not turning a profit at all.”
“Mother …” Tristan broached the next topic as tenderly as he could, “… do you understand fully what happened with the railroad company?”
“I know it went under,” she said, suddenly quite pale. “Unexpectedly.”
“Indeed.” He chose his words with care. “Father believed the rails were a reliable investment, and in that, he was correct. Railroads are a booming opportunity when under correct management. He simply chose the wrong gentleman, and that man squandered the money given to him. Because Father committed so much of the estate’s funds to the matter, I am afraid … ”
“I know,” she said. “Our home and estate are plunged into debt. That part I understand. I understand that your father’s stricken heart was as a direct result of hearing the news.” Her eyes pooled with tears. “He could not face the despair such financial loss foisted on his family.”
Tristan reached across and seized his mother’s hand. “But I can face it, Mother. I am not frightened away by the task before us. I believe we are capable of redeeming our dear Father’s legacy and restoring Strathbourne to its former glory.”
Even as the words came out of Tristan’s mouth, he was unsure. He felt as though another gentleman, braver and more capable, was speaking to his mother while he watched shivering in the shadows. But the bravado was necessary.
He could sense his mother’s courage flagging, and her health with it. It was vital that, whatever the cost to himself, Tristan convince the dowager duchess that all was well and all would be well.
“You know the easiest way out of this predicament,” his mother said, a spot of color coming back into her cheeks. “An infusion of funds without strings attached.”
Tristan shot her a sideways glance, knowing in an instant where she was leading. “What an odd phrase, Mother. ‘No strings attached.’ I am afraid I’m rather old-fashioned in that I consider a wife to be quite … attached.”
“I only mean that a wife of good character and good standing in society—”
“And a good dowry,” he interjected wryly.
“Yes, that—” she rushed on, “a wife of that sort will improve your life in every way. It will not feel like a price you are paying.”
Tristan stood and strode to the heavily curtained windows, pulling on the tassel to open them and let in a stream of bright sunshine.
The study still had his father’s trappings all around.
There were heavy books covered in dust, dark portraits of ancient family members, and his father’s old pipe, abandoned atop the mantelpiece.
He had not yet made the place his own. “We’ve already discussed this.
I don’t see how it does us any good to go over it again. ”
“We have discussed the need for you to find a good match for years, yes,” the dowager duchess said, turning in her chair to catch his eye.
“But this is different. Now you are the Duke of Strathbourne, not just a son skipping through Eton and Oxford and spending your years abroad. You have responsibilities, and a wife will help you bear them.”
Her gaze softened, and she stood to approach him, pushing a dark curl off his forehead. “You’ve got a rakish look about you, love, and the ladies love that sort of thing. You could have your pick of the ton.”
Tristan was tall and broad-shouldered, a man whose boyish features had hardened into a cut jawline and flashing eyes with age.
His hair still curled long, stopping just above his shoulders and falling on occasion into his face, and he knew from history the effect such features had on the gentler sex. Still, he could not justify putting himself or a woman into a marriage of convenience.
“It is not that I disagree with marriage in entirety, Mother,” he said. “I fully intend to marry at some point, but not now—not when the weight of this estate demands all my time and attention. I do not believe love matches are the norm. It is rare for such a thing to happen.”
“So you will not marry unless for love?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I thought your father and I taught you better.”
“I am not such a hopeless romantic as that,” he scoffed.
“Only, if I do marry some girl for her fortune, I will have to wade through the captivity of a loveless marriage—all the conversation I do not want to be having, the intimacy without meaning, the attention of children … I am not ready to tie myself to someone yet. I would prefer to focus on doing what I can without calling on dowry money to save me.”
“You are proud, and pride comes before the fall, as you well know.” The tenderness was fading in his mother’s eyes, replaced with something sharp and cold. “It is not just about you. You are responsible for supporting your sister, and I.”
Tristan bit back a retort, but it fled through his mind anyway. Do you not think I know that? It is all that consumes my thoughts—my responsibilities to you, Cecily, and the estate. My responsibilities. Nothing else.
“I know Cecily is not doing a formal season,” he interjected, desperate to change the subject.
Cecily was 18 years old and had been planning to come out officially in society this year, before their father’s untimely death.
“But I assume she will attend a few events here and there, to make a name for herself.”
“Yes, we will attend appropriate events here and there,” she reluctantly acknowledged.
“We cannot sacrifice an entire year of Cecily’s social calendar at such a critical stage.
I have determined to travel with her to London for your aunt’s masquerade ball tomorrow night.
It is a modest arrangement and will surely be dubbed appropriate for a grieving girl to attend in proper attire. ”
“I shall make certain the carriage is drawn around for you when the time comes,” Tristan said, his thoughts elsewhere.
“For us? What about you?”
He dragged his mind back to the present. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you must certainly attend with us. Cecily will need your support, and it will be a good place for you to meet … friends.”
“Women, you mean.” He stepped away from her and sat down heavily behind the desk. “I have friends enough.”
“Isn’t Philip recently returned from Spain?” his mother asked archly. Philip was Tristan’s long-time friend who he’d parted ways with in Spain during their travels.
A dark-haired beauty had held Philip in thrall for six months, but in the end, the romance came to naught, and Philip returned to London to try his luck in more familiar pastures.
“He is.” Tristan eyed her carefully. “In truth, it is the singular reason I would wish to go to London. None of the other machinations you’ve mentioned draws me in the least. I know Cecily will be able to comport herself in full dignity without me staring over her shoulder, and I have no need of a bride. ”
“Perhaps I have been going about this all wrong.” The dowager duchess came around the desk and laid a hand on her son’s arm.
“I don’t mean to pressure you, only to give guidance and ask for assistance in turn.
In this case, it is the latter. I believe you would be an asset on our trip to London, and a boon for me after your father has so recently departed.
Would you make the trip on my account? Philip can be your consolation prize, and I will promise not to throw you in the path of unsuspecting females. ”
He looked down into her teary eyes and found he could not refuse her.
“I will go, of course. Anything for you, Mother.”
His gaze drifted to the paperwork scattered across the desk. He had set his entire life aside already on behalf of his family—how big a difference would one masquerade ball make in the scheme of things?