FIVE
5
A s much as Tristan trusted and valued his wife, the problems plaguing his household and staff did not seem more manageable come morning.
No.
Rather, they were multiplying.
Tristan rose with the sun, unable to sleep any later despite his long journey the day before and equally late night waiting for his chambers to be readied.
He pressed a kiss to Isolde’s bare shoulder—grateful she had chosen to remain with him rather than retire to the duchess’s bedchamber next door. He was even more grateful for her level-headed calm.
Moving quietly, he pulled on a banyan and crept from the room, leaving Isolde asleep in their bed, her red hair splayed across the pillows.
His plans for the day were simple:
One, ensure Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia made a hasty departure. Gilbert House was large enough to house them, but given Tristan’s lingering rage over their brazen audacity, he couldn’t imagine his cousin wishing to remain. They could easily find lodging with Lady Lavinia’s parents in Belgravia.
Two, re-hire Ledger as soon as the man appeared and include a generous bonus for the difficulties Aubrey had caused. From there, Tristan would have Ledger work with Fredericks and Mrs. Wilson to catalog all items in the house, no matter how small, and ensure everything was accounted for. Tristan would not put it past Lady Lavinia to have “accidentally” filched something.
Three, accompany Isolde to Buckingham Palace this evening, smile at the Queen, listen to Penn-Leith, and avoid conversation with vipers such as Lady Lavinia’s mother, the Duchess of Andover.
Four, retire to bed in preparation for an early departure for Hawthorn tomorrow morning.
The plan seemed sound.
Unfortunately, Fate had other ideas.
It began when he surveyed the hasty arrangement of items in his private study, a small room between his bedchamber and dressing room. The study was Tristan’s inner sanctum—two chairs before the hearth, a small desk, and a liquor cabinet. Not even his valet was permitted to touch items in his room. Just the thought of Cousin Aubrey or Lady Lavinia pawing through his most personal effects set Tristan’s skin to crawling. Neither Ledger nor Fredericks would be able to catalog the contents of the room to ensure his cousin hadn’t pocketed something.
No, that would be Tristan’s task alone.
Frowning, he crossed and pulled open the top drawer of the desk. Instead of his own tidy bundles of correspondence and stacked papers, he found the contents scattered haphazardly.
Tristan’s ire flared, anger tasting acrid in his mouth. Bloody hell but he wanted to pummel his cousin. To lash out, beat him bloody, and let the man feel the sharp edge of the Duke of Kendall’s wrath.
Tristan’s father, abominable man that he was, would have disowned Aubrey for such malfeasance and then set about making the man’s existence a living hell. Granted, as Aubrey had once literally pissed himself out of fear in Old Kendall’s presence, Tristan doubted his cousin would have dared touch anything before ensuring Old Kendall’s corpse was cold and locked away in the family crypt in Hawthorn.
That was the problem with reforming one’s character, Tristan supposed. Upstart mushrooms were no longer as terrified as they should be.
Regardless, it would take Tristan the better part of the afternoon to catalog the room and determine what, if anything, Aubrey had taken.
Sighing, Tristan dressed and made his way downstairs to his public study to see what havoc Aubrey had wreaked there.
In the past, Tristan had used this room to discuss matters with his secretaries and man of business. Just two months ago, he had employed three secretaries to help him manage his political aspirations and busy social calendar.
His marriage to the delightful but unorthodox Lady Isolde had altered that.
Mr. Cartwright, his political secretary, had been let go with excellent references, as Tristan’s choice of bride voided his political aspirations.
Mr. Marshall, his social secretary in London, had also not been needed, as Tristan did not intend to spend much time in Town going forward. Fortunately, the man also had excellent mathematical skills. Therefore, he had been reassigned to assist Tristan’s man-of-business, Mr. Eliason. The two men were currently touring and assessing all of the enterprises and properties held by the dukedom—meeting with Tristan’s numerous estate stewards and managers. It was no small task and would take about three months to complete. But as Tristan had anticipated being on his honeymoon and then rusticating at Hawthorn, the timing had seemed apt.
Tristan had only planned on keeping Ledger to assist him with his personal correspondence. But now he, too, was gone.
Tristan seated himself at his desk and began opening correspondence that Cousin Aubrey had thankfully ignored. Blast but he needed Ledger back. Preferably before luncheon.
A soft knock sounded.
Tristan looked up to see Lady Lavinia standing outside the open door.
“Lady Lavinia.” He stood, as he was a gentleman no matter his dislike of the lady before him.
“Your Grace.” She bobbed a shallow curtsy that was scarcely a millimeter away from being offensive, attempting to score a point, as ever.
“I assume you are here to take leave.” Tristan clasped his hands behind his back. “I wish you well on your journey.”
Deliberately, he looked down at his desk and the letters there—a clear signal that there would be no more conversation.
“In regards to that, Your Grace . . .”
Tristan’s nostrils flared as he raised his head and met Lady Lavinia’s gaze.
He said nothing.
Silence, he had long ago learned, was as powerful a deterrent as shouting and less strain on the vocal cords.
He stared at Lady Lavinia, finally noticing that she was wearing a morning gown, not a traveling dress.
“I do have a few words to say,” she continued, stepping fully into the room and making to shut the study door.
“You will leave the door to my study open,” he said, his tone taking on a sharp bite. Tristan could only imagine the wagging tongues if he were discovered closeted alone with Lady Lavinia—gossip that the lady herself would likely start.
He would never put Isolde in a situation where she had to hear rumors about his supposed indiscreet behavior.
Lady Lavinia paused, her thin lips pursing. “I do not wish others to overhear my personal business, Your Grace.”
“By others , I assume you mean my staff, Lady Lavinia. I am not sure what appalls me more. The insinuation that my servants are disloyal, poorly trained, and will therefore gossip if given the chance. Or your belief that I wish to be privy to anything of a personal nature from you. To be clear, I do not.”
This woman was definitely attempting to manage him in some way.
He would have none of it.
Unfortunately, Lady Lavinia was not the sort to be so easily dissuaded or intimidated.
She took another step into the room, her full skirts brushing against the armchair facing his desk.
“I sense that Your Grace is perhaps a bit overset with my husband and me.” She pitched her voice low and soothing as if crooning to a difficult stallion.
Tristan narrowed his eyes. Such cajoling might work in a stable, but not on him. “You sense correctly.”
“By coming as we did, we merely wished to ensure that Gilbert House and the affairs of the dukedom were managed properly in the wake of your supposed demise. Yes, there were rumors of your survival—”
“They were hardly rumors. Ledger informed you as much.”
“—but until we knew of a surety that Your Grace was recovered and of compos mentis , well, it seemed best to remain here.” Lady Lavinia spread her hands wide with a helpless flutter as if her behavior were so reasonable, it baffled the mind why Tristan would take issue.
He snorted. “Usurping my private spaces and pawing through my effects, you mean. Thieves on a battlefield show more restraint and decorum.”
Lady Lavinia blushed, likely the last gasp of propriety exiting her bones.
“We truly thought you dead, Your Grace.”
“I am not, as you see, and again, you were confidently informed of the fact. Your attempts to justify your mercenary behavior are ludicrous, at best. Good day, Lady Lavinia.”
Once more, Tristan looked down at his correspondence. Manners dictated he could not sit until she left. He could feel the dratted woman’s eyes boring into him.
Honestly, the sheer audacity of her to refuse his clear dismissal.
She cleared her throat.
He lifted his head, channeling every last ounce of his dead father’s autocratic personality into his gaze.
Silence.
The weight of Lady Lavinia’s rudeness and impropriety settled between them without Tristan needing to say a word.
“The thing is, Your Grace,” she began slowly, a finger tracing the leather on the armchair at her side, “we—Aubrey and I, that is—should like to stay in residence at Gilbert House.”
Still, Tristan said nothing, but he did roll his hand— get to the point .
Lady Lavinia rested her palm on the top of the chair. “My parents’ home in Belgravia is currently undergoing refurbishment. However, my mother, the Duchess, must attend to Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace as she is a Lady of the Bedchamber and Her Majesty’s particular favorite. Her Majesty has kindly condescended to allow my parents to reside at the palace until the refurbishment is complete. Given that Aubrey is your heir, my parents would consider it a kindness if he and I were permitted to remain here until we all quit London for the country.”
And there it was.
Lady Lavinia smiled sweetly. The edge of a samurai’s sword would not have been sharper.
The subtle implication of her request was clear: My mother has the ear of the Queen, and you know your duty as head of the family. Let us stay here or there will be hell to pay.
Tristan very much disliked being maneuvered and threatened.
He deliberated what to do, the mantel clock ticking by the seconds.
If Tristan tossed Aubrey out, he would look petty and ungentlemanly, further alienating the portion of Polite Society that disliked Isolde.
If Tristan acquiesced to Lady Lavinia’s demands, his servants would have to tolerate these vipers for a few more weeks, not to mention Aubrey’s snooping through Tristan’s personal effects.
As paterfamilias , it was his duty to provide for family members. Even if Tristan hadn’t wished to, his father’s will had stipulated that the heir to the dukedom—imbecilic Cousin Aubrey at the moment—receive an allowance from the family coffers. For Old Kendall, appearances must be maintained, even after his death. Once Tristan had an heir of his body, he could remove Aubrey from his payroll, but until then . . .
Jaw clenched, he reached a decision.
He and Isolde were leaving, so Aubrey and Lady Lavinia’s presence here mattered little to their own comfort.
Tristan would instruct Mrs. Wilson to lock all cabinets and rooms where Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia were not allowed. Further, he would promise every servant, from Fredericks to the lowliest scullery maid, bonuses for dealing with the ridiculous demands of their unwanted guests.
“As you wish, Lady Lavinia.”
She smiled in triumph.
“Though, in the future, I would prefer to discuss such matters with my cousin directly. I shall have a word with him.” Tristan stared down Lady Lavinia. “It is most shameful that he sent you to do his bidding. I am appalled that my cousin could not rouse himself to ensure a roof over his wife’s head.”
They both knew that Lady Lavinia was the architect of this scheme. But castigating Aubrey made Lady Lavinia appear as if she were married to a coward and an imbecile, which for the record, Aubrey absolutely was. Or, if she protested her husband’s innocence and insisted she had come of her own will, she became a domineering shrew.
Neither was flattering.
Given how Lady Lavinia stiffened, Tristan’s barb had found its mark.
“Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied again. “I shall leave you to your correspondence.”
Tristan sat and did not look up as she exited the room.
Yes, he and Isolde could not quit London soon enough.