ELEVEN
11
A llie’s words wouldn’t let Tristan be, though they elucidated facts he already knew.
He was bored. He did need a hobby.
Where had Ledger gone?
It was simply . . .
There had been no sign of Ledger. His trunk remained neatly packed and unclaimed in Mrs. Wilson’s bedchamber. The man himself had vanished into the ether as if the dense fog that plagued London had swallowed him whole.
The longer Ledger remained absent, the larger the mystery grew. Worry and concern hung about the edges of Tristan’s days. There were simply too few clues as to where Ledger had gone. Hiring an investigator to run the man to ground felt a bit melodramatic, but inaction didn’t suit Tristan’s temperament.
Adam Ledger was merely a servant. And yet . . . if Tristan pondered darker reasons for Ledger’s silence—a treacherous accident, an attack by thieves—he felt . . .
He felt like weeping.
How bizarre was that?
He even went so far as to mention the sentiment to Isolde one evening as they stole a moment in front of the fire before bed.
“Of course the thought of Ledger coming to harm upsets you, darling.” She grasped his hand. “Ye feel emotion because your enormous heart has a great capacity for love. Ye care about the welfare of others. Ledger might be an employee, but I think ye had begun to forge a true friendship with him.”
Tristan frowned. Had he?
He was unsure. Dukes didn’t make friends with clerks. The distance between their stations in life was cavernous—a gaping chasm of expectation and privilege.
And even if Tristan wished to claim Ledger as a friend, he was unsure if Ledger would feel the same desire in return. After all, Tristan’s lack of likability hung from his neck like a millstone, and Ledger’s continued absence put paid to the notion.
Regardless, Tristan acknowledged that he himself felt a deep sense of loyalty to the man. Perhaps Isolde was correct. Maybe this was what friendship entailed. Having never had a male friend, he couldn’t say.
All of these thoughts led Tristan to a decision: He would undertake the one activity his gentlemanly self viewed as rather beyond the pale—
He would investigate the contents of Ledger’s trunk.
Tristan didn’t wish to invade his former secretary’s privacy, but there was no help for it. If he wished to find Adam Ledger, Tristan needed all the information he could gather. And if, heaven forbid, some harm had come to the man, then he wished to uncover that, too, and ensure that Ledger was mourned properly.
Mrs. Wilson’s expression scarcely twitched when he asked to inspect the trunk.
“It’s still in my sitting room, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “Would you like me to have it brought up to your private study?”
“Please,” he replied.
Which is how, fifteen minutes later, Tristan found himself staring at Ledger’s battered trunk. Utilitarian and nondescript, it featured a pine body with metal-bracketed corners, all in the style of the previous century. Deep scratches in its side and the worn patina of its wood further testified to its age. Tristan imagined Ledger’s father or grandfather had been the first to see the trunk new. It had passed through many a life since then. The homeliness of the item sent a pang arching through Tristan’s ribcage.
The trunk was locked, of course, but a sharp blow across the metal lock from the brass head of a walking stick solved that problem. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that.
With a deep breath, Tristan lifted the lid.
At first glance, the contents of the trunk appeared too ordinary to be of any use—books, clothing, stacks of letters wrapped in string. What here could possibly point to Ledger’s whereabouts?
Tristan merely needed the name of an acquaintance or an address. Any clue really that would set him on the scent of the trail.
To that end, he began lifting items out of the trunk. The letters went to one side. Even Tristan balked at the thought of reading Ledger’s private correspondence. Also, why didn’t the Royal Mail require senders to list their address, as well? Unusual, to be sure, but certainly helpful in a situation like this. As it was, Tristan doubted the letters would hold the specific information he sought, so why further violate Ledger’s privacy?
The clothing was next—simple but well-tailored items made from excellent cloth. Ledger didn’t have many coats or waistcoats, but the ones he did have were high quality and well-cared for.
Meticulous, Tristan thought, like Ledger’s conduct and work—all befitting an employee of the Duke of Kendall.
Ledger’s collection of books was even more impressive. Tristan removed title after title. Dickens and Shakespeare. Aristotle and Thackeray. William Whewell and Milton. Tristan felt as if he were looking through his own library, books he himself would choose to take on a journey.
The bottom of the trunk yielded a well-worn chess set of carved ivory and a journal filled with detailed notes on steamships and on Tristan’s own ship, the SS Statesman , in particular.
And with each possession Tristan touched, he wondered. We appear so similar. How could I not have known?
An intense feeling of kinship bloomed beneath his breastbone. Emotions constricted the muscles in his throat; he labeled them, one by one—affection, sympathy, worry, urgency.
As usual, Isolde had been correct. Ledger was a friend. Or, perhaps more accurately, Tristan wished to claim him as one. He resolved then and there to believe with the fervor of an acolyte everything his beautiful wife told him. She usually had the right of things.
Unfortunately, nothing in the trunk hinted at Ledger’s current location.
Carefully, Tristan repacked the items, his hand lingering on the stack of correspondence. Reading the letters would be an inexcusable invasion of Ledger’s privacy. But . . . worry knitted Tristan’s brow. What if something had happened? What if Ledger needed his assistance? Tristan might be new to friendship, but he understood that true friends rushed to aid one another.
Besides, what if the letters provided more information about Cousin Aubrey’s troubling behavior?
Tristan paused for approximately two seconds before taking the bundle in his fingers. Leaning against the leg of an armchair, he carefully untied the ribbon holding the correspondence and opened the first letter.
It was a missive from his sister dated two years past, shortly after Ledger began his position with Tristan. She gave the normal pleasantries and then wrote:
. . . How lovely to hear that His Grace is an exacting but fair employer. I know you were most nervous to make a good first impression, but given how His Grace has entrusted you so quickly, I think you have nothing to worry about on that score . . .
Tristan frowned.
How jarring to read about himself through the eyes of Ledger’s sister. Or rather . . . Agatha, as that was how she signed her name, Your loving sister, Agatha . At least, her words about Tristan were kind ones. If the letters turned caustic, it would perhaps serve him right. How did the saying go . . . eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves?
Well, he would rather know the truth of Ledger’s opinion of him before making a cake of himself and assuming more connection between them than actually existed.
Tristan flipped to the next letter. Again, from Agatha. This one was dated only seven months ago. She wrote at length about some contretemps with a neighbor and then added:
I am glad you are so delighted with your employment. I saw the Duke of Kendall from a distance in Hyde Park last week, and I must say, he appeared handsome but fierce. I think I should quake in my boots should I ever converse with him directly. But you speak so highly of his perspicacity and good sense, I know you admire him greatly . . .
Something hopeful ignited in Tristan’s veins. Was this true? Ledger admired him? Perhaps . . . he would be amenable to a friendship with Tristan, as unorthodox as it might seem.
Tristan continued, reading letter after letter. He learned of Agatha’s adoration of her husband, Matthew, and their two children, as well as the workings of their household—apparently the maid-of-all-work, Matilda, had pinched sugar for several months last summer. Agatha and Ledger’s parents lived somewhere near Birmingham, Tristan gathered. His mother wrote the occasional letter, as well as a friend named John.
But, as he had suspected, nothing hinted at a specific location or even divulged Agatha’s last name.
However, a particular letter from Agatha cinched Tristan’s resolve to find Adam Ledger. This one was dated over five weeks past and appeared to be the most recent letter received:
Oh, Adam! I am still devastated for your loss. Your sobs yesterday rang in my ears for hours after your departure. I am so sorry that your kind duke is no more. I wish you Godspeed on your journey north to Oban to retrieve his body. Your devotion to your employer is a credit to us all . . .
Ledger had wept when he heard of Tristan’s supposed death? His secretary had appeared so contained when he arrived in Oban, acting as if retrieving Tristan’s body were merely another task to complete, of no more note than transcribing a letter or discussing his appointment diary.
Now, sitting on the floor beside Ledger’s trunk, Tristan swallowed back the stinging ball of emotion in his own throat.
Blinking through eyes gone blurry, he made a vow: I will find you, my friend. Even if the worst has happened, I will ensure that those you loved are cared for .
Somehow. Someway. Tristan would see it through.
He read through the remainder of the letters without finding even a breadcrumb of a clue.
Disappointment sat heavy on his shoulders.
Retying the letter bundle, he lifted a hand to set it back in the trunk when he noticed a final letter resting against the right flank of the trunk.
Frowning, he picked it up. It appeared to have not been secured with its brethren and had likely dropped unnoticed when he lifted the other letters.
It was yet another missive from Agatha, this one dated scarcely three weeks ago, just before Ledger’s dismissal.
. . . I cannot tell you my relief to hear that your duke was found safely. I wept great tears of joy, as I am sure you did. I cannot wait to hear the story in its entirety when next you call upon us here in Gresham Street . . .
Tristan stared at the words— Gresham Street .
At long last! A clue!
Though . . . he supposed it wasn’t much of a clue.
Regardless, he straightened his spine. It gave him a place to start looking. Maybe if he located this Gresham Street, he could find a woman named Agatha.
At the very least, it was worth a go. And heaven knew, he preferred pursuit of clues over rusticating in his library.
Standing, Tristan rang for his valet and coach.
Fortunately, Tristan’s coachman was familiar with Gresham Street, a quiet lane of small but smart row houses near St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Locating Agatha proved easier than Tristan had hoped. His footman merely had to inquire at two doors in order to discover that Mrs. Agatha Tolman, wife of Matthew Tolman, lived at number thirty-seven.
The Tolman’s townhouse matched the well-kept appearance of its neighbors with a glossy black door, swept stoop, and well-shined brass knocker.
Tristan went to the door himself, rapping with the head of his walking stick. Two doors down, a woman entering her home stared at him in open wonder, surely pondering the bizarre nature of a high-ranking nobleman standing on a stoop in this neighborhood—a gilded carriage complete with matching chestnut bays, a coachman, and two footmen waiting at the curb. Usually, a footman would come to the door while the aristocrat sat securely in his coach.
But as Allie had said, Tristan needed a hobby . . .
A maidservant in a white-starched cap answered the door, the sugar-pinching Matilda herself, he presumed. Her eyes flared wide as she took in his expensively dressed person and the gilt Kendall coat of arms blazoned on the carriage door parked on the street.
Tristan presented the girl with his card. “The Duke of Kendall wishes to speak with Mrs. Tolman if she is in residence.”
The girl blanched. “O’ c-course, Your Eminence . . . ehr . . . my lord, I m-mean, Your Grace.”
Blushing a rather alarming shade of violet, the girl immediately ushered him into a small parlor to the left of the door and bobbed at least five curtsies before scurrying off to fetch her mistress.
Tristan removed his hat. In her haste, the poor girl had neglected to take it. Turning in a circle, he surveyed the parlor. It appeared lived in . . . not raggedy, but homey. Two chairs and a sofa flanked the fireplace. An embroidery frame sat before an armchair with thread and scissors on its seat. An upright piano with sheets of music strewn across the bench rested against the back wall. Toy blocks and tin soldiers tumbled from a wicker basket to the right of the hearth.
In short, it was a comfortable room. Tristan could see himself and Isolde in such a space, sitting before the fire of an evening, discussing philosophy while playing chess, their children asleep upstairs.
How odd that he could envision himself in this room, in this life. Leaving a simple row house to labor as a secretary to some lord or work as a clerk in a solicitor’s office. It scarcely mattered what he did. He would work and then return home to Isolde, catching her to his chest and insisting on holding her in his arms as she cataloged her day. Their children would dash about their knees, making a merry mayhem and vying to show him the sticks they had collected at St. James Park or describe the kittens their cat had birthed in the kitchen.
Tristan would adore a life where all he had to do was care for his wife and children. A middle-class life, some would call it. Why was morality between the classes so different? Men like Ledger were praised by their peers if they doted upon their wives. But dukes were looked down upon for doing the same.
It made no sense.
With each passing day, a quiet yearning increased in his bones, an arthritic pang for domesticity and togetherness. A life like the one Ledger’s sister and brother-in-law led.
The door to the parlor opened, breaking his reverie.
A woman entered, eyes wide and apprehensive. Her resemblance to Ledger was immediately apparent—brown hair and eyes, broad forehead, wide cheekbones.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a low curtsy. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“Mrs. Tolman.” He nodded his head. “I believe you are sister to my former secretary, Mr. Adam Ledger?”
The woman straightened, a hand pressing to her waist. “Indeed, I am, Your Grace. But . . .” She paused before continuing. “. . . former secretary? Has something occurred to sever Adam’s employment?”
Tristan froze.
Damn and blast!
He had assumed that Ledger would have informed his own sister of his dismissal. Why hadn’t he? Embarrassment? Or was it something more sinister?
“Yes, former , unfortunately. Mr. Ledger was dismissed from my employ, though not at my behest.” Tristan twisted his hat in his hand. “In the confusion surrounding my supposed demise, my cousin wrongfully terminated Mr. Ledger’s employment.”
“Oh! Gracious!” Mrs. Tolman covered her mouth with a palm.
“Indeed. I did not sanction Mr. Ledger’s dismissal, and I found the manner of it distressing. Consequently, I am searching for his whereabouts to make amends. At the very least, I wish to offer an apology, any back wages, and provide Ledger with a letter of commendation. Or, if he is amenable, to offer him a post again.”
Mrs. Tolman stood still for a moment as if struggling to accommodate his words. “It is very kind of you to come in person to inquire after my brother, Your Grace. Will you please be seated?” She motioned toward the sofa. “May I offer you tea?”
Mrs. Tolman sat in one of the armchairs.
“I am well, thank you.” Tristan took a seat on the sofa, placing his hat on the cushion beside him. “I simply require any information you can provide as to Ledger’s whereabouts. I take it he is not here with you?”
“No, Your Grace. Adam joined us for dinner some three weeks ago, as is his wont. He is a favorite with my two young sons, you see. Adam described his return journey from Scotland and his relief in finding Your Grace alive.” She bit her bottom lip. “Though he asked if he could spend the night with us, which is not entirely unheard of, but somewhat unusual. He mentioned that Your Grace had tasked him with touring several of the ducal estates, and that he would therefore be an irregular correspondent. Adam anticipated being gone for a month or two. He wished to spend more time with us before he left.”
Ah. So Ledger had hidden the news from his sister. But where had he gone after leaving his sister’s home?
“I suppose Adam’s trip was a fabrication,” Mrs. Tolman continued.
“Yes,” Tristan said as gently as he could. “Ledger’s visit with you would have been right around the time that he was wrongfully terminated from my employ.”
Mrs. Tolman nodded, her brown eyes filling with tears. “Poor Adam. He took such pride in his work as Your Grace’s secretary. He must have been devastated and at loose ends to lose his post, too embarrassed to tell us of his failure.”
“Hardly his failure, Mrs. Tolman. I have always been more than satisfied with Mr. Ledger’s efforts. Hence my presence here.” Tristan tapped a finger against his thigh. “Has he written you letters since then? I gather you correspond regularly with your brother.”
Mrs. Tolman’s brow furrowed. “How odd that you should mention it, Your Grace. I was pondering just this morning that I hadn’t heard from Adam in a while. But again, I didn’t countenance it, as he did say he might be a poor correspondent. Though knowing the whole story now . . .” Her voice drifted off.
Ledger had ceased speaking with his sister? Tristan’s fingers curled into a fist. “Could he possibly have returned to your family home? It is somewhere near Birmingham, is it not?”
Mrs. Tolman beamed in surprise. “Indeed it is, Your Grace. The village of Alvechurch, to be precise. I do not think he has returned there. I heard from my mother just yesterday, and she would have said something if Adam were staying with them in the vicarage. Of a surety, he would have told me about his dismissal before our parents. He would want to prevent that knowledge from reaching our village, if possible.”
“Is that so?”
She gave an emphatic nod. “Adam has always been our parents’ pride and joy. He was a King’s Scholar, attending Eton and then Cambridge.”
The information caused a hitch in Tristan’s breathing. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he had known that Ledger attended Cambridge, but he had known nothing of the financial arrangement of it.
King’s Scholars were charity students—bright, ambitious boys plucked from the masses to be educated alongside their aristocratic peers. It was a deep honor to be chosen and, from what Tristan had heard, incredibly challenging as charity students were ruthlessly teased and tormented. Tristan wouldn’t know, since his father hadn’t permitted him to attend Eton for fear that Tristan might make friends, and therefore have a system of support outside Old Kendall himself. That Ledger had successfully navigated the treacherous waters of Eton spoke volumes as to the man’s fortitude and intelligence.
“I was unaware of this,” Tristan said.
“Adam worked hard to be capable and meticulous in his employment. He would view his dismissal as an abject failure, something he would keep from our parents for as long as possible. The humiliation for them all within the parish would be excruciating.”
Tristan sat with this information for a long moment. Why had he known none of these things about Ledger before now? Well, he supposed because he had never asked. And Ledger certainly knew it was not his place to volunteer such personal information.
Tristan’s picture of Adam Ledger was rapidly gathering details. Not only was the man a capable secretary, but he had a sister and nephews who loved him. He had proud parents and a village that cheered on his successes.
“I see,” Tristan said. “Given all this, do you have any idea where he might have gone? I feel compelled to make amends for the unintentional harm that has been done.”
Mrs. Tolman swallowed, her hands clasped in her lap. “I cannot say with any surety. Adam does have a good friend, Mr. John Rutland, who is employed at a bank in the city. If anyone would know, I suspect it would be him.”
“Excellent. Could you provide this Mr. Rutland’s direction?”
Mrs. Tolman twisted her fingers in her skirt. “Unfortunately, no. But I can inquire of my husband when he returns from work this evening. He will likely know.”
“I would be in your debt, Mrs. Tolman. Please send any information to Gilbert House immediately. I am most anxious to see this grievous treatment of Ledger corrected and, if he is amenable, reinstate him as my secretary.”
“You are kindness itself, Your Grace. I can see why Adam so valued his employment in your household.”
Ridiculous, but Tristan felt himself preen at the tiny bit of praise, at the confirmation that Ledger had indeed liked him.
“With your help, Mrs. Tolman, hopefully we can run Ledger to ground and assure him that all will be well.”