Chapter 2
It was hard to believe that it had been a whole week since that disastrous poetry night. Not that it had been disastrous. If you asked anybody who’d been there, they would have said that it was a roaring success; probably one of the better poetry nights the club had hosted.
Tristan did not agree. To him, the night was a blur, and not because he’d imbibed too much alcohol. No, he could remember only a blurry sea of faces, endless meaningless words, and an incomprehensible medley of boredom and nonsense.
He remembered thinking that the night was never, ever going to end. He also remembered Juliana pursuing him through the crowd, and feeling rather like a hart being pursued by a hunting dog.
The only poem that he’d managed to remember was Lady Madeline Huxley’s.
In truth, her poem had made an impression, shocking in its simplicity, boldness, and brevity.
People had talked about it a good deal. She was one of only two ladies who had recited poems, and the other woman—another opera singer—had recited a terrible poem of such lewdness that even Tristan felt that it was too much.
He could still see Madeline Huxley standing there, practically trembling on the stage, and yet determined to say her piece. It haunted him, that image, and the sheer fact that he could not get it out of his head made him irritable and short-tempered.
It wasn’t a pleasant thing for a man to admit that he could not control his own thoughts.
She had gotten home safely, of course. Tristan’s coachman had ensured that, and a couple of days later, the Society Papers had commented in passing that Lord Beaumont and his daughter, Lady Madeline Huxley, had arrived in London, ready for the Season. Tristan could have told them that days ago.
A pointedly cleared throat jerked him out of his reverie, and he glanced up to find his friend staring at him, eyes narrowed.
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, Tristan, or shall I guess?” Isaac commented, swinging one leg over the other.
Tristan glanced up at his friend, who was lounging in a comfortable armchair and grinning at him. He raised his eyebrow and said nothing.
A footman arrived at that moment, carefully laying down a tray with several brandies on it between Tristan and Isaac.
The club was not busy at this time of day, but it was never empty.
A handful of gentlemen played billiards on the table downstairs, and another scattered handful reclined along the mezzanine, having availed themselves of books from the library.
Conversation was low and muted, the atmosphere lazy and comfortable.
Tristan did not feel lazy or comfortable. He felt vibrant, vigorous, and angry somehow.
“There is nothing wrong with me,” he stated.
Isaac sighed. “So I’m to guess, then. By the way, Charlotte wants to know if you’ll come and dine with us on Thursday fortnight.”
“That depends. Who else will be there?”
“Really, Tristan!”
“I am only asking! I adore your company and Charlotte’s, but you know how I feel about society in general.”
Isaac pursed his lips, huffing. “If you must know, Beaufort and Madeline will be there. Charlotte doesn’t spend as much time with her old friend as she once did, not now that she is busy raising Tommy, and she feels guilty.”
“Well, I have been told that raising a child does change one’s life rather a good deal. I can’t make Thursday fortnight, I’m afraid.”
Isaac did not seem pleased. He leaned forward, snatching up a brandy, and took a long sip. A silence settled between them, and Tristan let it sit.
It seemed wise to avoid Madeline Huxley for a while.
Tristan was vaguely aware of her father—a good-natured, cheerful sort of man with poor health and not a bad bone in his body—and if the fellow somehow found out that his daughter had been reciting inappropriate poems of her own composition at a Ton’s Devil’s party, it might kill him.
Tristan did not care to have the blood of such a decent man on his hands, thank you very much.
At that moment, Isaac cleared his throat, loudly and pointedly. When Tristan glanced his way, Isaac nodded at something behind Tristan, and then dived behind his newspaper. Tristan twisted around, and his heart sank.
Juliana Bolt was walking toward him.
She’d chosen a long, well-fitted silver gown, dampened so that it clung to her skin, highlighting every generous curve.
She had clearly taken pains with her hair, which was braided and curled most elaborately into a red torrent.
She walked past a trio of men, all sitting separately and reading.
Each of them glanced up as she walked by, eyes wide and jaws gaping, spellbound. She never glanced at any of them.
“Your Grace,” she said in greeting, her ever-so-slightly reddened lips curling into a smile. “I thought you might be here.”
Tristan got to his feet, straightening his waistcoat, and offered a tight smile.
“What are you doing here, Juliana? You aren’t a member of this club.”
Juliana could hardly have failed to notice the coldness in his voice, but her smile barely wavered.
“To answer your first question, I am here to see you, Your Grace,” she responded coolly. “To answer your second, I told the man at the door that exact thing, and he let me in.”
“Now is not convenient, Juliana. I wish you had told me you were coming.”
The smile wavered at that, but she rallied tolerably.
“I am sorry. I shall leave then. Shall we make an appointment to see each other? We could dine, perhaps, at my home or yours? Yours is larger, but I suspect that my cook has the advantage.”
Tristan allowed himself a faint smile at that.
He was fairly sure that when he visited Juliana’s home—which was grand enough, but nothing very impressive when compared to a ducal home—she went downstairs before he arrived and did some of the cooking herself.
She certainly was a skilled cook; it could not be denied.
“A kind offer, but I simply don’t have the time at the moment,” he responded curtly, before Juliana could get her hopes up. “I shall send you a message to summon you when I want to see you next.”
The smile disappeared completely. Juliana flinched backward, her full lips pressing into a thin line.
“I wasn’t aware that you had the power to summon me whenever you wished, Your Grace,” she managed at last, her voice tight. “Am I to sit at home and twiddle my thumbs, waiting graciously for your call, then?”
Tristan narrowed his eyes at her. “We both know that you have never waited graciously for anything, Juliana. I don’t expect you to do any such thing. I am not in the mood for your company at the moment. Please do not take offense, but now I will consider the subject closed. Do you understand?”
There was a tense silence between them. Tristan held Juliana’s gaze. Looking away would only make him look weak. Unfortunately, Juliana seemed to understand the exact same thing, and stared unblinkingly back.
“Goodness,” she said at last, with a forced little laugh. “Your Grace, I have not seen you or visited you for a full week. Seven whole days! I have not gone so long without seeing you since we began keeping company.”
“We will not keep company again if you don’t stop pestering me, Miss Bolt,” Tristan snapped. The last of his patience was evaporating like mist before a noonday sun.
Juliana’s head jerked back, and she blinked, as though reeling from a slap. She breathed in sharply through her nose and at last managed to summon a smile.
“I see. I am sorry to have disturbed you, Your Grace. Good day to you.”
She made a deep and elegant curtsy, turned on her heel, and strode off the way she had come. The men watched, agog, as she passed by. One of them even jumped up and took a step toward her, as if hoping to introduce himself.
Juliana did not look at him or slow down. Cowed, the man cringed back into his seat.
Tristan sat down heavily, picked up a brandy, and drank it back in one gulp.
With a great crinkling and rustling, Isaac appeared from behind his newspaper.
“Heavens,” he managed faintly. “That woman wants you rather badly, Tristan.”
“No, she wants to be a duchess rather badly,” Tristan responded tightly. “I’m under no illusions.”
“I have never known you to turn down a lady before. You always said it was impolite.”
He gave a grim smile. “That was before a lady turned me down.”
Isaac’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Oh, goodness. Well, I must hear this story.”
Tristan heaved a sigh. “There’s nothing to tell. I was exceptionally seductive and charming toward a young woman at the poetry night. I even convinced her to remove her mask, and do you know what she did? She ran, Isaac. She bolted for the door.”
“I hope you didn’t chase her.”
“Of course not. I didn’t allow her to go racing out into the London streets at midnight, of course, but I did not press my attentions further upon her. I cannot lie; it was a blow.”
“Perhaps you are not as charming as you think you are.”
“No, that’s impossible,” Tristan remarked meditatively, inspecting the toe of one glossy Hessian. “I was just a little taken aback, that’s all.”
Isaac allowed himself a smile. “Who was it?”
Tristan didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t recall.”
“Try. There weren’t many women there that night, I’m sure I can find out…”
“Oh, do give it a rest, Isaac. I don’t want to see her again, do I?”
Isaac stared at his friend for a long moment. Tristan carefully avoided his gaze. It was always difficult to lie to Isaac. Just like his wife, Isaac had a way of seeing through a person’s nonsense and bluffs, straight to the truth.
It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Tristan preferred to avoid feelings of discomfort at all costs.
“I think,” Isaac said at last, speaking slowly and choosing his words with care, “that you get what you want entirely too often, Tristan.”
He flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly what you think it does. You’re a clever man—you’re handsome, rich, charming, and powerful. Nothing is a stretch for you. I don’t believe it does a man good to get what he wants with such ease.”
Tristan scowled. “I can hardly manufacture difficulties for myself, can I?”
“Of course not,” Isaac acknowledged. “But life might do that for you. Perhaps this life of ease is the lull before the storm. Perhaps you’re fated to encounter some difficulties very soon.
Perhaps you are going to have to take a long, hard look at yourself and decide who you are and who you want to be. ”
Tristan eyed him for a long moment.
“A very pretty speech,” he commented at last. “If only I believed in fate.”
“If only,” Isaac agreed.
Movement caught Tristan’s eye, and he turned around to see a footman hurrying toward them; the same fellow who’d brought the brandies. This time, though, he carried a well-polished silver tray bearing a single letter.
“A letter for you, Your Grace,” the man explained, bowing and presenting the tray. “I was told it was urgent.”
Tristan picked up the letter slowly. It was clear that it had just come from outside. The smell of dirty London air hung about it, infused into the paper, and it was still cold to the touch. Wordlessly, he broke the seal.
“What is it?” Isaac asked, reaching for another brandy.
Tristan clenched his jaw until he heard his teeth squeak.
“It’s from my brother,” he commented brusquely.
“Oh, Anthony! I haven’t seen him in a very long time,” Isaac exclaimed, grinning. “It’s a rare man who can truly give up London and this mess of society. How is that wife of his?”
There was a long, tight silence. Tristan stared down at the letter, even though it was very short and he’d read it in a matter of seconds. He stared until the words blurred into wobbly lines, sliding across the page.
“Tristan?” Isaac prompted. “Tristan, what’s the matter? How is Anthony?”
Tristan closed his fist, crumpling the paper into a tight, sharp little ball that pricked the insides of his palm.
“He’s dead,” he responded bluntly.