Chapter Eight Tristan #2
Marcus smiled, fondly. “You are very old-fashioned, Tris. Women are remarkable creatures. Unlike us, they can multitask.”
“I realise that. But how many things is she actually on?”
I’d always assumed my sister-in-law threw herself at causes the way some women threw themselves at Pilates. Anything to keep her mind off the fact the Hale-Fitzroy heirs hadn’t arrived quickly enough. Now that one finally was, I’d half-expected her to slow down.
“She’s patron of three now.” Marcus peered over to his wife, a fondness in his eyes I wasn’t at all used to. “Two hospitals and something involving vulnerable young mothers. I lose track.”
“Vulnerable young mothers?”
“The ones who fall through the cracks. Underaged girls. Or those…impregnated in the wrong circumstances. No family support. Sometimes fleeing violence. Sometimes just… nowhere to go. Homeless.”
“I see.”
“Eloise funded the purchase of a property in North London,” Marcus took a sip of his drink, watching his wife with such pride it sort of hurt.
“Big old place. Was earmarked for luxury flats. She had it converted instead. Residential support. On-site childcare. Midwives. Social workers. Parenting courses. Help with education. Work placements. A chance at something resembling stability. All rather noble and lovely.”
“Indeed.”
Marcus shifted to stand beside me, both of us taking in the room.
The crowd ebbed and rearranged itself, a tide of linen and silk and muted laughter.
Until a gap opened and I noted a familiar face.
To be fair, most faces here were familiar.
People I’d met. People I’d seen in print.
People who existed permanently adjacent to charity dinners and first nights and lists.
But that one, over there, half-turned in conversation with a group I didn’t recognise, I knew personally.
“What the ever-living fuck is Benjamin Rothwell doing here?” I stepped closer to Marcus.
He didn’t even look surprised. “The Hale-Fitzroys and the Rothwells go back decades. We couldn’t exactly invite the parents and blacklist the offspring.”
I took a sharp sip of champagne. “It would have made a rather clear statement.”
Benji hadn’t existed in my life since I’d had him removed from our student house via my father’s exquisitely polite email chain to his family, after I’d seen the video of his and Ollie’s shared orgy. Ollie had been my boyfriend at the time. A clean excision. Surgical. Necessary.
And the person who had shown me that video? Razor.
Across the room, Benji glanced up.
“If it helps,” Marcus dipped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “he lost his West End role after acquiring a rather committed drug habit.”
I swallowed. “It does not.”
Though annoyingly, it did. A fraction.
Until I recalled who he’d once bought his cocaine from.
“Just ignore him.” Marcus took a sip of his drink, then angled his body so he was speaking directly to me rather than performing for the room, which was how one survived these things. “I should also forewarn you…Mother has invited a person of interest.”
My stomach sank. “Christ. What kind of person of interest?”
“Theo Langford.” Marcus gestured subtly by uncurling a finger from around his glass.
I turned to where he was pointing.
Theo Langford was exactly what you’d expect money to produce if it were given time and taste.
Immaculate without looking pressed. White chinos.
A sky-blue shirt open just enough to suggest ease rather than intent.
A cashmere jumper draped around his shoulders as if he’d been born knowing how to do that.
His hair was floppy in that carefully cultivated way screaming effortless, and he was smiling.
Bright, charming, devastatingly photogenic.
Think early Hugh Grant. Before the self-parody. Before the scandals.
“Langford media dynasty,” Marcus murmured out of the side of his mouth. “Parents apparently own half of Notting Hill. Entirely by accident.”
“How,” I asked, watching Theo slide an arm around a pretty girl as she lifted a phone for a selfie, “does one accidentally acquire half of Notting Hill?”
“Strategic ignorance. And very good accountants.” Marcus took a sip of his G&T. “But Theo went from St Paul’s to Cambridge. Now runs a think tank.”
I arched an eyebrow. “What’s he thinking about?”
We both watched Theo laugh, tipping his head back to catch the light.
“I believe the current focus is ethical governance, social responsibility, and how very unfortunate it is that everyone else keeps doing things wrong.”
“Of course it is.”
“He came out last year. And as he’s an only child, his mother was in absolute bits.” Marcus shook his head. “Cried to Mother about the lost society wedding, the guest list, the photographs. Apparently inviting him here is the solution.”
I glanced back at Marcus. “How so?”
“Mother’s decided he’s perfect for you.” Marcus winked.
“And my say in all this?”
“Oh…is absolute zero. You know that. You can’t be trusted to find your own suitor.”
I took a long sip of my champagne, glancing back to Theo as another photo snapped, his smile never faltering. “Does he know that?”
Marcus’s mouth curved. “Give it thirty seconds.”
Theo glanced up then, and our eyes met across the room.
“Cheerio.” Marcus nudged my elbow and left my side.
The traitor.
I barely had time to brace before Theo Langford detached himself from his admirers and crossed the room, mostly because I was surprised by the sight of my father over by the fireplace in mid-conversation with another man I couldn’t believe was here.
Lord Wolfe.
“Chin chin.” Theo tapped his Champagne flute to mine.
Up close, he was… disarming. Open smile. Clear eyes. A face that made people want to tell him things. He stopped in front of me, taking in my glass, my posture, my expression, as if arranging me into some internal category.
That category would be eligible.
“Tristan Hale-Fitzroy.” He said my name as if tasting how it would sound moaned out between bouts of indulgent pleasure, then offered his hand. “I was hoping that was you.”
I slipped my hand into his. “Theo Langford.” I said his name as if announcing it in court. “I’ve been brought up to speed.”
“Have you?” His smile deepened, and we let go. “How delightful. Your mother and mine appear to have formed a support group.”
“My condolences.”
He laughed and glanced around the room. “Quite the event. I didn’t realise one could hire this many hydrangeas without triggering some kind of government inquiry.”
“They multiply when left unsupervised.”
“As does your family. This is the warm-up act, yes? Your first niece or nephew on the way is the real headline.” He nudged my elbow. “Congratulations. That’s… rather lovely. A new generation of Hale-Fitzroys to terrorise the dinner table.”
“We just won’t feed them.” I took a sip of drink.
“Oh, I think they’ll be spoilt rotten. Tragic toys. Impeccable schools. Emotional repression.” His met my gaze, eyebrows rising, amused. “We all survive it. Mostly.”
I studied him.
He spoke well. Easily. Threading enough substance through the charm to suggest there was a mind behind the smile.
Not depth, perhaps, but polish. I could see precisely why Mother thought this would be a sensible match.
On paper, our courtship would read beautifully.
Effortless headlines. Glossy spreads. The sort of union reassuring investors and editors alike.
It would balance on a bank statement just as neatly.
It was a shame that love and attraction refused to obey such orderly arithmetic.
And how I was disastrously in love with a felon.
“I’m told you’ve started a think tank.” I continued the conversation for no other reason than there was very little else for me to do here.
“I have. Or rather, I’ve bullied a few considerably cleverer people than myself into starting one with me.” He leant back against the wall, idly circling his glass. “Public ethics. Institutional accountability. The gentle art of making very powerful people mildly uncomfortable.”
“Brave.”
“Stupid, according to my father.” He smiled. “But I do occasionally get shouted at by dashing men in impeccable suits who dislike being questioned.”
“A fortunate perk.”
“Indeed. And then there’s the invitations to these sorts of soirees.”
I glanced around. “Surely a baby shower isn’t where one uncovers corruption.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” He drifted his gaze over to the hydrangeas, the champagne, the careful excess. “Though I consider this more anthropological. I enjoy observing how the top one percent celebrate continuity. Succession. Legacy.” He grinned. “It’s very… ritualistic.”
He returned his gaze to me, eyes bright with curiosity, as if he were already drafting the footnotes.
“You’re slumming it, then.”
“On the contrary. I think this is where the real power myths live.” He dipped closer to me. “Besides. I was told you’d be here.” He nudged my elbow. “And I’m glad,” he added in a drawl down my neck.
I held his gaze, champagne at my lips.
Then, as if commenting on the temperature, Theo inclined his head. “Fancy a fuck in the baby’s room?”
I choked on my drink. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on.” His mouth curved wickedly. “Let’s corrupt something pristine. Heard you’re a randy bugger who enjoys rebelling, so long as it’s within tastefully selected lines.”
I opened my mouth to ask who the hell had been feeding him that particular character reference because it certainly hadn’t been my mother, but he anticipated it with a soft chuckle.
“Oliver Montgomery’s father is an investor of mine.” He winked. “People talk.”
Ollie. Still managing to piss me off with his poison tongue from afar.
“Come on.” Theo took a sip, sweeping his gaze around the room. “While they’re all busy posing for Tatler. I came prepared.”
“Very thorough,” I said drily. “But I’ve just eaten.”
Theo tipped his head. “We could simplify. Oral?”
“Once again, the offer is impressively delivered. But once again, I’m going to decline.”