Chapter 3
three
Tristan was a simple gentleman—he wanted something; he got it.
And right now, he wanted to have a chat with the bloody Earl of Winchester.
He hitched Zeus to the fence around Archer Hall, the earl’s white townhouse in the middle of Belgravia, and marched to the front door.
Zeus shook his head, and his black mane flapped around his strong neck.
For a moment, Tristan thought he’d heard an odd noise from the horse, but he had more pressing matters to pursue.
Drops of mud fell from his dirty riding boots to the pristine paved path cutting through the front garden, and he couldn’t care less.
He’d been riding in Hyde Park when his footman had found him to deliver a message from his secretary: Lord Winchester had rejected his offer again.
Tristan hesitated to knock only for a moment, remembering that night, many years ago, when he’d used the servants’ entrance to beg for food in this very house. That sad time was long past gone.
He wasn’t that beggar anymore, and while he was still grateful to the earl for his help, he had a business to run and responsibilities to care about.
He and his father had thanked the earl for his generosity years ago. The food supply hadn’t simply kept them alive, but it had also renewed their hopes.
But the past was the past. The end. No one could accuse him of sentimentalism.
He knocked on the front door, gripping the riding crop hard.
An earl couldn’t be the reason for his failure to expand the London and West Marches Railway.
He’d worked too damn hard for that. Hell, his father had died from working too hard.
Now he was the Marquess of Montcrest, and it was his duty to complete the job.
The butler opened the door.
“Montcrest to see Lord Winchester.” Tristan walked inside.
The butler gazed around, still holding the door open. “My lord, His Lordship isn’t available.”
Tristan wasn’t surprised. Winchester must have ordered his butler not to let him in.
“Is he hiding in his study?” He climbed the marble stairs two steps at a time.
“My lord!” The butler closed the door and moved towards the stairs.
An itch started at the base of his neck, that nervous nagging demanding attention, but he closed his fists and focused on his imminent confrontation. Once he finished with the earl, he would have plenty of time for a long boxing session at The Octagon to silence ‘the twitch.’
“I must see the earl.” He strode to the study and pushed the door open.
Three voices cried out at the same time—two were human, one wasn’t.
“My lord, I beg you,” the butler said, catching up with Tristan.
At the same time a woman said, “What is it?”
And a dog barked.
Tristan surveyed the study. The room was drowning in brown wood and ancient bookshelves, as if it were out of the Bodleian Library. The woman standing behind the desk stared at him with annoyance. An English setter peeked at him from behind a chair, his large brown eyes on him.
“My lady.” The butler entered the study as well. “Lord Montcrest was looking for your father.”
“My father isn’t here,” the lady said, brushing a lock of chestnut hair from her cheek.
She was familiar, but he couldn’t remember where and when he’d seen her.
“I can write down any messages you want to leave him.” She nodded at the butler. “Thank you, Doyle. You may go.”
“My lady?” The butler sounded shocked.
Tristan ignored the increasing intensity of the twitch in his neck and reluctantly bowed his head. “When will your father return, my lady?”
The dog whimpered. He had a lame leg he dragged behind as he hid behind his mistress.
“You’re scaring Pepper with your tone. Would you terribly mind being quieter?”
He glanced at the setter again. “He’s a gundog. He should be used to loud noises.”
That wasn’t what he meant to say. He blamed the lady’s attitude; it distracted him.
“He isn’t.” She scratched the dog’s head.
“He was born with a bad leg. The breeder wanted to put him down because of it, so I took him home with me. Pepper has never been on a hunting trip and thank goodness for that. I personally think it’s barbaric in this day and age.
Don’t you agree? Or are you one of those red jackets hunting a scared animal? ”
What the hell was happening?
“As a matter of fact, I do not hunt. It’s a waste of time, and I do find it cruel.” He gripped his riding crop harder. Again, she’d distracted him. “My lady,” he gritted out, “when is your father going to be here?” He forced his tone down, lest she start with another piece of Pepper’s story.
Not at all bothered by his scowl, she walked around the desk.
“Let me see.” She slowly flipped through the pages of a personal appointment calendar, as someone with all the time in the world.
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Papa will return late this evening.
He’ll probably dine at the Criterion with his friends. ”
“I must talk to him immediately. Where can I find him?”
She drew her fine eyebrows together. Even Pepper frowned.
Her large hazel eyes seemed to ignite like brandy, and her autumn red gown enhanced them. “If you tell me the reason for your unexpected visit, I’m sure I can help.”
Fair enough. It would be quicker to tell her everything. “Your father again refused my very reasonable offer to buy his land in Easthollow for the extension of my London and West Marches Railway. I would like to know the reason why he rejected my offer.”
She twitched her mouth. “I can’t help. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Great.” He pressed his lips hard. “Now, would you please tell me where your father is?”
“I doubt he wants to be disturbed.”
“I don’t care about what your father wants.”
A hiss came from a corner. A large black cat was perched on the top of a shelf; its yellow eyes narrowed to slits.
“And now you’ve upset Kettle as well, poor boy.” She balled a fist on her hip.
Without taking his eyes off Tristan, Kettle jumped silently on the desk and settled himself into a sphinx-like pose.
She caressed Kettle’s head. “Black cats are awfully mistreated. Too many people think they bring bad luck and refuse to adopt them, but my Kettle—”
“Honestly!” Tristan strode to the desk and grabbed the appointment calendar. At least he would know where Winchester was.
If meeting this woman was a test in patience, he was gloriously failing it.
“What are you doing?” She put a hand on the calendar, blocking him. “It’s called a personal calendar not because it’s a pretty name.”
“Tell me where your father is, and I’ll leave.”
She pulled the calendar towards her. “You’re welcome to come back tomorrow after arranging a proper appointment.”
He pulled the calendar towards him. “I don’t have time for games.”
“Neither have I. I have plenty to do with my animals.”
Tristan gave a yank to the calendar, but she didn’t admit defeat and pulled it back. He couldn’t believe he was having a childish tug-of-war with the daughter of an earl while under the scrutiny of a frightened dog and an upset cat.
“My lady.” He controlled his voice. “Time is money, and you’re wasting both.”
“That tone again.”
In the blink of an eye, there was a black blur. Kettle unsheathed his claws and aimed at him with the speed of a swordsman. Tristan withdrew his hand but not quickly enough and couldn’t avoid being slashed by the sharp nails.
“Bloody hell!” He closed his hand as blood trickled down his wrist.
Getting punched in a ring for the pleasure of feeling pain was one thing. But being slashed by an angry cat was another matter.
“Kettle!” She picked the cat up and laid him on a chair. “Mind your cattitude!”
He wrapped his handkerchief around the cut; actually, there were three thin slashes.
She kissed the head of the panther. “I’m truly sorry. Kettle has a problem controlling his anger.”
“He isn’t the only one.”
“But fear not. I have the perfect remedy for those scratches.” She opened a drawer and took out a small glass jar.
“I’ll live. Would you just tell me where I can find your father?”
“This balm will—” She rose on her tiptoes to look out of the window. “Is that wonderful Andalusian yours?”
“What?” Words failed him.
In the span of a few minutes, she’d jumped from one topic to another without completing any of them.
She set the jar on the desk. “You let him drink in the park, didn’t you? I bet your horse gulped down gallons.” Her alarmed tone caught his attention.
“Yes, why?”
Her frown matched Kettle’s. She stared at him as if he were an imbecile. “Never allow your horse to drink large quantities of cold water. I think he’s suffering from colic.”
He forgot about the bloody cut and looked out at Zeus on the pavement. “How can you tell from here?”
“He keeps biting his flank and looking at his side. Quickly. We don’t have much time.” She rang the bell and the butler arrived. “Doyle, I need my coat.”
“But what—”
“Your horse might die. We must stop the colic from getting worse.” She beckoned him to follow her. “Our stable is just around the corner. Quick now, or you won’t lose just a business deal.”