Epilogue
Two years later
Tristan had no idea a cat could sleep for so many hours without moving.
Kettle had curled up on his lap a while ago and fallen asleep instantly while he had been sitting at his desk to work.
He hadn’t moved from his chair for fear of waking the cat up.
He and Kettle were still trying to get to know each other better.
It’d been easier to form a civil, if not warm, relationship with Winchester.
They’d stopped barking at each other on every occasion—also because Effie had grown tired of the arguments—and they were tentatively talking in more calm tones.
Winchester had even relented and sold the bloody field in Easthollow to him.
A miracle. They were far from being best friends, but their relationship was slowly getting better.
Kettle, on the other hand, was a different matter.
After marrying Effie, he’d quickly learnt Kettle had a volatile mood, was fussy, and enjoyed cuddles only when he decided so, at least with Tristan.
The cat could scratch, hiss, purr, or be the gentlest creature on Earth without rhyme or reason.
With Effie, Kettle was always the perfect pet, but with him, the result was anyone’s guess.
The good thing about his current predicament was that while he’d been confined to his desk, he’d replied to several letters, paid bills, and read the reports from his stewards. The bad thing was that he needed to stretch out his legs.
Hell, he couldn’t even reach the bell rope to call Harris. Shouting would scare Kettle and diminish his chances of becoming friends with the feline, so that wasn’t an option. Besides, he’d been scratched too many times.
He sagged on the chair, resigned to his fate, wondering if every cat owner shared his situation.
He was Lord Tristan, the 15th Marquess of Montcrest. He owned the London and West Marches Railway company, a dozen estates, and a mansion in Paris, but a cat owned him.
He used that moment to also contemplate all the changes Effie had brought to the house.
She’d added coloured curtains, bright carpets, and books on veterinary medicine.
At first, he’d feared he would feel constricted in a house full of paintings, books, and mismatched furniture, but it was the opposite. He felt surrounded by care.
“Tristan?” Effie entered the study in a flutter of light green fabric. “Are you still here?” She dropped her medical bag on a chair. Her expertise in veterinary medicine was highly requested. Hardly a day passed without her visiting a patient.
“Thank goodness.” He spread his arms. “Please come here.”
“What’s the matter?” She eyed Kettle, then him.
“I’ve been trapped here for hours.”
Her mouth twitched until she burst out laughing. “You could have gently picked him up and laid him on the sofa.” She did just that, hauling up Kettle.
The cat meowed and unsheathed his claws, blinking sleepy eyes, but he didn’t dare as much as give her the evil eye.
“I missed a meeting because of him.” Tristan brushed off black hairs from his trousers.
“There’s no need to be his slave.” Effie kissed Kettle’s head many times. “He won’t hurt you if you want to stand up.”
“He will, as he’s done several times. And it’s rude.” He rose and stretched out his legs. “Kettle would have worked better than the rope to stop me from going to The Octagon.”
“Are we ready?” Rowan entered the study, fixing his tie.
Pepper followed him, his tail drawing circles in the air. That dog didn’t know what being sad meant.
It’d taken two years of exercises and pain after a second surgery, but Rowan had recovered the use of his leg. He still walked with a small limp, and the fact that he was growing by the minute didn’t make the recovery easy for him, but he didn’t need crutches anymore.
“I am.” Effie waved towards Tristan. “Your brother needs to change.”
“You haven’t changed yet?” Rowan widened his eyes.
“We have plenty of time.” Tristan tried to pet Kettle, but one harsh glance from the feline discouraged him. Certain battles couldn’t be won.
“I know,” Rowan said, “but the last time we had lunch with Lord Winchester, he complained about our tardiness.”
Yes, the battle with Winchester was still ongoing, but Tristan believed Effie’s father would be more easily conquered than Kettle.
“He’s grumpy. Don’t worry about him,” Effie said.
Tristan laced his fingers through Effie’s. She smiled, and he smiled back.
He was Lord Tristan, the 15th Marquess of Montcrest. He owned the London and West Marches Railway company, a dozen estates, and a mansion in Paris, but his beautiful wife owned his whole heart.