Chapter 5
The absolute audacity of Lady Lavinia!
Tristan stalked back and forth across his study. She had been balancing books on heads when she should be drilling Sophia on proper etiquette!
She cannot possibly understand what she's meddling with, he thought darkly. Three governesses dispatched, and yet this one presumes to question my methods after mere hours in my employ.
His fingers tightened around each other until his knuckles whitened.
There had been something in her eyes when he'd forbidden any mention of his late wife—curiosity, yes, but something more.
Compassion, perhaps? He needed neither curiosity nor compassion from an employee, particularly one whose own circumstances were so clearly desperate that she'd stooped to accepting a position beneath her station.
And yet... she had made Sophia laugh.
This fact niggled at him, refusing to be dismissed with the rest of his grievances. His daughter, his solemn, watchful daughter who moved through life as though afraid to disturb the air around her, had laughed during a lesson with the impertinent Lady Lavinia.
The study door opened without a preliminary knock, interrupting his brooding. Only one person in England would dare enter his sanctuary unannounced.
"Brooding by the window again, Tristan? One might think you were auditioning for a Gothic novel.
" Henry Kingswell, Duke of Sappherton, strolled in with his characteristic quiet confidence, as comfortable in Tristan's study as in his own.
Though younger than Tristan by several years, Henry carried himself with the assurance of a man who knew his place in the world and felt no need to prove it to anyone.
Tristan turned, his expression severe but softening marginally at the sight of his friend. "Henry. I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."
"Business in the area concluded early, fortunately.
" Henry moved to the sideboard where crystal decanters gleamed in the afternoon light.
"I saw a woman departing as I arrived. Youngish, pretty in that quiet way some women manage, walking with the posture of a queen despite a dress that's seen better days.
" He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. "Did you find Sophia a new governess?"
"Not a governess," Tristan corrected. "An etiquette tutor."
"Ah." Henry abandoned the decanter, turning to face Tristan with undisguised interest. "So you've finally found someone who meets your impossibly high standards?"
Tristan's posture stiffened as he moved to the sideboard, gently nudging his friend aside to pour two generous measures of brandy himself. "Lady Lavinia Pembroke was recommended by the Duchess of Neads. I'm merely giving her a trial period."
"Lady Lavinia Pembroke?" Henry accepted the offered glass, his eyes widening slightly. "The Earl of Fairwick's daughter? I thought she'd withdrawn from society after her father's death." He took a thoughtful sip. "Pembroke... wasn't there some scandal about debts?"
"Her financial circumstances are not my concern," Tristan replied, perhaps too quickly. "She is qualified to instruct Sophia in the ways of society, which is all that matters."
Henry settled himself in one of the leather armchairs before Tristan's desk, crossing one leg over the other with easy grace. "And her qualifications? Beyond being born to the right family, of course."
Tristan's fingers drummed against his desk as he remained standing, unwilling to settle into the comfortable pattern of their usual conversations.
"She is her younger sister’s only guardian, and the girl set to debut next season.
By all accounts, Lady Frances is making excellent progress despite their. .. reduced circumstances."
"Reduced circumstances," Henry repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes. "A delicate phrase for what I've heard is near poverty. The ton can be merciless when fortunes fade." He studied Tristan over the rim of his glass. "And her appearance? Beyond what I glimpsed from afar."
"Perfectly adequate." Tristan took a long swallow of brandy, avoiding his friend's gaze.
"'Perfectly adequate,'" Henry mimicked. "High praise indeed from the exacting Duke of Evermere. And her manner with Sophia?"
"Unconventional." Tristan's jaw worked as he recalled the scene described by his butler. "I found them balancing books on their heads."
Henry nearly choked on his brandy. "I beg your pardon? The formidable Duke of Evermere has hired a tutor who instructs through—what did you call it?—balancing books on heads?"
"It's apparently a standard deportment exercise," Tristan said stiffly. "Though her approach seemed unnecessarily frivolous."
"And yet you haven't dismissed her on the spot." Henry leaned forward, suddenly more interested. "That's... unusual."
Tristan turned away, ostensibly to refill his glass, though it was barely half-empty. "She made Sophia laugh."
The simple statement hung in the air between them, weighted with significance that required no elaboration. Henry's expression sobered immediately.
"Ah." He nodded slowly. "Well, that is something."
"Indeed." Tristan returned to the window, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "She claims Sophia is afraid to speak, that her method was designed to put my daughter at ease."
"And was she right?"
Tristan's silence was answer enough.
Henry swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the play of light through the crystal. "You seem unusually bothered by this particular tutor, Tristan. Normally you dispatch unsuitable staff with clinical detachment. Yet Lady Lavinia has you pacing like a caged beast."
"Nonsense," Tristan dismissed with a wave of his hand, though he stilled his restless movement, suddenly conscious of it. "She is merely the latest in a long line of educational disappointments. I expect she'll prove inadequate within the week, like all the others."
"If you say so." Henry's tone made it clear he believed otherwise, but he knew better than to press the point.
He took another sip of brandy, his expression growing more serious.
"Sophia is twelve now, Tristan. Soon she'll need more than lessons in deportment and French. She'll need a mother's guidance."
Tristan's jaw visibly tightened at this suggestion, the muscles working beneath his skin.
He rose abruptly and moved back to the window, his back to Henry, his posture rigid as a soldier's.
"I will never marry again," he stated with cold finality.
The words rang in the quiet room, a declaration that brooked no argument.
He added, more softly but no less decisively, "Sophia has everything she needs. "
Henry sighed, setting his glass on a small side table. "Does she? You and I both know there are matters a young lady cannot discuss with her father, no matter how devoted. Questions about... womanhood, about love, about the mysteries of marriage that no man can adequately explain."
"There are other women in her life. The Duchess of Neads visits regularly. Lady Sophia will not lack for feminine guidance." Tristan's voice had taken on the dangerous edge that most people recognized as a warning sign. Henry, unfortunately, had never been particularly attuned to danger.
"I understand your reluctance, given what happened with Mary." Henry's voice was gentle, careful, but the mere allusion to his deceased spouse was enough.
Tristan whirled around, his face hardening into a mask of controlled fury. The movement was so sudden, so at odds with his usually restrained demeanor, that Henry drew back slightly in his chair.
"You would do well to watch what you say, Henry," Tristan warned, his voice dangerously quiet. Every word was precisely enunciated, as though carved from ice. "That subject is not open for discussion. Not now, not ever."
The tension in the room rose to nearly unbearable levels. Henry raised his hands in silent apology, recognizing that he had crossed one of the few immutable boundaries in their friendship. "Forgive me," he said simply. "I spoke without thinking."
For a moment, Tristan remained rigid, anger radiating from him like heat from a forge.
Then, with visible effort, he mastered himself, returning to his desk and taking his seat.
"Let us discuss the timber contracts," he said, pulling a stack of papers from a drawer.
"I believe you mentioned some concerns about the new duty rates? "
"Yes." Henry gratefully seized the change of topic. "The import taxes have nearly doubled since January. I've been exploring alternatives in Norfolk, but the quality is inconsistent..."
As they settled into the familiar territory of business matters, Tristan's hand occasionally strayed to the top drawer of his desk, where a small amethyst pendant lay hidden beneath papers and correspondence.
As Henry spoke, Tristan was unable to keep his mind from welcoming the memory that slowly crept over him:
Tristan watched the woman walk away—or rather, flee—before the midnight unmasking. As her figure disappeared into the crowd, he was left with an odd sense of disappointment and… Lon—
He dismissed that notion before it finished forming and wondered what might have happened had she stayed.
“There you are!”
Tristan turned to see Moira making her way toward him through the glittering assembly, her mask still in place, and her tartan shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders.
“How are you certain you have the correct gentleman, Moira?” he asked as he took a step toward her.
His foot caught on something. He looked down and felt his breath catch.
There, glinting against the polished floor, lay the amethyst pendant his masked partner had been wearing. The delicate chain must have broken. How had he not noticed?
Moira was nearly upon him. Without thinking, Tristan stepped forward, positioning himself over the pendant so as not to draw attention to it.
“Oh, I would know you from a hundred miles away, Tristan,” Moira said with a warm smile as she reached him. She leaned closer, her eyes full of mischief behind her elaborate mask. “I saw you waltzing with a woman. Who is she?”
Tristan shook his head. “She never stayed long enough for me to know.”
“That’s a shame.” Moira’s expression softened with genuine sympathy. “You seemed rather taken with her.”
Before Tristan could respond, the clock began to toll the hour, and the first deep chime of midnight rang through the ballroom.
Chaos erupted as guests reached for their masks.
Moira turned away to watch the spectacle, and Tristan seized his chance.
While everyone else was distracted by the unmasking, he bent down and retrieved the pendant, closing his fingers tightly around it.
He straightened and scanned the room, searching the sea of newly revealed faces. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Perhaps she had lingered, had removed her mask with the others.
But she was nowhere to be found.
Tristan slipped the pendant into his coat pocket and made his excuses to Moira. Within the quarter hour, he had left the ball entirely.
When he returned to Evermere Hall, the house was silent and dark. He went straight to his study, lit a single lamp, and sat behind his desk. For a long moment, he simply held the pendant in his palm, studying it.
Light flared along the hairline crack in the gem, making it somehow more beautiful despite the flaw.
That was a sort of beauty he could never hope for, and with a sigh, he opened the top drawer of his desk and placed the pendant inside, covering it with papers and correspondence.
Just for now, he told himself. Just until he could determine the proper course of action.
Henry’s voice slowly drew Tristan back to the present, and he glanced at the drawer.
The pendant was the only reminder he had of the one bright moment in an otherwise bleak half-year, a dance with a mysterious woman who had vanished like smoke.
But Henry, for all his perceptiveness, did not notice this small betraying loss of attention.
Nor did he remark on the way Tristan's gaze occasionally drifted toward the door through which Lady Lavinia had departed—the same door through which she would return at four o'clock for their scheduled meeting.
Time enough, Tristan thought, to rebuild the walls her presence had somehow managed to breach.