Chapter 26
Why Lavinia? Why?
Tristan tugged at his cravat and let out a curse as he snapped closed the ledger and shoved it aside.
Then, pushing back his chair, he moved to the window and back, then again, each circuit growing shorter, more agitated, as if the room itself were shrinking to fit the cage of his thoughts.
Lavinia. Lady Lavinia, he corrected himself, and then cursed at the formality of it.
He tried to think of other things, but what surfaced instead was the memory of her mouth, the angle of her chin, the way she had looked at him before fleeing the room as if he were some beast escaped from the menagerie.
He loosened his cravat further and checked the clock. It was just past ten. The sensible thing would be to retire, or at least to feign it. But he was not sensible tonight. He was a man possessed.
He donned his greatcoat, ignoring the valet’s attempts to assist, and stalked down the main hall. He found Mr. Farrel dozing in the front hall. “Ready the black gelding,” he said. “I am going out.”
The butler jerked upright, eyes wild, and stammered, “At once, Your Grace. The—ah—the black gelding, you said?”
“Yes, and…” Tristan clenched his teeth. “Never mind. I will go to the stables myself.” He did not wait for the butler and strode to the front door, opening the massive oak himself.
In the stables, he mounted the horse and pointed it toward London with no particular destination in mind.
Tristan wanted distance, speed, the feeling of his own will against the world.
You are running from nothing. You are a grown man, a Duke, and you have allowed yourself to be unmade by a woman.
He did not slow until he reached White’s.
He dismounted, tossed the reins to the boy who materialized from the gloomy night, and strode up the steps.
Inside, he did not pause to survey the main rooms, but made for the private card salon.
With luck, there would be someone worth talking to. Or fighting.
Or, failing that, he could simply watch the world and pretend he was not a part of it. He entered the salon. Henry Kingswell was already there, ensconced at the far table, his cards fanned in a neat arc and a glass of Madeira at his elbow.
“Evermere,” Henry called as soon as he saw him. “You look like the devil chased you.”
Tristan poured himself a measure from the decanter and joined him. “I see your mood is as cheerful as ever.”
Henry regarded him over the rim of his glass. “I have just lost seventy pounds to a man who cannot count to ten without a crayon. What is your excuse?”
Tristan dealt himself in, savoring the mechanical shuffle. “Work.”
Henry’s eyebrows rose. “I did not know work came in petticoats and witty remarks, but then, I am out of fashion.”
Tristan ignored the bait. “Have you seen Dawnford tonight?”
“Not yet. I expect he is out seducing the new opera singer, or plotting to steal your horse. Possibly both.”
“Let me know if he surfaces,” Tristan said, arranging his cards. “I have unfinished business.”
Tristan had received word that Dawnford had sent Lavinia more flowers, and he wished to warn the man off. They played in silence for a time, but Henry, being Henry, could not let the silence endure.
“You look as if you are being shadowed by a ghost,” he said, folding his hand. “Or perhaps you have kissed one?”
Tristan did not reply.
Henry snorted. “So, it is a woman. I would not have guessed.”
“Then you are losing your touch,” Tristan said.
For three hands they played in silence, and Tristan’s mind supplied all manner of distraction: the scent of Lavinia’s hair, the stubborn angle of her mouth, the insufferable knowledge that she was—at this very moment—alone and unprotected in a world teeming with men like Lucien Ashwick.
It was Henry who broke first. “Why do you play like a man possessed?” he asked, flipping a queen onto the table. “Has the estate come to ruin, or is it only your conscience?”
“Neither,” Tristan replied, keeping his eyes on his cards.
Henry did not allow him the comfort of retreat. “You know, some men would be flattered by the devotion of such a woman.”
Tristan glared. “She is not devoted to me.”
“I do not mean Lady Lavinia. I mean Lady Montfort, who has made it her personal crusade to see you married to a woman of her choosing.”
Tristan grunted. “She will be disappointed.”
Henry fanned his cards. “You say that as if disappointment is not her favorite breakfast. But that is not the point. The point is, your constant mood swings are beginning to alarm the ton.”
“Then the ton should keep its opinions to itself.”
Henry watched him for a moment, the silence stretching. “You are not yourself.”
“I am very much myself,” Tristan replied.
Henry set his cards down, hands steepled.
“You cannot bear to be bored, and yet you flee from anything that might amuse you. You hire Lady Lavinia to instruct your daughter, and then you cannot go a day without seeking her out. You claim to despise society, and yet here you are, surrounded by its worst offenders.”
Tristan shifted in his seat. “I enjoy cards.”
Henry laughed. “Not as much as you enjoy losing them, apparently.” He scooped up the pot and began shuffling for the next hand. “Is it Dawnford?”
Tristan did not answer.
“I hear he is making a nuisance of himself at every party,” Henry said, voice casual. “Last week he was seen at Lady Featherstone’s, drinking her cellars dry and making wagers on how many unmarried women he could ruin before the season ends.”
“He will not succeed,” Tristan said in a flat voice. He needed to know why Dawnford was after Lavinia.
“There is the man I remember.” Henry’s smile was genuine.
Tristan lost the next hand, then lost again. Henry sipped his Madeira and grinned. “You know, you could simply admit it. To me, at least.”
Tristan’s jaw clenched. “Admit what?”
“That you care,” Henry said, the words not quite a challenge.
“I care about my daughter.”
“And about Lady Lavinia?”
“She is an excellent teacher.”
Henry snorted. “I have seen the way you look at her. It is not the look of a headmaster impressed by a well-executed lesson plan.”
Tristan glared, but the effect was ruined by the kick in his chest, and the movement of his throat as he swallowed. Henry did not miss it. “You are a child, Evermere. Or a saint. Possibly both.”
“I am neither.”
“Why not do something about it?”
“It is not so simple.”
“Of course it is. You want her. She wants you. The only people in doubt are the two of you, and possibly the cat.”
“You know my vow—”
“Which makes no sense!”
Tristan was spared from replying by the arrival of the very man we were seeking.
Lord Dawnford looked like sin in a cravat, his hair oiled to a dark gleam, his mouth set in a perpetual smirk.
He did not bother with the forms of greeting, but locked eyes with Tristan as if the rest of the world were window dressing.
“Well, if it isn’t His Grace,” Dawnford said, swinging his cane like a polished scoundrel. “I was just telling young Rowley here how much I admired your—what is the word? —discipline.”
Tristan did not respond.
Dawnford plucked a card from the table and examined it. “So rare, these days, to find a man of principles. Particularly among the peerage.”
Henry watched, the corners of his mouth twitching disgust. Dawnford leaned in, placing both hands on the back of Tristan’s chair. “Tell me, Evermere: how do you do it? How do you keep your appetites so thoroughly in check?”
Tristan looked at him. “What contention have you with me?”
“Oh, you know it.” Dawnford’s gaze roved the room, then returned to Tristan. “For instance, I hear your daughter has a new governess. Or is it a companion? I never quite understand the distinctions. The rules are always so… fluid.”
Tristan’s hand closed around his glass tightly.
“I do find Lady Lavinia remarkable,” Dawnford said, voice dropping. “I have half a mind to make her an offer. Or perhaps not quite half a mind, if you know what I mean.”
The room went silent. Even the clatter of dice from the far table stopped, as if the very air had congealed. Henry did not move. He watched Tristan, as if waiting for a volcano to erupt.
Tristan stood, slowly and controlled. “You will stay away from her.”
Dawnford laughed, a sound as brittle as glass. “Or what?”
“Or you will regret it.”
Dawnford leaned in, his breath sour with liquor. “She is not yours to protect.”
Tristan met his gaze. “If you ever speak her name again, you will not leave this club intact.”
Dawnford’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He straightened his coat, made a show of smoothing his lapel, and then turned to the crowd.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am off to more congenial company. Some of us have better things to do than lose at cards all night.”
He strode from the room, and the moment he was gone, the noise rushed back, louder than before.
Henry broke the silence. “Well. That was bracing.”
Tristan sat, hands trembling, and reached for his glass. Henry dealt another hand, the sound sharp and decisive. “You know,” he said, “if you ever decide to be less of a saint and more of a man, I would bet on your success.”
Tristan ignored the cards. He stared at the table, the lines of wood blurring into a map of all the places he could not go.
“I am not a saint,” he said.
Henry smiled. “Then prove it.”