Chapter 22
Tristan wasted a few precious moments by dithering in the room. His gut told him to follow Madeline at once, but his head warned him that she might want to be alone for a moment. His indecision did not last long, but it lasted long enough.
“Madeline, wait—” he cried, bursting out into the hallway, but the corridor was empty.
She was gone. Clenching his jaw, Tristan hurried along toward the box.
As the intermission began, people started flooding the halls.
They would be traveling between boxes to visit friends, family, lovers, and potential lovers.
This was a rich time in the evening. Like everything else in society, the opera was all about seeing and being seen.
Unless, of course, one had a reason for wanting to avoid attention.
Tristan burst into the box, already formulating what he would say to Madeline to get her in private again.
Arousal still pulsed through him, desire making him ache.
He had planned to show her that she could trust him by ignoring his own wants on this occasion.
She was afraid of falling pregnant; well, very well, he would make sure she did not.
It was easy enough to avoid if one was clever enough.
Madeline was not in the box. Dorothea was there, of course, as was James, and they glanced inquisitively up at him.
“Oh,” James remarked, blinking up at Tristan. “You look as angry as a bull. What is it?”
“More to the point, where is Madeline?” Dorothea asked, gaze sharpening.
“I… I do not know,” he stammered. “We had a small argument. She ran off, and I assumed she had come here.”
Dorothea sighed, shaking her head. “I think you might find that she has gone out to the carriage. You and I will be traveling home with James, I think, unless she remembers to send the carriage back for us.”
Tristan let out a long, ragged breath. “Well, I must speak to her.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Dorothea murmured.
“Yes, I would agree,” James added. “If she is distressed, then perhaps a little time is required for her to calm down.”
Tristan clenched his jaw. He could not, of course, explain to his mother and cousin what had gone on. Why could Madeline not understand? He had taken her to that room because she was the one he wanted, not because of Juliana.
“I must speak to her,” he repeated.
Dorothea sighed. “You can, of course, do as you wish, Tristan, but here is my advice. I do not know the details of what has happened here, but there may well be blame on both sides. Let her cool off, and you can straighten all of this out later.”
Tristan wavered. His mother spoke sense, and perhaps it would do him good to calm himself before speaking to Madeline. The woman had a knack for riling him up in every way imaginable.
He sank slowly into his seat, conscious of eyes on him. Not just his mother’s and cousin’s eyes, but eyes all over the opera. This was what people did at opera-houses—they looked at each other. What happened on the stage was secondary to what everybody else was doing.
People would note who was here and who was not; into whose boxes Miss So-and-So or Lady Somebody scuttled during the intermission. It was not uncommon to look up during the show and find a dozen or so opera glasses aimed toward one, all glinting in the candlelight.
Tristan hated the showiness of it all. Why couldn’t they enjoy the opera for its own sake?
There were quite a few opera glasses leveled his way now.
No doubt it would be commented upon in the scandal sheets that the Duke and Duchess of Tolford had slipped away from their box during the first act, and that the Duke returned alone at the intermission.
It would be casually mentioned that the Duchess had not returned at all.
Tristan closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. He had to calm himself. His instinct told him to chase after Madeline at once, but what good would that do? She wouldn’t return. She wanted space, and he ought to give it to her.
“You are right,” he said at last. “I’ll talk to her later.”
Surely with time, Madeline would understand that he had no ill intentions. Surely.
The music started up once more, a sure sign that the intermission was nearly over and the program was about to start again.
Tristan pointedly angled himself toward the stage, fairly certain that he would not take in a single thing about the show.
He felt eyes on him and glanced up to find James looking at him with a thoughtful look on his face.
James said nothing, however, so Tristan averted his gaze and waited for the opera to begin again.
Enough was enough. Madeline had not appeared at breakfast. Tristan had gone down early and sat at the table until it was clear that Madeline was not coming down, and the footmen were itching to clear the table.
He knew she had returned safely last night and, after checking on Adam, had retired straight to bed. Taking his mother’s advice, Tristan had decided to wait until the morning.
The plain fact was that she was right. Juliana had introduced him to that little room.
The opera singers and opera-dancers were ever popular with various gentlemen, and many operas had discreet nooks and rooms where an amorous couple could go for some privacy.
The workers at the opera knew not to barge into those rooms without first checking that they were empty.
But he honestly had not thought of Juliana when he brought Madeline there.
How could he, when he had Madeline in his arms, all soft and sweet and pliable?
He recalled how she’d gasped in his ear, her voice thick with pleasure, and how she’d clung to his shoulders as if to prevent herself from swooning away.
He swallowed, shifted his position, and tried to put away these thoughts. Not yet.
He rose abruptly and strode out of the dining room.
Behind him, the butler and footmen descended on the table, relieved to get breakfast over with so that they could get on with their day.
He climbed the stairs two and three at a time, and hurried along the corridor which led to Madeline’s room.
Knocking smartly on the door, he stepped back and waited.
The door creaked open, and he stepped forward at once, ready to say what he had planned.
The words died in his throat—a maid had answered the door. Behind her, he could see another maid tidying and making the bed.
“Where is Her Grace?” Tristan managed at last.
The maid blinked nervously. “She’s gone out, Your Grace.”
“Gone out?”
The girl nodded hard. “Yes, Your Grace. Early, before breakfast. She took young Master Adam.”
A cold sensation swept through Tristan’s chest. He swallowed repeatedly, trying to moisten his mouth.
“And… And where has she gone?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“I see. Did she pack a bag?”
The maid frowned at what was a decidedly odd question. “I don’t know, Your Grace. I didn’t see one, and she didn’t ask me to pack one.”
“Of course, of course. And you are sure you don’t know where she’s gone?”
The maid, now looking thoroughly worried, shook her head. “I’m sure, Your Grace. Am… Am I in trouble?”
“No, not at all. I shall let you continue with your work.”
Tristan turned on his heel and strode down the hallway, heart thumping. He was aware of the maids—both maids, probably—standing in the doorway and gawping at him.
Surely she hasn’t taken the baby and left me. Surely she wouldn’t do that to me.
But might she not react sharply if she thought he had betrayed her? A clear answer was not presenting itself. There was only one thing for it—he would have to investigate himself, and hope for the best.
If Isaac and Charlotte were surprised when Tristan came striding into their parlor, they did not let on. They were sitting side by side on a sofa, respectively reading a newspaper and a book, and glanced up at him with only a mild curiosity.
“Hello, old chap,” Isaac said at last. “I didn’t expect you to visit this early in the morning.”
“Well, here I am,” Tristan responded tightly. “Is Madeline here?”
“No, she isn’t. Why?”
“She’s gone missing,” Tristan stated.
Charlotte carefully marked her place in her book and set it aside, leaning forward.
“Gone missing? What a dreadful thing,” she murmured. “How long has she been missing?”
“She went out before breakfast with the baby.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows shot up. She glanced pointedly at the clock, which read a quarter past eleven. “I am not sure we need to send out the search parties just yet.”
Tristan clenched his jaw, irritated by her sarcastic tone.
“She should have told me that she was going out. She should have told me where she was going.”
“I see,” Charlotte shot back, leaning back in her seat. “And I suppose that you, of course, always do her the courtesy of telling her where you are going and when, every single time you leave the house?”
Tristan did not bother to reply, as he was fairly sure that Charlotte already knew the answer.
“The thing is, Tristan,” she continued after a moment of taut silence, “you are not truly concerned about Madeline. You feel entitled to know her whereabouts. You are not.”
“I am concerned,” he insisted. “We parted on bad terms last night, and I suppose I am afraid that she is going to take Adam—my nephew—and flee to France or something.”
“Madeline? Flee to France with a baby? You are mad,” Charlotte snapped, giving a high, mirthless laugh.
She’s angry at me, Tristan realized, with a jolt of surprise.
“You know where she is,” he murmured, a plain statement of fact.
Charlotte sniffed, picking at her skirts. “Of course I do. And perhaps if you were kinder to your wife, Your Grace, she would also have told you.”
Silence hung in the air between them. Isaac, who was now on his feet, shifted awkwardly, glancing between his wife and his friend.
“Perhaps you ought to tell him, Charlotte,” he said at last, wincing.
Charlotte sighed heavily. “She has gone to St. Naomi’s.”
Tristan went still. “St. Naomi’s? Why?”
Charlotte frowned. “What do you mean, why? Madeline adores her charity work. She has visited the place quite often. I imagine she thought that the airing would do Adam good, and I agree with her. If I weren’t already spending the day with my husband, I would have wanted to go with her.”
Tristan swallowed hard, raking a hand through his hair.
“St. Naomi’s,” he muttered. “She visits St. Naomi’s.”
The nuns, sheltered from the world and without access to scandal sheets, would likely not connect the shy, kindly Madeline with the shocking Duke of Tolford. They might not even know about her marriage.
“Thank you,” he added briefly, turned on his heel, and went striding away. He had made it to the hall before he heard hurrying footsteps following him, and turned to see Isaac behind him.
“I can’t stay,” Tristan said shortly.
Isaac sighed. “I know. What on earth did you and Madeline argue about?”
A footman handed over Tristan’s hat and helped him into his coat.
“None of your business,” Tristan responded curtly.
Isaac rolled his eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tristan, it’s me.”
“Nevertheless, I can manage my own business.”
Isaac stepped forward, neatly coming between Tristan and the door.
“Charlotte is concerned about her friend,” he said firmly. “You must not hurt her, Tristan. You won’t be forgiven if you do.”
“I have no intention of hurting her.”
“Don’t you? I don’t think you know what your intentions are, my friend.”
Tristan scowled and tried to step around his friend. Isaac, undeterred, stepped in front of him once more.
“With the greatest respect, Isaac, I do not need to be told how to handle my wife.”
“Even if that were true—and I am not sure it is—I think you certainly do need to be told how to handle your feelings.”
Tristan had not expected to hear this. He blinked, missed a beat, and met Isaac’s gaze squarely.
“What did you say?”
Isaac lifted his chin. “You heard me. I know you well, my friend, and I am not trying to lecture you or clip your wings. I do not want to see Madeline—or you—get hurt.”
“I have no feelings for her,” Tristan managed at last. “Beyond fondness, of course.”
“Ha!”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me. This whole business is nothing important, really. I do not need to care for my wife as anything more than a friend.”
“I do not believe you,” Isaac stated.
Tristan stared at him, frowning.
“She doesn’t deserve any of this,” he said at last, his voice quieter than he had expected. “She does not deserve to have a man like me becoming… becoming obsessed with her. I will do her damage. The greatest kindness I could show that woman would be to leave her alone.”
Isaac exhaled slowly. “You are not your father, Tristan. You could never be like him.”
Tristan flinched visibly, hating himself for the reaction. It was a sharp reminder that no matter how hard one worked, no matter how stoic one might be, one’s feelings could never quite be suppressed.
Although my father seemed to achieve it very nicely. Humiliating my mother every day of her life, beating my brother and me like dogs. God, I hated him. I still do hate him. Sometimes I think that it is lucky for us both that he is dead, or else I might have killed him and swung for it.
Swallowing, he gave himself a little shake and met Isaac’s eye. Isaac was watching him dubiously, chewing his lower lip.
“Why don’t you stay here for a while with Charlotte and me?” Isaac asked quietly. “Give Madeline a chance to recover. See them later today. You are too hasty by far, my friend. Too hasty.”
She makes me hasty. She makes me hurry as though I am running out of time.
“Perhaps I am,” he said at last. “But perhaps there is a reason for my haste. Step aside, Isaac. I must see her.”
Isaac nodded slowly, moving out of the way.
“Think about what I have said,” he stated simply.
Tristan nodded tightly. “I can assure you I will think of little else.”
Then, cramming his hat on his head, he stepped past his friend and hurried out of the door.