Chapter 7
Seven
“What a display you put on last night, old chap!” Ernald Thynne, Earl of Newton, exclaimed.
He strode into view around a bay window, his wife Elizabeth on his arm. Striding was not the most accurate term to describe Ernald’s gait. He was too portly. A waddle was more correct.
“Newton,” Tristan greeted, rising from the bench where he had situated himself to watch the sunrise.
He smiled, and for once, it was not forced. There were a few people whose society he did not avoid. Ernald, his old school friend, was one such.
“Newton,” Ernald mimicked, “how formal he is. We have battled together on the playing fields of Eton, endured the lash for each other’s misdemeanors, and he greets me like everyone’s least favorite brother-in-law on the scrounge for a pound.”
“He is merely less loquacious than you are, my dear,” swan-like Elizabeth said, patting her husband’s arm.
“I did not see you, Elizabeth, last night. Did you leave me to endure the first evening of this circus alone?” Tristan asked.
“I arrived in time to see you devastate the Dowager Duchess’ first game,” Elizabeth said in a chiding tone.
Tristan scoffed. “Ridiculous. I played the game for as long as I could and left when I could stand no more.”
“Or when you had achieved your objective?” Elizabeth said with an arched eyebrow.
She was rapier sharp while her husband tended towards sledgehammer blunt.
“What would that be?” Tristan asked innocently.
“I will leave you, gentlemen, to discuss that. I will stretch my legs,” Elizabeth said, taking her leave.
“A fine woman, I don’t know what I would do without her,” Ernald said.
“Nor do I,” Tristan said sardonically.
“And now, old friend, why don’t you tell me about the woman you wish to make indispensable in your household?”
Tristan looked at his old friend, at the gleam in his eye.
He has learned a fair bit of sharpness from his wife. Time was, he would not have noticed a thing except the buffet.
“Does the name Christine Davidson of Southbria,” Tristan said, “mean anything to you?”
Ernald frowned, rubbing his palms together the way he always did when thinking. “Southbria? Yes, wasn’t that the cad who ran off with everyone’s money?”
“Charles Davidson, Earl of Southbria. Yes, cad is the least of the words I would use to describe him. A fraudster would be a factual term for him.”
“Wait!” Ernald said, catching on, “This Christine person is his wife?”
Tristan laughed. “His sister,” he corrected.
“Ah, sister. Right,” Ernald walked in silence for a moment, and then the last penny dropped, “I see! So, you’re after the brother!”
“My uncle lost a great deal of money to Charles Davidson…before he died. I am still paying off the debts he accrued, trying to balance the books.”
Ernald looked at him askance. “I know that tone. I’ve heard it before. You’re after revenge. You’ve got a just fate planned for that rogue Southbria, and you plan to use the sister to draw him out! Tell me I’m wrong!”
Tristan scowled as Ernald’s voice boomed out.
“You are not wrong. But I do not like your choice of words. I do not intend to use her.”
“You plan to get close to her to find her brother,” Ernald said, stubbornly.
“I do not hold Lady Christine responsible for her brother’s actions. I intend no harm or malice towards her. I think she can lead me to her brother, yes.”
“And how far will you go to get that information, hmm?” Ernald asked.
Tristan did not answer.
I have already offered a betrothal, albeit one of pure convenience. Marriage? Would I go that far?
The answer was simple. Yes, he would.
Tristan entered the breakfast room, having taken his leave of Ernald. It was airy and genteel, set with clusters of small tables, and already half a dozen gentlemen and ladies murmured together over tea. He sought the farthest corner, tucked away behind a large potted plant. But found it occupied.
Christine sat alone at the little table by the window, sunlight falling over her like a spotlight. Tristan hesitated, then inclined his head.
“May I?”
Her eyes flicked up. Something unreadable crossed them—hesitation, calculation, then a small smile. “Of course.”
He took the chair opposite. Silence thickened between them, filled only by the distant clink of porcelain. She reached for her cup, steady enough that he would not guess at nerves. He knew better.
“How did you sleep?” he asked, the question banal, safe.
“Very well,” she replied. “The room is most comfortable, especially compared to…” She faltered, color rising in her cheeks.
Tristan’s gaze sharpened. “Compared to what?”
Her lashes lowered. “Other accommodations I have known.”
Odd answer. And she knew it. He let it go, not wishing to stumble into a quarrel.
“And you, Your Grace?” she asked smoothly. “Did you rest?”
“Tolerably well.” He sipped his coffee, eyes on her.
A pause, then she tilted her head. “Have you yet had a chance to walk the grounds? They are said to be quite fine.”
“I did,” he said evenly, “a stroll before dawn… A habit of mine.”
Christine’s lips curved, too faintly to be called a smile. “How very…romantic. Greeting the dawn…”
Tristan’s jaw clenched. “You have never tried it?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. It is not possible at Gillray House.”
“The grounds do not allow it? Are they so unkempt?”
“Not at all. Lady Gillray maintains an excellent garden. I…it is not permitted.”
She blushed furiously, burying her face in a teacup.
“You make it sound as though you were a prisoner,” Tristan forced a laugh to show that his words were spoken in jest.
“I am not a prisoner,” Christine snapped.
She looked away, taking a deep breath. Tristan studied her profile, unable to stop himself. The soft paleness of her neck. The strong shape of her face. Strong but feminine and so vulnerable.
“Perhaps I shall persuade Blanche to accompany me,” she said, at last, turning back to him.
Opportunity opened like a door. “If you wish, I would be glad to escort you.”
A flicker in her eyes. Victory? Amusement? “I do not think it wise. Alone.”
“I would not suggest it alone,” he said smoothly, masking his irritation. “With your friend, of course. I would not dream of offering to walk with you unchaperoned.”
“That would set tongues wagging. I fear that they wag for me too much already,” Christine said.
The words slid between them like a blade.
Tristan’s mouth hardened. “The thing I detest most in society,” he said slowly, “is this endless fencing of words. No one speaks plainly, all hiding behind innuendo. It is…tedious. You refer to your brother when you talk of wagging tongues.”
“I do. It is no secret.”
“It is not. All know yet none speak of it aloud. They whisper behind your back, particularly. I recognize the signs. They whisper of me, too.”
“And what have you done to justify such attention?” Christine asked.
“I have not stolen from anyone. Or bankrupted anyone,” Tristan said, coolly.
“Ah, so you wished to join me in order to attack me through my brother?”
“Not at all. But I do wish to find him.”
“I think I have said that I do not know where he is.”
“Indeed.”
“I am not in the habit of telling lies,” Christine said, hotly.
“I did not suggest it.”
“Then you should consider the views you have expressed on speaking plainly. For you do not seem to be following your own desires on that subject.”
“I can assure you that I will not conceal my intentions from you. I wish to help you in return for your help in finding your brother. I am not afraid to speak my mind and not to beat around the bush. I cannot say the same for most here.”
Christine’s color flared. “Not all have your freedom, my lord. A servant, for example, cannot speak his mind to a master. Nor can a young woman go to a guardian she fears.”
He gave a dismissive shrug. “Fear is the choice of the weak.”
Her eyes flashed. “Easily said by a duke. Tell me, have you ever needed to fear the consequence of speaking your mind?”
“I have suffered them, my lady, often enough.”
The air between them was taut as wire, the very table trembling beneath their duel of words.
Tristan leaned back, fighting the unfamiliar sensation of being outmatched, or rather, of being matched at all.
She was playing his game, and worse, she was winning.
Before he could retort, a warm, commanding voice cut across them.
“My dears!” The dowager duchess, resplendent in lavender silk, swept to their table, “How delightful to see two of my most eligible guests finding each other so early. I take it as a very good omen.”
Christine’s blush deepened. Tristan schooled his features into polite neutrality.
“The first game of the week begins after breakfast,” the old lady went on. “I expect to see you both. It would please me enormously.”
Tristan inclined his head. “We would not dream of disappointing you, madam.”
The Dowager moved on, leaving silence in her wake.
Christine raised her cup again, though her hand trembled faintly now. “Well,” she said lightly, “I suppose we must be very careful. It seems the whole house is already writing its story for us.”
Tristan met her gaze. “Let them write.”
For once, she looked unsettled. But only for a heartbeat. Then her eyes sharpened again. Tristan smiled, turning his eyes to the paintings that decorated the wall as he sipped tea. He felt her gaze on him for a few moments longer.
What is her story? There are hints, clues that I do not think she intends to give. I must discover what life is like for her at Gillray House.
As soon as he thought it, Tristan wanted to dismiss the thought as superfluous nonsense.
He was offering her security, the chance to be free of Gillray House.
But he could not dislodge the sight of her blushing face when she felt she had said too much.
The face of a person ashamed by the circumstances and not wanting anyone to know.