Chapter 12 #2
Tristan made his way to the library, where the fire had already been lit.
He poured himself a measure of cognac before asking a footman to bring a glass of sherry for Lady Blackmere.
He lowered himself into one of the armchairs, took up his book, and resumed the volume he had hoped to finish before the evening was out.
It proved a futile endeavor. Before long, he found himself listening for footsteps in the passage instead, and when the library door finally opened, he looked up to find Helena entering with her sketchbook and box of charcoal.
Helena took the chair opposite him, her sketchbook resting across her lap as she selected a stick of charcoal.
Neither felt any need to disturb the silence.
Tristan read on, absorbing what he could from a volume that had failed to improve with each successive chapter, while Helena's charcoal moved lightly across the page.
Before long, the faint rasp of its movement drew his notice more often than the book itself.
At length, he looked up from his book.
Helena was watching him. There was no embarrassment in her expression when their eyes met, only a thoughtful attentiveness he could not quite interpret. Neither of them looked away. The fire burned softly in the grate, and the longcase clock in the library marked the passing seconds.
"I am glad you are here," Tristan said at last, his voice low and truthful.
Helena's smile was gentle. "I am glad to be here."
A comfortable silence returned before Tristan nodded toward the sketchbook resting upon her lap. "May I ask what has occupied you so diligently this evening?"
Helena lowered her eyes to the page, and a blush crept across her cheeks. "It is only a study."
"May I see it?"
She hesitated before rising and carrying the sketchbook to him. Without a word, she turned it so he could see.
Tristan looked down in astonishment; she had drawn his portrait while he read.
It was not a polished portrait intended for display, but a careful study that captured him exactly as he sat before the fire, book in hand.
The likeness was remarkable, yet it was the thoughtfulness in the expression that surprised him most. She had observed something of him that he had never considered another person might notice.
He lifted his eyes to hers. "Helena, this is extraordinary."
The color in her cheeks deepened. "I feared you might think it terribly forward."
"Not in the least. I am honored." His gaze returned to the page for another moment before he handed the sketchbook back to her. "You possess a rare talent."
Helena accepted the compliment with a shy smile before returning to her chair.
Tristan picked up his book once more, though the words remained no more engaging than they had been before.
He knew he ought to guard his affections more carefully, yet as he listened once again to the quiet rasp of charcoal upon paper, aware of her presence so close to him, he found that the thought brought him remarkably little concern.
There came a soft knock at the library door a moment later. "Come in."
A footman stepped inside and bowed. "My Lord, my apologies for disturbing you."
Tristan looked up from his book.
The servant hesitated only briefly before continuing. "If I might have a word with you, My Lord."
It was unlike the man to be so guarded. Tristan glanced toward Helena before rising.
"If you will excuse me."
"Of course." Helena smiled.
He followed the footman into the passage, the library door closing quietly behind them. "What is it?"
"A gentleman has called, My Lord." The footman lowered his voice as they made their way downstairs. "Or rather... not a gentleman. A tradesman, perhaps. I was uncertain whether to admit him, but he insists he carries a note intended for Your Lordship and would say nothing further."
Tristan frowned.
"He claims he was engaged only to deliver it. I thought Your Lordship would wish to know the particulars before I turned him away," the footman explained.
"Quite right," Tristan responded. “Thank you.”
They descended the staircase into the entrance hall, where a plainly dressed man stood just inside the open doorway, cap twisting anxiously between his hands. At the sight of Tristan, he bowed so hurriedly that he nearly dropped it. "Good evening, My Lord. I beg your pardon for calling so late."
"Good evening," Tristan said. "I understand you have something for me."
The man's grip on his cap loosened a fraction.
"Yes, My Lord." The man reached into his coat and produced a folded note.
"I was walking home after visiting my sister, she is in service nearby.
A gentleman stopped me in the street and asked if I'd deliver this here.
" He hesitated. "He gave me half a crown for the trouble. "
Tristan accepted the folded paper with a nod of thanks before looking back at the messenger. "Do you happen to know the gentleman who entrusted this to you?" he asked.
The man shook his head. "No, My Lord."
"Did you see enough of him to describe him?"
The man looked apologetic as he answered. "I'm afraid not, My Lord. It was dark, and he kept his hat low. I couldn't rightly make out his face."
Tristan studied him for a moment. There was nothing in the fellow's manner to suggest he was withholding anything. "Very well," he said. "You have done exactly as you were asked, and I am obliged to you for bringing it to me."
The man's expression brightened with evident relief. "Thank you, My Lord."
"I wish you a safe walk home," Tristan replied.
With a grateful bow, the messenger took his leave. The footman closed the front door behind him, leaving the entrance hall silent once more.
His eyes immediately caught the familiar hand.
It was the same script as the anonymous warning that had accompanied the baron's first letter.
Whether it belonged to the baron himself or to the unknown person who had sent the earlier warning, he could not yet say.
He would compare the two letters more carefully when he returned to his chambers.
If you seek the truth, begin with the nurse. She knows what your wife discovered.
His gaze remained fixed upon the writing.
The message was infuriatingly brief, offering no indication of which nurse the writer meant or what truth his late wife had supposedly uncovered.
Yet one thing was abundantly clear: Whoever had penned the note knew enough of his past to wield Elinor’s memory with deliberate purpose.
Folding the paper, Tristan quickly made for his study. He unlocked the drawer of his desk and withdrew the baron's most recent letter before making his way upstairs to his chambers to retrieve the first letter the baron had sent, together with the anonymous warning that had accompanied it.
He spread the letters side by side upon his bed, comparing the handwriting with deliberate care.
The baron's correspondence was bold and assured, each stroke of the pen confident, almost impatient. The anonymous notes were altogether different, the letters smaller and more carefully formed, though written with evident haste.
Tristan compared them once more and was satisfied they had not been written by the same person.
The conclusion brought little comfort. If the baron had not written the warnings, then someone else had been watching events unfold from the beginning. Whether that person sought to help him or merely to direct him toward some unknown purpose remained impossible to determine.
He gathered the letters together and placed them in the drawer beside his bed.
By the time he returned to the library, Helena had resumed her sketching.
She looked up as he entered, offering him a warm smile before lowering her eyes once more to the page.
Tristan resumed his place opposite her and picked up the neglected volume, wondering whether he should tell her about the notes.