Kindred Hearts (21 page)

It was a rhetorical question, but she answered it anyway. “Go to bed, Charlie.”

He nodded and left them, going to his room. The fire was banked, but the room was warm enough; he shed coat and boots and set them aside for Reid to deal with in the morning. He’d long ago trained his batman-cum-valet to retire at a reasonable hour; the day that Charles needed help undressing was the day he had an arm in a sling or something equivalent. But tonight he almost wished Reid were here, and talking the way he’d often heard Reston chatting with Tristan: it would be something to distract him from his worry. He peeled off his shirt and drew a nightshirt over his head, and just before he shed his trousers, he went to the connecting door and turned the knob, drawing the door open. The room was dark, the curtained bed a solid black square in the scant illumination from the banked fire in the fireplace.

“Tris?” he said in a low voice.

There was silence a moment, then Tristan responded, “What is it, Charles?” His voice sounded drained and weary.

“Charlotte said you were unwell. I was wondering if there is anything I could do?”

“No,” Tristan said. “Just go to bed. I’ll be better in the morning.”

“Shall we ride tomorrow? Red sky tonight says it will be fair.”

A long moment of silence, then the tired voice again. “If you like.”

“Good,” Charles said. “Goodnight, Tris.”

“Goodnight, Charles.”

He hesitated a long moment, then quietly shut the door.

Charles
knocked the snow off his feet before stepping into the foyer of the house that had become home in the last six weeks. Will, the footman, shivered as he closed the door behind him. “Foul night out, sir,” he said.

“No question,” Charles said, nodding. It was—cold, the snow mixed with rain and a stiff wind to drive the stuff into heretofore-unsuspected gaps in one’s outerwear. And he’d had to walk a mile through the filthy streets of Spitalfields before he could find a hack; fortunately the foul weather had kept the criminal elements indoors tonight.

The hospital had been more crowded than usual, of course; not only with more ill people in the bloody belly of February, but with those simply looking for a sheltered place to spend the night. Sorting them out wasn’t easy; almost all of them had some sort of catarrh or cough, but not all of them were interested in having a doctor look at them. Suspicion of the medical profession was in full flower as usual, despite the nasty weather.

He shrugged out of his greatcoat and scarf and handed them and his hat and gloves to Will. “Mr. Northwood still out?”

“No, sir. He’s been in the library most of the evening; I think he just went up to say goodnight to Master Jamie.”

“Ah, then he’ll likely be down again. I hope there’s a fire there?”

“Yes, sir, nice and hot, and I brought tea in not a half hour past.”

“Good.”

“Shall I go up and light the fire in your room after I’ve locked up, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” Charles took the cloth Will handed him and wiped his boots, then gave the cloth back and went into the library while Will locked up. It was as warm in there as advertised, the candelabra on the mantel blazing with light and the oil lamp on the desk casting a fine clear glow on the blotter.

There was a small leather-bound book open there, the kind that would fit into a man’s pocket, with a folded sheet of paper stuck in it as a sort of bookmark. Curious, Charles set his cup on the blotter and turned the book around to glance down at the page. It was a journal entry in Tris’s hand, dated with the day’s date. He caught only a glimpse of the first words beneath the date, then turned the book away, not wishing to invade Tristan’s privacy. Then the words he’d glanced at sank in, and his blood went cold. He turned the book again, gripping the front edge of the desk in shock and pain.

I can bear it no longer. I can’t live like this anymore. It must be tonight.

Everything is ready; the trust is solid, all loose ends have been taken care of. I will not be leaving my family with nothing. I trust my father and Charlotte’s and Charles to guard them and to look out for their future. The trust will support them comfortably and leave a legacy for my children, even above that which awaits Jamie as my father’s heir.

It’s been so long since I first crafted this plan, so many months of preparations. I wish that I could have stuck with the original; that Charlotte and the children were safely home at Lilac Cottage, far away from the ton, far away from the scandal that will follow my death.

I wish I knew if she carried a girl or a boy. But I cannot wait any longer. The dreams are worse, when I dare sleep, and even brandy does not help me sleep. I am going mad.

Charlotte deserves better than I can give her. The best I can do for her is to remove myself from her life.

My hesitancy about abandoning Charlotte so close to her time is assuaged by the fact that Charles is here. He will shield her from the worst of the scandal and his presence will calm her so that her health and the health of the child will not be endangered. She has never needed
me
, but he is a different story. I can depend on Charles.

Charlie.

My
Charlie.

My God, why? What is it about the man that so destroys any sense of calm I might once have had? Foolish question. It is not right that I should feel these strange emotions when I think of him. He is a man, not a woman, a man who would be horrified if he knew of the feelings I hide. This book comes with me tonight to Boodle’s and I will burn it before I take up my pistol. No one must ever know of the shame, lest it reflect on him, and that is nothing I would wish upon him. He has never been anything but a true, honest friend to me and to my wife. It is not his fault that I feel this lust. Not his fault. Only mine.

The list of my sins is so long

The entry ended there. Charles reread it, sick and hoping that he’d misread it the first time. The words were unchanged, so with trembling hands he lifted the folded sheet. It was a penciled draft of a letter, addressed to Charlotte.

My dear Lottie,

I regret that I have put you in such an untenable situation. Please know that if I had seen any other alternative, I would not have embarrassed you so terribly. It is only knowing that you have Charles to guard you that gives me the strength to set you free.

The documents you will need are in the top drawer of my desk in the library, in a folder marked “Charlotte.” This will give you all the information you need about the trust I have set up for you and the children, and contains a copy of my will, which is in the hands of my solicitor. His name and address are also in that folder. I have named Charles executor; I trust him to have your and the children’s best interests at heart. Please convey my deepest apologies to him for foisting such responsibility on him; if I were not convinced of his sincere affection for you I would have made other arrangements.

Please understand that what I have chosen to do does not reflect on you in any way. You have been the best wife I could have asked for. My respect and affection for you are boundless. I only wish I could have been a better husband to you, and a better father to Jamie. You both deserve so much more than I have given you, more than I would ever be able to give you. If there is one good thing I have ever done, it is my contribution to the wonder that is Jamie. I love him dearly, and take solace in the fact that he is too young to be distressed at my absence. Please, when he is older, tell him that his father loved him too well to inflict himself on him.

I trust that my father will accept Jamie far better than he ever did me. He will not find
him
a disappointment. Nevertheless, I pray that you will guard against any inadvertent cruelty my father may visit on him; I absolve him of deliberate evil, but know too well how sharp words can cut. I would protect Jamie from unkindness, as far as is possible.

Forgive me.

Your loving,

Tristan

He folded the letter and put it back into the journal, his mind numb and his gut roiling with horror. He stood holding the little book a moment, then shoved it into his coat pocket and turned to go after Tris. But Tristan was standing in the doorway, his face black with rage.

“What the
devil
do you think you’re doing?” He slammed the door and had Charles’s cravat in his fist before Charles had a chance to blink. “How
dare
you read my private correspondence?”

“How dare
you
contemplate this travesty?” Charles jerked loose, equally furious. “How dare
you
?”

“It’s none of your business.” Tristan was shaking. “Give me back my journal, you bastard!”

“No,” Charles snapped.

Tristan hit him, the well-trained blow knocking Charles back against the desk. Charles grabbed his fist as he drew it back for another shot, and Tristan kicked Charles’s feet out from under him. He went sprawling, his shoulder striking the edge of the desk, with Tristan atop him, his hands around Charles’s throat. “You bastard,” Tris snarled in fury, “you
bloody
bastard!”

Charles fought back, and it was the dirty fighting he’d learned in Spain, not the boxing skills he’d picked up at Jackson’s, breaking Tristan’s grip, shoving him off him and aiming a furious fist at Tristan’s solar plexus. But Tristan had apparently learned some dirty moves of his own; he dodged Charles’s blow and twisted out of range. Charles barely evaded a knee to the groin, and his head rang with a sneaky blow to the ear. They grappled in silence, the only sounds the grunts as a blow hit home or the scrape of furniture pushed across the oak floorboards as they rolled around, determined to hurt each other. At least Charles wanted to hurt Tristan. He suspected, in the corner of his mind that was not irrational with fear and rage, that Tristan fully intended to kill him.

They knocked over a small table and a bowl of potpourri went crashing to the carpet and rolling away, leaving rose petals and scented leaves strewn on the rug. Charles managed to get Tristan pinned underneath him, his arms dragged up over his head and held in place, Charles’s shins straddling Tristan’s thighs and holding him down. “Damn it, Tristan!” Charles roared. “What the bloody hell is the matter with you?”

Tristan didn’t answer, just squirmed, trying to break Charles’s hold. But he was tiring, Charles could see; his breath came in quick, shallow pants, his limbs trembling with strain, his face pale and sweaty. “Let me go, God damn you,” he gasped.

“So you can kill me?” Charles retorted.

“Yes, damn you!” That outburst seemed to take the last of Tristan’s strength; he sagged under Charles, going limp against the carpet. Charles shifted off him so that his knees rested on the carpet on either side of Tristan’s legs instead of directly on Tris. He didn’t release Tristan’s hands until he was sure Tristan wasn’t going to hit him again, then sat back on his heels.

“Damn you,” Tristan whispered bleakly, turning his head so his cheek rested against the wool rug and throwing an arm over his head.

“Why, Tris?” Charles asked, his voice rough with pain, his hands clenched on his thighs.

“Why what? Why did I hit you?”

“No. You know what I’m talking about.”

Tristan turned to look at him, his eyes glittering silver, his fine mouth drawn into an aristocratic sneer. “I hit you,” he said bitterly, as if deliberately misunderstanding Charles, “because you were nosing about in matters that don’t concern you. I thought you would prefer it to my calling you out, though I’m perfectly willing to settle it that way as well, if you have the courage.”

“Suicide by brother-in-law?” Charles asked. “I don’t think so, Tris.”