Kindred Hearts (3 page)

There was an option for him to refuse—with the result that his allowance would cease, the lease on his rooms at Albany would be canceled, and the only concession to his living arrangements would be the offer of a purchase of a cornetcy in the cavalry. Tristan stared at this last in disbelief. “You’d cut me off?”

“No, but I would insist on your going into the army,” his father said coldly. “I have failed to make a man of you; if you choose not to let a wife make the attempt, perhaps the army will succeed instead. Lady Charlotte’s twin brother Charles has made a successful career as a cavalry officer; I don’t doubt that you’d do equally well. If you put your mind to it.”

“No doubt,” Tristan said, equally coldly. “You’d prefer me to be someone else’s responsibility? Or is it that you’d rather see me dead than your heir? I’m sure that distant cousin would be more amenable to your plans.”

“I am
trying
to save your damn life, boy! You have pissed away every opportunity I have given you. You have one last chance to turn your life around.”

“One last chance to let you control me,” Tristan said bitterly. “One last chance to show the world that the great Baron Ware can manage his heir just as well as he manages all his wealth and properties and investments and businesses. Well, do you know what, Father? Make your damn arrangements. I’ll be at St. George’s, and I’ll give you your bloody heirs, and may you be damned with them.” He snatched up a quill, shoved it unceremoniously in the inkwell, and scrawled his name at the bottom of the paper. “I’ll fuck your Lady Charlotte until she bursts with children, and then shove her back into the damned country where she belongs and then your ‘rumors’ will seem like nothing in comparison to the mud I’ll drag your precious name through.”

His father’s lips were a thin seam, but he took the sheet wordlessly and placed it in the pile on his desk. Tristan stood, dropped the inky quill on the carpet at his feet, and walked out.

Collecting
his coat, hat, and gloves from an expressionless Fulton, Tristan stormed out of the building. At the end of the street, instead of turning right toward home, he walked down Curzon Street, crossed Park Lane, and entered the park, abandoning the more traveled paths for a sheltered spot he knew altogether too well. A bench sat on a slight rise beyond the Serpentine, with a view of the water though almost hidden from the strollers nearby. He flung himself onto the bench and covered his eyes with his hands.

Marriage. Not the kind of marriage he’d always sort of dreamed he’d have, with a woman he truly cared about—even if he’d never yet met her—but the kind of marriage he’d made such a career out of flouting. Marriage to a stranger, a woman with whom he shared no interests, no common acquaintance that he knew of, a woman he’d never even
seen
before. He’d never met the Honorable Charles Mountjoy, but knew what was meant by a “successful cavalry officer”—one who sat on his fat arse while sending his men out to die. Not the kind of man he would find interesting. He knew her brother, the Honorable Daniel Mountjoy, slightly; they belonged to some of the same clubs, but where Tristan and his friends frequented Angelo’s and Jackson’s, Mountjoy’s set preferred the gaming hells Tristan found boring. He wondered dully if Mountjoy’s sister was a gambling sort; if so, he’d soon put a stop to it.

He shook his head wearily. What made him think he would have any more control over his wife’s behavior than he did anything else in his life? Everything he did seemed to be a reaction rather than an action: drink too much because his father disapproved of it, take meaningless risks because he was his father’s sole heir, bed women he couldn’t marry for much the same reason. God knew that at this point he didn’t sleep with women because he got any great enjoyment out of it. Work to get the woman satisfied, then a few minutes of his own pleasure, a moment of blissful oblivion, and then it was over. Barely worth it anymore.

The sound of footsteps, and an automatic reaction; he leaned back, his arms across the back of the bench, his legs crossed and one Hessian swinging idly, the very picture of an idle buck enjoying the April morning. A pair of girls came giggling up the path; they hesitated on noticing him, but when he touched the brim of his curly beaver, they curtseyed hastily, giggled again, and hurried off down the way.

They made him feel old. Did his betrothed giggle? He hoped not—she was twenty-four, after all, and a woman that firmly on the shelf had no right to giggle like a schoolroom miss.

His betrothed. God. Maybe the cavalry was the right choice. But then he thought about having to bow to the demands of one of the officers he knew: arrogant, privileged, more concerned with their own comfort than that of their men, quick to lash out at imagined insult, quicker to punish imagined rebellion. Of the parade of battered veterans begging on every street corner, of the lists of casualties printed in every edition of the Times, the retired officers in his clubs missing an arm, a leg, an eye. He was a coward, he knew it, but the idea of coming back half a man frightened him worse than not coming back at all—perhaps crippled, forever helpless at the hands of a man who hated him…. He felt ill. No, marriage, even to a woman who despised him, would be better than that. And she would despise him, there was no doubt in his mind about that.

He climbed to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. No matter. He had an appointment for lunch with his friend Gibson and after that, a lesson with Henry Angelo. He would keep his appointment with his wedding with the same consistency as those, as unappealing as it was—he made it a point of honor to never miss an appointment, no matter how drunk he might be. He might be a womanizing sot, but he was by God an
honorable
womanizing sot. He snorted a laugh at the joke, and was laughing still as he headed down the path toward the street.

“Mr. Tristan Northwood.”

Tristan’s hostess hurried forward at the sound of his name, reaching out a hand to grasp his. “Mr. Northwood! So happy to see you. You must tell us
all
about it! Such a wicked boy to keep such a thing a secret!”

“I take it the notice was in the Times today,” Tristan said.

Lady Raegood nodded. “I was not even aware that your family was acquainted with the Mountjoys, and here you are betrothed to Lady Charlotte! Such a sweet girl. I was at school with her, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Tris admitted, then said with a smile, “but she must have been years ahead of you.”

“Oh, go on,” Lady Raegood simpered. “Oh, we were separated by some years, but I shan’t say in which direction! Of course, she was always more mature than her age—such a difficulty, being the only girl in
such
a family.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, not that they’re not perfectly acceptable,” his hostess amended quickly. “But all
men
, you know. So difficult for a young girl. Her twin brother is delightful, of course.”

“I understand that he is in the cavalry?”

“Yes, one of the dragoon regiments. He’s in Spain or Portugal or one of those other heathen places.” She sighed dramatically. “We were all quite in
love
with him when he came to visit Lottie. That uniform! Those eyes! Those
shoulders
!”

“He sounds quite a paragon,” Tristan said dryly.

She laughed. “Oh, quite. But we were just silly schoolgirls at the time.” She flirted her eyes up at him.

Inwardly he sighed, but only said, “I trust I may have the honor of a dance with you later in the evening?”

“Of course, Mr. Northwood.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You may have as many as you like.”

He smiled down at her gallantly, suppressing the urge to run back out into the rainy night. He was to meet Gibson and Berkeley here; an hour or two to socialize, then they’d be off to a certain pub for some more pleasant entertainment. “We’d best keep to two,” he said, “else there will be talk. As long as one of them is a waltz?”

“Of course,” Lady Raegood said instantly. She glanced over her shoulder. The middle-aged Lord Raegood was with a group of his cronies, guffawing over some joke. In an undertone, she said, “Perhaps later we could meet in a more… private setting?”

“Alas,” Tristan said smoothly, “I’ve another appointment this evening. Another time?”

She looked disappointed, but rallied. “By all means,” she cooed. “I drive in the Park most afternoons; perhaps if you were walking there I could take you up for a turn or two?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Tristan said. He took her card and wrote his name next to two dances, noting that the other waltz was taken by Geoffrey de Salis, another of the more disreputable rakes of the ton. So little Betsy Raegood was hedging her bets? Good for her. And with Geoffrey in the running, he himself didn’t need to take on another inamorata—at least not just yet. Betsy Raegood
was
a prime piece; he’d thought her devoted to her older husband, but apparently appearances were
very
deceptive. He felt a little depressed at another example of the faithlessness of the aristocracy, of which he was such a prime example, but smiled encouragingly down at her before taking his leave and going to find Gibs.

He hadn’t quite escaped the ballroom when he came face to face with Barbara Abernathy. “Rumor has it that you’re getting married.” She flared her fan and peered at him coquettishly over the top.

“Yes, it’s true. An arrangement between our parents. Cash for her, posterity for my father.” He took her arm and led her a little aside, into an alcove where they could be seen clearly, but not overheard.

“Then I trust you will respect the bonds of matrimony as well as you ever have?” she said, giggling.

He glanced down at her. “Of course,” he said dryly. “I don’t see where my life needs to change in any substantive measure.” He considered, then went on. “No doubt, however, I will not be able to visit next Wednesday as usual—I would imagine my bride expects some sort of honeymoon or something of the sort. The following Wednesday will, I’m sure, be a different story.”

“It’s so obliging of William to keep to such a regular schedule,” Barbara observed. “I do wish I could see you more often, but his Wednesday card games are the one time I can be absolutely sure he will remain occupied. Besides, you keep to a rather busy schedule yourself, do you not? I understand Mrs. Foote’s husband was quite irate with her over a coquelicot waistcoat found in her bedchamber Thursday week.”

“Oh, good God,” Tristan sighed. “Deborah Foote. I had quite forgot her. I met her at the Templemoors’.”

“I
thought
that was your waistcoat. You have impeccable taste in everything except waistcoats.” She fingered the gold-and-cream-striped example he wore today. “This one is not
too
horrible, but some of them…!”

“I wear them to irritate Baron Ware,” Tristan said. “I don’t often see him, but I know a number of his friends regularly report back to him about me.”

“Ah,” Barbara said. “Is
that
how you ended up in this pickle?”

He shrugged. “Hardly a pickle. For a minor inconvenience, I win more or less free of his interference—at least for a while. And I suppose it is inevitable—I am quite nearly thirty, after all. Time to start the nursery and all that.”

She snorted delicately. “It’s different for a man, age.”

“My delectable darling, ‘age cannot wither you nor custom stale your infinite variety’.”

“That sounds like a quote,” she said suspiciously. “Shakespeare, I think?”

“You think correctly,” he said. “Antony, referring to Cleopatra. Though I trust my upcoming marriage will not encourage you to engage the services of an asp?”

“My darling Tristan,” Barbara said in the same tone, “I haven’t the faintest idea what an asp is.”

He chuckled, bowed correctly, and took his leave.

Charlotte Mountjoy
sat serenely in the chair in front of her father’s desk, regarding calmly the mess of papers, quills, half-empty drinking glasses, stray playing cards, and snuffboxes. It was Papa’s mess; she didn’t think she’d ever seen it any other way. It was comfortable in its own way, a representation of the way the household worked. He let her run the rest of the house the way she wanted; he was free to mess up his bookroom as much as he wanted. Unspoken, but no less an agreement.

On the other hand, Papa himself looked uncomfortable, which was unusual. Papa rarely let things make him uncomfortable; if they did, he either ran roughshod over them or ignored them, whichever was appropriate. She was perfectly happy being ignored. As long as there was plenty of food and drink, he was as perfectly happy as she.

This discomfort threatened to disturb that happiness. She had an inkling of what it was about, and hoped she was wrong.

For the last three years, ever since her last Season on the Marriage Mart, he’d occasionally made comments about her unmarried state. She mostly hadn’t paid attention, since he quite depended on her for his comfort, and as he was quite as selfish as she, she doubted that he would make any attempt at any activity that would result in him losing her as housekeeper. He’d been happy enough to oblige her and turn away her several prospective suitors during her three Seasons. She was only a girl, after all, and the substantial gift from her mother had left her quite well enough off that she need not marry for money as so many of her contemporaries did. There seemed no reason to be rid of her.

But over the course of the last several weeks, subterranean grumbling overheard between him and his heir, her older brother Daniel, signaled a shift in the Earth’s surface. Money troubles. Her plans for a settled, retired spinsterhood were about to be disrupted.

Two weeks ago Papa had uprooted the family from their country home and dragged the household to their drafty townhome in London. The first week Charlotte had been obliged to supervise the cleaning of the place top to bottom, as well as the hiring of several new servants, since Papa had of course both neglected to advise the London staff that they would be arriving and neglected to inform her ahead of time so that she could do so. So it was a full seven-day of housecleaning, shopping, organizing, ordering, and reordering. Thank God for Ellen Bayes, her cousin and companion, whose natural domesticity got and kept things running smoothly. All Charlotte had to do was make decisions.

Charlotte herself was undomestic—her sole household skill was hiring excellent servants. She was quite good at reading people. But in order to find honest, organized, hard-working servants, one had to have a selection to hire from, and the various agencies seemed to be taking delight in sending her absolutely unacceptable candidates. It took her nearly the whole fortnight to fill three staff positions, the last only this morning.

And now she had to deal with whatever Papa’s febrile brain had come up with.

She folded her hands and waited placidly.

He stared at her, his bloodshot eyes vague. After a moment, he said, “Er. Humph.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said agreeably.

“Harrumph. Well. Lottie. Past time you were thinking of getting married.”

Oh, drat
, she thought. She’d been right. With a faint sigh, she said, “If you think so, Papa.”

“Right. I do think so. Gel your age ought to be thinking about settin’ up your own household, not managing your Papa’s.”

“Yes, Papa.”

He frowned at her, then pointed his unlit cheroot at her. “Thinkin’ about it, are you?”

“Only since you mentioned it, Papa.”

“I’ve arranged a thing for you. Ware’s whelp. Good age. Ripe for settlin’. Told Ware you were willin’, ’cause you are, aren’t you?”

“Ware’s whelp”? She thought a moment. Oh, Baron Ware. His son was Something Northwood. Something fanciful—Lochinvar? Lancelot? No—Tristan, that was it. One of her many correspondents had just written her about him, something about a drunken theater party and him ending up on stage after the romantic lead had stormed off in a huff. He’d taken up the role instead and finished to laughter and great applause.