Page 9 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Tristan leaned against the mantel, a porcelain figure of a frolicking fawn in his hand. He turned it in his fingers, idly examining the tasteless ornament before returning it to its brethren on the cluttered mantelshelf. “I had forgotten that you were acquainted with the last Baron Fairford.”

“I knew of him. Can’t say I was ever fool enough to accept an invitation to his home.”

“Unlike me?”

Now in his late sixties, the Earl of Lynden looked every bit of his age. His hair had gone completely gray. His stern face was lined, his tall, broad-shouldered frame slightly bent under the weight of his years. This was a man who’d buried a much-beloved wife. A man who’d seen his youngest son return from fighting in the Crimea, damaged almost beyond repair. A hard man. And, at least in Tristan’s experience, a damnably unforgiving one.

“Unlike you,” Lord Lynden concurred.

Tristan folded his arms. The action played havoc with the line of his frock coat. Higgins would be none too pleased. He had just spent over an hour fussing about like a pestilent gnat while Tristan bathed, shaved, and dressed in a fresh suit of clothes. “I don’t make it a habit,” he said. “In truth, I’ve only accepted invitations here on two prior occasions. The last was more than two years ago.”

“As I’m well aware. What I wonder is why you accepted this one.”

“And what I wonder is how you found me. On the very day of my arrival, too. If I didn’t know better, I would think I had a spy in my household.”

Lord Lynden didn’t deny it. “There are some amongst your staff who still have their heads on straight.”

Tristan could not repress a scowl. No doubt it was that secretary of his. Musgrove. Confound his impudence. He was always popping his head up from his duties, spouting the most infernal advice. “He’ll be looking for a new position soon,” he muttered.

His father was unmoved. “Elizabeth expects the family down at Sinclair House for Christmas,” he said. “I understand she wrote you a letter.”

Tristan liked his brother’s wife well enough, though what she saw in John, he had no idea. The two had married last year, igniting something of a scandal. A true love match, people said. Tristan didn’t doubt it. He’d seen them together.

An experience he didn’t care to repeat more often than he must.

There was something profoundly disquieting about his younger brother being settled happily in the country with his sweet, beautiful wife and infant son. It wasn’t that Tristan begrudged them their happiness—God knew John deserved it after what he’d suffered during the war—but the sight of that happiness made Tristan’s own life seem so incredibly empty by comparison.

“Is that the reason behind your sudden flight to North Yorkshire? A wish to avoid spending Christmas in Devonshire?”

“That would be an extreme reaction.”

“For some. For you, it would be typical.” Lord Lynden paused before asking, “Are you jealous of him?”

“Of John?” Tristan laughed. “Not likely.”

“You could have the same as he has if you wanted it.”

“A wife like Elizabeth? That’s doubtful. Besides, you assume I want the life John has.” Tristan turned his head to look at his father. “I ask you, when have I ever wished to retire permanently to the country?”

Lord Lynden contemplated his eldest son with a frown. “You may no longer have a choice.”

“At last,” Tristan murmured. “We get to the substance of your visit.” He pushed himself from the mantel and moved leisurely to take a seat across from his father. “So what’s it to be this time? Do you intend to exile me to the country?”

“It’s not in my power to exile you.”

“I believe it is, sir. The only property I own outright is Blackburn Priory.”

“An estate you’ve neglected since I gave it to you on your twenty-first birthday.”

Tristan felt his temper rising. The estate in Northumberland was an ongoing bone of contention between him and his father. “A falling-down heap in the middle of nowhere, which you expected a lad to remove to and revive singlehanded.”

“Not just any lad,” Lord Lynden growled. “My son. My heir. Instead you’ve spent over a decade drinking and whoring and gambling away a fortune in cards. At five and twenty, I thought it was out of your system. And then at thirty and every year since. No more, I tell you. No more money. No more credit. If you wish an income, earn it from your own estate. Go to Northumberland and do what you should have done eleven years ago. I’ll not see the earldom bankrupted by your vices.”

Tristan had been expecting just such a threat. Nevertheless, his father’s words chilled him to the bone. “You won’t have failed to notice that my expenses have fallen dramatically in the past two years,” he replied in a surprisingly steady voice. “I’m hardly bankrupting the earldom.”

“No, indeed. It seems to me that you spend the majority of your time alone. Alone and drunk. That’s what worries me most of all.”

Damn Musgrove! Tristan fumed silently, imagining how satisfying it would be to throttle the man. Who else could have relayed such mortifying information to the earl? “My secretary has painted a grim picture for you. Though not, I regret, an entirely accurate one.”