Page 42 of The Duke’s Suspicion

Alone. The unspoken word hung in the air for a moment before Guin grasped it. Her eyes darted toward Tristan, and at his nod, she said, “Of course. Miss Burke, will you walk with me? My daughter has spoken of her botany lessons with such enthusiasm, I am eager to hear your thoughts on her progress.”

He fully expected her to refuse. To once more reject the rules society had laid down in the name of “ladylike behavior.”

Instead, her shoulders curved inward and her chin dipped. She turned toward the door without a word and was through it so quickly Guin had to scramble to join her. He’d forgotten for a moment how the flare of passion that lit Erica’s core sometimes burned itself out. A coal that a moment before had been glowing, now turned pale and collapsed upon itself, hollowed out by the heat that had consumed it, leaving the hearth suddenly cold.

Remington watched her leave, a stern, not-quite-fatherly set to his jaw, but he said nothing, not even when the door closed behind them.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Remington?” Tristan asked after a moment, not troubling to keep the edge of impatience from his voice.

“For me, sir? Nothing at all.” Remington seemed genuinely surprised at the notion. He stood with his hands folded behind his back, and again Tristan had the distinct impression that he must know the man, somehow, so familiar did he seem. “I only wished to warn you that your stable hands and your servants seem prone to indulging in gossip.”

Tristan had already guessed that rumors were being whispered in Hawesdale’s corners, or perhaps shouted from its many ornate rooftops. He knew he had no right to be surprised at this confirmation. Certainly he had no right to be angry at a stranger for supplying it; he had heaped this ignominy on himself. Still, he snapped, “I fail to see what business that might be of yours.”

Remington met his heated gaze with coolness, entirely unruffled, not remotely deferential. “None at all, Your Grace. But, as some of what I had the misfortune to overhear concerned Miss Burke and her treatment in this house, I shall feel duty bound to report on the matter to my employer, Lord Ashborough. And I have no doubt he will consider any affront to a member of his family his…business.”

Remington’s slight hesitation, freighting the word with unsavory connotations, mingled in Tristan’s mind with Whitby’s description of the Marquess of Ashborough. The accusation of treason in particular. But Tristan was no stranger to unscrupulous characters. “The sort of fellow who’d call me out, I gather,” he replied lightly. “Well, I suspect he’ll have to wait his turn.” At this very moment, Lord Easton Pilkington was probably polishing a pair of pistols, and Tristan was not entirely sure that Whitby didn’t mean to take up the matter if Pilkington failed.

Surprise flickered across Remington’s face, but before he could give voice to it, someone spoke from the doorway.

“Raynham? A word.” As if the mere thought had called him into being, Pilkington stepped across the threshold and strode into the room, either oblivious or indifferent to another man’s presence. “I expected to see you at breakfast. I suppose you were too busy thanking your lucky stars that Irish wench refused you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Remington shift ominously. “If you refer to Miss Burke, you would do well to remember that she is a guest of this house.”

The man took another step forward, eyes blazing. “As is my daughter, I remind you. My daughter, who has borne the affront of your inattention for days, and who last night was forced to witness a shocking spectacle, the likes of which an innocent girl should never—”

“Enough.” Tristan paced from the window to the desk and back again, on a spurious quest for calm.

“Enough?” Pilkington sputtered. “Oh, I’d say we’re at the outside of enough. First your brother, now you. Well, the Laurens family has humiliated my daughter for the last time. I applaud a gentleman who behaves with honor where a lady is concerned. In the case of Miss Burke, however—well, we all heard her refusal, though I’ll wager it came a bit late,” he added in a malicious undertone. “In any case, you’re a free man. You’ll make Caroline an offer. Today.” Beneath the demand, Tristan heard a note of desperation. What exactly lay behind Pilkington’s determination to see them wed?

Far below, a movement caught Tristan’s eye. Even at this distance, he had no difficulty discerning which of his guests had been desperate for a bit of fresh air, despite the damp. An occasional gust of raw wind twirled the ribbons of Caroline’s bonnet and tugged at her normally careful curls. Beside her, Whitby underscored whatever words he was speaking with an agitated wave of his hand.

In his mind’s eye, Tristan saw again the flicker of relief cross Caroline’s face when he had declined to guess her charade, her momentary hesitation when he’d taken her hand to say good night. He had readily dismissed the notion of Caroline having given her heart to Percy. Only now did it occur to him that she might have given it to someone else.

Perhaps pursuit of a spy was not the only reason Whitby had come to Hawesdale.

Selfish, his oldest friend had called him. Tristan slowly turned to face Pilkington, hands crossed behind his back. “And if I don’t?”

Pilkington’s chest expanded. But in the time it took for him to draw breath to issue a challenge, he seemed to think better of his words. “You will,” he said, his voice flat with anger, and perhaps just an edge of doubt. “You’ll find her in the breakfast room.”

Though tempted to invite the man to glance out the window, Tristan merely allowed his mouth to curve in a grim sort of half-smile. Pilkington, ready to read the expression as resignation, gave a nod of satisfaction and left the room.

Remington had observed the entire exchange from nearer the fireplace, unremarked and unremarking. Now, amusement glimmered in the depths of the man’s eyes. “You offered for Miss Erica,” he said, the ghost of a chuckle in his voice. “And she turned you down flat.”

Tristan stepped behind his father’s desk—an unlikely refuge, but one he’d been forced to seek more than once lately. “I regret that the offer was necessary. It was never my intention to dishonor Miss Burke.” He reached out a hand to square Davies’s stack of account books. “Will her family have something to say about her refusal?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “And maybe she’ll listen if they do. But I doubt it. She’s got more spirit than sense, that one,” he added with an affectionate shake of his head.

Instinctively, Tristan rose to her defense. “I’d say Miss Burke appears to be possessed of ample quantities of both.”

Remington took the correction in stride. “Based on what I’ve seen of Lady Ashborough, I’d say they’re family characteristics.” He paused, obviously considering his next words. “It sounds to me, from what that other fellow said, as if you’ve already got enough to be going on with. Best to let Miss Erica be. You can thank your lucky stars you fared better than the chap in Endmoor, anyway.”

For just a moment, everything went still, quiet enough that he suspected the other man could hear his mind whirr. “Endmoor?” He’d known she’d passed through there, of course. But he hadn’t imagined any lengthy encounters. Had Whitby been right about one thing? Had she been lurking around the neighborhood after all?

“She left her journal in the dining room at the inn where we stopped to rest the horses. That was how she got separated from her sister—no one realized she’d gone back inside to get it. Well, a young fellow happened to pick it up. When she caught him poking his nose where it didn’t belong, she gave him a wallop with it.” Another knowing smile, this one a shade more bloodthirsty. “Poor lad’s had naught but gruel since, according to the publican.”

Tristan mustered a smile. “I might still end up in worse shape if you recommend Lord Ashborough run me through.”

“Oh, as to that, I daresay he’s got better things to do too.” Remington laughed. “After all, he’s a newly married man, Your Grace. Though on occasion,” he added, tugging the overlarge waistcoat into place over his surprisingly fit torso, “he does let me take matters into my own hands.”