Page 2
“I’m not. I just don’t like being his excuse for buying new whatsits and thingamabobs for the wretched equipage.” She shot to her feet, glaring at both of them this time. “And to tarry in this blasted town another fortnight while you lollop around with blacksmiths and carriage makers!” On that note, she spun on her heel and stormed back through the doors, leaving Summersby to pinch the bridge of his nose. Tristan shrugged sympathetically.
“Sorry, brother.”
“Not your fault, Tris. I have the most amiable wife in the world, so long as she’s not, er, sprained her ankle.”
Tristan chuckled at the slang he’d last heard in the soldiers’ mess. “You’d think she’d be used to it by the third round.”
“Fourth,” Summersby said, very quietly. Tristan blinked. He’d never heard his brother-in-law acknowledge the miscarriage out loud. Tristan only knew of it from Evie’s letters of the time, and likewise knew she’d ordered no one to speak of it.
“Damn, you are worried.”
“Of course I am. The doctor never advised her against traveling so early. Nor has she ever been so sick before.” Summersby ruffled his sandy hair, his face paling slightly. “It’s why she’s pushing you on the marriage and is as touchy as a porcupine—she’s scared. Please, just let her win. Make a show of searching for someone. Put her mind at ease about Cecilia and the estates.”
“You know I will.” Tristan busied himself ordering the pile of correspondence in front of him. “But it will be all right. Evie is tough as iron.”
“I hope so.” Summersby’s jaw flexed. “I always thought General Graham was mad for not remarrying in all this time. But the idea of something happening to Evie…” He trailed off, focusing on the windows. “I don’t think I could stand to see anyone in her place either.”
Tristan couldn’t look at his oldest friend, so he, too, stared out the window. Had it not been for Summersby, and later his acquaintance with General Graham, he’d have never believed in love. But only that storied emotion could explain the ocean of grief Graham carried for his long-gone wife, and every moment Tristan shared with his sister and brother-in-law was a lesson that surely love existed in abundance for the lucky few who found it. Lust might have explained the Honorable Edward Orville marrying the daughter of a disgraced earl in the midst of a wildly scandalous divorce, but it would not have carried him through the last fifteen years nor kept the spark of wonder in his eye every time she walked into a room.
Tristan never expected to find such emotion for his own, but he’d hoped. Now, there was no more time for hoping. Evelina was right. He had a little brother and sister and an even littler ward who needed guidance, an estate that needed someone beyond the steward for his tenants to address, and a house that needed a mistress. Someone he could depend upon while he continued his career in Portugal—or France—depending on how the peace treaties went. Perchance he would even go back to India for a while if Europe truly settled. All in all, it might be better to find someone who was more a partner than a lover if one took the long view of things. Surely he could find that amongst the daughters of the Ton between now and the Regent’s Grand Jubilee in August…
“You should go with her to Merfield,” Tristan said finally. “Let me handle your recruitment duties while I’m in London. There’ll be plenty of patriotic fervor in Town with the upcoming celebrations. Send a couple of your men along with me, and I’ll dispatch them back to you in a month.” He hated recruiting, but he could hardly ignore the weight bearing down on a friend’s shoulders. Anyway, the recruitment would provide another layer of confusion to anyone monitoring his business in Town. He watched Summersby’s back straighten, his mouth open with a polite protest, silenced by the echoing sounds of retching from the next room in the rented apartment.
“Thank you, Tristan.” Summersby’s lips twisted in a sad half-smile. “I must accustom myself to calling you Asherton now we’re back on the right side of the Channel.”
“Not until you can say it without sounding like you’re talking about my illustrious canker of a sire.” Tristan chuckled. “I’ll get enough of the disdain rolling off everyone else’s poisoned tongues.”
“So you mean to redeem the title after all?”
“No. Despite the name mother chose for me, I’ve no stomach for vain quests.” Tristan shook his head, sifting through the steward’s letters—though his thoughts were on the family’s social standing, not accounts. His father’s wild divorce and scandalous second marriage, his mother’s untimely and much-gossiped-about death, Arthur’s rakehell nature, Lance’s love of gambling, and Tristan’s own eccentric preference to remain abroad as much as possible all weighed against the family name. “But I’ve money and the favor of three great generals. Such status may distract the Ton for a time.”
“Four. Unless you’re not calling me great, you vagabond.”
Tristan laughed and relaxed against his chair. “Is one allowed to praise one’s family to their faces? I thought that was out of fashion.”
“My ego does not care for fashion. Besides, we serve Wellington. We must demand praise from fellow officers, for our commander will never give a scrap.”
“A sorry truth.” Tristan pushed himself out of his seat and seized the brandy from the sideboard to pour them both a measure. Or two. “Shall we dine out again?”
“Aye. Evelina cannot stand the smell of food. I’ll not vex her with it.”
“That will make stopping at inns quite the diversion.”
“I’m hoping to be clever and make it in a day to avoid that particular issue. We can take cold meats and simple fare for the duration.”
“God knows we’ve devoured worse than that a time or two. So long as you forego offering hardtack or horsemeat, I shall call it luxury.”
“Never again.” Summersby grimaced and took the cup from Tristan’s hand, downing the contents in one go and rising to his feet to pour himself the next round. “Come with me to the coachbuilders? I’ll see what can be done with our chariot.”
“Of course, but I must finish this letter.”
“Go to. I’ll brave the fortress to see if she requires any comforts while you sort your steward out. With any luck, the man won’t prove to be a born liar.”
“Something I’ll have to see for myself once I can get northward,” Tristan answered grimly, returning to the task. His father had been too canny to employ a cheat, but who knew what leash the hound might have slipped once he buried his dread master. The door closed behind Summersby, and Tristan gazed out the window to the sunny, breezy day beyond, his thoughts flying south and east rather than north and west.
Chapter Two
Bath, England. May 9, 1814
