Kindred Hearts (11 page)

“Well, then, he’ll go back to London and leave her there, where’s she’s happy. You’ve said that they don’t live in each other’s pockets.”

“No, but they’ve become quite good friends over the years. She’s fond of him.”

“What do you think about him?”

Charles shrugged. “I can only judge him from his treatment of Lottie. And if he treated her unkindly, she would have mentioned it. She tells me everything.”

“What do you mean—have you never met the man?”

“I haven’t been back in England since ’08,” Charles said. “They were married in 1810, or thereabouts.”

“Hm,” Randall said, and subsided into thoughtful silence.

Charles opened his traveling case again and took out a bundle of envelopes, his letters from Lottie over the last few years, and slid the new one under the ribbon tie. “Well, I’ll find out soon enough,” he said over his shoulder to Randall.

Still
, it didn’t stop him from taking the letter out and rereading it later, by the flickering light of his candle. Lottie was a placid, sensible girl; it took a lot to get her fluttered, and her skylarking husband didn’t normally do it, wild as he could be. She’d known about her husband’s amours and wild living long before she’d ever even met him, through her capacious correspondence with, as Charles could nearly figure it, every woman and some of the men of the ton.

If Lottie was worried, Charles was worried. And not just for Lottie’s sake.

He sighed, and folded the letter again, holding it against his nightshirt-clad chest. He’d heard stories about Tristan Northwood long before the news had come that his twin had married the man; at the time, he’d just written him off as another one of the restless, drinking, gambling, whoring young sots of his generation, a company of men that Charles himself had never shared. Of course, going into the military at the age of sixteen meant that he’d never had the time, freedom, or money to indulge. Northwood had plenty of money—that was, of course, why Charlotte had married him—and too much time, with his father still hale and hearty and apparently disinclined to turn any of his own responsibilities over to him.

As for freedom… he knew of Baron Ware; knew of the immense wealth the man managed. To Charles it seemed as though that much wealth was more of a burden than a blessing. It
loomed
, like a thundercloud, all that responsibility—for land, for people, for things. How could anyone feel free with that sort of thing hanging over his head?

With a sigh, he put the letter away and folded his arms beneath his head, staring up at the peeling ceiling. Tristan was becoming serious, Lottie had said, and it worried her. Charles knew about things like that. A skylark turning into a wren…. It meant more than just a man maturing. There was something
wrong
.

Charles knew people. He could look at a man, talk to him for a moment, and understand just exactly what drove him. More than that, he could listen to others’ opinions of him and know how to handle him. It was part of what made him valuable to His Grace; part of what made him such an exemplary officer; part of what got him his position as an ADC to Wellington at the young age of twenty-five. He knew people. He
understood.

Keighley wasn’t the first troubled officer he’d worked with; it seemed that people with problems gravitated toward him. Randy himself had been a lost soul when they’d first met, but his grief was simply homesickness and the recent loss of his sister. With Charles’s help, he’d settled into the life of a young officer quickly enough. Keighley, with his resentment and anger and bitterness, was more of a challenge, and it had taken a good many long conversations over ale in the closest pub before he’d opened up enough for Charles to help. But he was worth it—smart, dependable, quick-witted, and courageous.

He’d got the same impression of Tristan Northwood.

Charles pulled another letter from the stack. This one was dated some nineteen months previous.

Dear Charles,

Well!! You are an Uncle!! And believe it or Not, your Silly sister is now a Mother!

My beautiful boy was born yesterday and Already I Cannot remember what it was to Be without him. The Deliv’ry was not Bad; the Acosher ( I do not Know how to spell this, and it is a Man, so I cannot Call him a Midwife, tho that is what he Is) said it was a very Easy birth. I do not Remember much of it; I know it was Painful, but now it Seems hardly Important.

Poor Tristan was Frantick, however. He came in during the Thick of Things and was Appaul’d (no Doubt at my Looks, as I was Not at my Best!). Afterwerds, he Insisted that I should Not go through it again, Despite the Contrackshuel Obligashuns we have. I Assur’d him I was quite All Right, but I think he has been Trawmettised. Poor Tristan. He could not be more Upset if ours were a Love Match.

This is not to Say that we are not Fond of each other. We have become Quite good Friends in the last few years. Hearing of his Anticks from his friends—for he does not boast to me—is so Entertaining!! Only Tuesday last someone dared him to swim the Serpentine and he DID. I scolded him Quite Severely because he could have Cawhgt a Chill, but he did Not. He does not Gamble, for which I am Greatful, but he Cannot turn down a Dare. Some of the Challenges are quite Silly and some are Dangerous, which Worrys me, as I Think he does not Tell me of the truly Dangerous ones. But he has such Energy and High Spirits that I cannot bring Myself to Sqwash him down.

We have Named the baby James Tristan Charles Eustace Northwood. Tristan did not want to name him James for that is his Father’s name, and as you Know, Tristan does not Get Along with his father. He said he should be named for Papa, but I will Not Permit anyone to Name a child Eustace!!! When I told Tris what Papa’s name is, he Agreed. We have instead tucked the Eustace down near the End of his names in Hopes that no one will Notice, and will call him Jamie. He is Quite Beautiful, and Tris doats on him Already.

The Baron, for that is how Tris Refers to his Papa, has come up to Town for the Christening. He has a House here, but spends Most of his time in the Country, coming up only for the Season or when he has a Vote in the Lords he is Intersted in. While his Estate and Tristan’s Hunting box are quite close, we do Not visit much when We are in the Country. But he was Most Delighted with his Grandson (as who could Not be?) and says we Must bring him to Wareham this Summer. Tris only Snorts when this is Mentioned.

Charles put the letter back into the stack and folded his arms behind his head. Over the years he had received any number of letters from his sister, and more from his cousin Ellen, about the young man who had bought—or been bought—into his family. He had been prepared for his sister’s sake to like the man as long as she was content with him, but between them, his sister and his cousin had described a person who was not only likeable, but strangely lovable. Ellen’s letters had been interesting, to say the least; she was a more careful correspondent than Lottie, and originally she had been doubtful as to Northwood’s character. But as time went on, the tenor of her thoughts changed. He recalled a line from one of her letters: “
Mr. Northwood never permits his burdens to overcome him; he is, from first to last, a gentleman to all those who deserve gentlemanly behavior, no matter how he behaves in the company of those who do not.
” It took him a while to realize what Ellen meant, and even now he wondered what sort of “burdens” his brother-in-law carried that he kept from his wife, but that his more perceptive cousin-in-law recognized. He had asked Ellen in his next letter what she had meant by his “burdens,” but apparently his letter had gone astray and her next reflected no inkling of the subject. He wondered, too, if Ellen referred to not only the various soiled doves and adulterous wives Tristan Northwood was notorious for cultivating, or if she included his despised father in “
the company of those who do not.
”

What burdens?

The
butler was waiting when Tristan came in from his club on a blustery day early in January. “Mrs. Northwood’s brother has arrived,” he said, “and is with her in the drawing room. She has asked that you join them when you return.”

“Bother,” Tristan said. What did Daniel want now? He’d been up to town twice in the last six-month, both times making a point of stopping by to see his sister, but the only time he ever saw Tristan was when he wanted to borrow money. Tristan handed his hat and cane to the butler, smoothed down his hair, and figuratively girded his loins for the pitch and the inevitable argument. It wasn’t that he minded loaning Daniel the odd fiver. It was when he came looking for serious money to invest in one of his crazy schemes that the battles began; Daniel because he rarely took “no” for an answer, Tristan because he had no intention of pissing away funds better spent on planning for his family’s future.

He heard Charlotte’s low, musical laugh and waited for Daniel’s distinctive guffaw. What he got instead was a deeper version of Lottie’s, a smooth baritone rumble. Frowning in puzzlement, he pushed open the door to the drawing room and froze.

The man seated across from Lottie was one he’d never met before, but somehow no stranger. Hair the same texture but a brighter shade than Lottie’s, streaked from sunlight; eyes the same brown but under strong brows; the blunt, insipid features of Tristan’s wife translated into a tan, more masculine, livelier form. He wore a dark blue cavalry uniform, but with a black silk neckerchief instead of the usual stock. Rising as Tristan entered, he held out a large hand. “Mr. Northwood?” he said in a voice that matched the laugh, smooth and strong and rich and sending chills through Tristan’s suddenly tense body. “Charles Mountjoy, Lottie’s brother. Pleased to make your acquaintance at last.” He smiled in a friendly manner.

That smile shattered Tris, like a blow on a bell too quickly cooled in casting. Dazedly, he took the man’s hand, and it closed, warm and steady, around his. “Major Mountjoy,” he managed, then realized he was still holding the man’s hand and released it quickly. Well-honed social skills kicked in just in time. “Welcome. Lottie mentioned you were returning home. Are you back for good, or just on assignment?”

“For good, I’m afraid,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m not cut out for the diplomatic life, so I’ve been sent home in disgrace.”

“Nonsense,” Lottie said. “You’re being silly.”

“Actually, yes, I am—no disgrace involved. The Duke has plenty of advisors far better suited than I to diplomacy. It was an honor to be taken on as one of his ADCs in the Peninsula, but that was primarily due to my German translation skills. His Grace speaks very little German, and most of the King’s German Regiment very little English. I was transferred to Lord Castlereagh’s staff when the Duke was made ambassador to France, for the same reason, and went with Castlereagh to Vienna, but now he’s come home and Wellington’s in Vienna in his place. There are plenty of bilingual staff in Vienna these days, so I’ve decided twelve years is enough of playing at soldiers, and am temporarily posted to the Horse Guards while my regiment is overseas. Until I sell my commission.”

“And I will hear nothing of your putting up elsewhere while you do,” Lottie said, apparently carrying on the conversation Tristan had interrupted. “We’ve plenty of space here, and it would be silly for you to waste your blunt on rooms when we’re so close to your headquarters. Besides, I’m sure you won’t have any funds until the sale comes through.”

“I’ve plenty in my pocket,” the major said with that smoky laugh. “Despite the expense of Vienna’s sartorial demands. Plus, unless Daniel’s managed to get his hands on my allowance, I should have some funds in Barclay’s.”

“You do. Daniel is so very annoyed that he can’t get at it,” Lottie said complacently. “He’s perpetually asking Tristan for money.”

The major’s brows drew together sharply. “He does? You don’t comply, do you, Northwood?”

Tristan shook his head. What had the major asked? Oh. Right. Daniel. “Rarely, and then only a few guineas. Daniel’s judgment on fiscal matters is pathetic.” He smiled briefly and met the major’s warm, dark eyes; they held Tristan’s a moment, then glittered faintly as the well-shaped lips curled upward in response to Tristan’s expression. That bell-like chord rang again. Tristan turned his head away, breaking the connection, and shook his head in confusion. When the hell had he started noticing the shape of a man’s mouth or the warmth of a man’s eyes?

When he’d walked into the drawing room.

“Are you all right, dear?” Lottie asked placidly.

“Yes, of course,” Tristan said. “A bit of headache, that is all.”

“Perhaps you should have a lie-down before dinner,” she said. “Charles, you’ll be joining us, won’t you?”

A vision flashed into Tristan’s head then, of lying on his bed, that tall, powerful figure beside him, stripped of that blue uniform, that tanned skin and bright hair golden in firelight. He shook his head again, swallowed hard, and said thickly, “Excuse me. I must…,” and he turned and almost ran from the room.

He was
relieved to find his room empty, Reston off doing something other than tending his wardrobe. Using the much-despised boot jack to remove his Hessians, he tossed his coat over a chair and crawled fully dressed onto the bed, curling up on his side as though defending against a kicking. It had been years since he’d had a sudden physical reaction like this, a fully extended cockstand already throbbing with aching need. And for a man? He felt feverish, hot and clammy and sick with desire, and confused as hell. Nothing had ever hit him like this before. No—wait. Once. Once, drunk and stumbling into the wrong inn room. Firelight golden on strong flesh, muscled legs and men’s low voices…. God. He’d never forgotten that. He’d pushed it aside, hidden it in his deepest memory, but it had never gone away, popping up at inopportune moments, when he was lost in sexual excitement. Was that a clue? Was that his body telling him something he had never wanted to admit to himself?

He ached to unbutton his trousers and take himself in hand, but to do that was to cave in, to admit—what? That he was damned. That he desired another man—not only another man, but his bloody brother-in-law. Adultery was one thing; he knew he was damned for that, but even that was forgivable. This—sodomitical tendency—was not. Could not be. It wasn’t him. He’d never….

But he had. He knew he had. Not only in the firelit inn, but other times. Watching a mill, caught up in the excitement, the press of warm male bodies, the scent of sweat and blood and gin.

At Angelo’s, watching supple forms dance in their deadly minuet.

At Jackson’s, half-naked in the company of other half-naked men, relishing the contact of blows on muscled flesh.

His blood had heated, his body hardened. He’d tossed it off as purely physical excitement. It had meant nothing. But it had. He’d lied to himself, but it had meant something. Something that needed to be slaked in a woman’s willing body.

Slaked, but never satisfied.

Shaken, he found himself weeping, as if he’d lost his soul.

Sleep came after tears, but a sleep shattered by dreams: of that scene in the inn room, but with the golden head turning to face him where he stood in the doorway; Major Mountjoy’s face looking at him, smiling that warm smile, inviting him to join them, or worse, smiling, but not inviting him, laughing as he stood there watching, forever shut out of that warm embrace, that heated, firelit fucking….

When he awoke, it was to Reston laying out his clothes for dinner. He rose, nodded at Reston’s greeting, then washed up. His head still ached, but he was determined not to show his despair and went down to dinner composed, if not content.

“Oh, dear,”
Charlotte said placidly. “I hope he is not unwell.”

Charles stared at the door. So
that
was Tristan Northwood.

He was thinner than Charles had expected; he had had an image of the typical bluff and hearty squire of the drinks-too-much, eats-too-much variety, but Tristan was tall and lean and there were hollows beneath those cool pewter eyes. God, what eyes—like stormclouds lit from beneath by a setting sun. The rest of him was equally striking: the dark wing of eyebrow, the long, chiseled nose, the curved, sensuous lips—the mouth of a hedonist, of a small, spoiled boy, and yet, when he smiled, there was something sweet and innocent in his face that hit Charles like a brick. “I trust,” he said, then he paused, cleared his throat, and went on, “I trust I said nothing to distress him?”

“Oh, probably not. Tristan sometimes gets these headaches—I don’t think he sleeps particularly well, at least according to his valet. He insists there’s nothing wrong, and refuses to see a physician. Perhaps you might have more influence on him. He doesn’t like me to worry.”

“He does care for you, then.” Strange—he’d got the impression that he had disturbed Tristan fully as much as Tristan had affected him. But if Tristan loved Lottie…?

“Oh, we are quite good friends,” Lottie said.

“I
meant
,” he said patiently, “that he loves you.”

Lottie considered this a moment. “I think he does, but not in a
romantic
sort of way,” she said meditatively. “He is a very romantic sort of person, but I don’t think he feels romantic about
people
. I think he just expects people to disappoint and so doesn’t have very high expectations of them.”

“Do you disappoint him?” Charles asked curiously.

“I don’t think so.” Lottie thought a moment. “I think, probably, because I never promised him anything. He doesn’t expect anything of me, nor I of him, and so we can be quite comfortable.” She patted her rounded abdomen contentedly. “As comfortable as I get these days.”

“Don’t you want anything more from your marriage, Lottie?” he asked, taking her hand in his.

She smiled up at him. “Of course not. I am
not
a romantic sort of person, Charlie, not like you and Tristan. I don’t care for the marriage act, and don’t really need much of anything. Tristan suits me quite well.” She shook her head. “I sometimes think that
he
needs more than just fondness, but there isn’t much I can do about that. When we were first married… well, that’s all done now, anyway.”

“What’s all done?”

“You know that he was unfaithful to me,” Lottie said. “I think he was still… I don’t know.
Looking
. As if he thought maybe he could find someone who could love him in a romantic sort of way. But he never did. It is a shame. He does so want to be loved.”

Charles swallowed. Lottie patted his hand, which still clutched her other one, and slipped into the German the two of them spoke when discussing sensitive or private things, a holdover from their childhood with a German nanny. “I don’t know if he would be…
open
to your kind of love, Charlie. I asked him about that sort of thing—oh, years ago now. He was quite… appalled at the idea. And yet… I don’t really think he
enjoys
the marriage act.”