Kindred Hearts (37 page)

“You’re quite mistaken,” the baron said. “I was most eager for this evening.”

Tristan laughed, a short, bitter snort. “I’ll wager you were. Eager for it to be done with.” He stared at his plate a moment, then said, “This is pointless. Sir, I would appreciate it if you would see the ladies home. I find that I have lost my appetite.” He laid his napkin on the table beside his plate.

“Tristan,” Lottie said.

“Tristan,” the baron echoed, “please. Have I fallen so low in your estimation that you cannot bear to be in the same room as me?”

Tristan’s fingers tightened on the cloth of his napkin. “Neither of us has so high an opinion of the other as to judge,” he said. “My estimation of you is quite the same as yours of me.”

“Then it is quite high enough,” the baron said. “I….”

“Liar,” Tristan said, surprising himself. “Filthy,
bloody
liar!” He didn’t raise his voice, although at this moment there was no one in the restaurant, no one in the world, but him and his father. “You’ve never made any secret of the fact that you despise me, and this, this
nonsense
, this travesty of a supper party—good God, man, what is it you want from me? Absolution of some kind? You suddenly want to be friends? You’ve nothing to offer me, and I’ve nothing to offer you. We’re just bound by law, and if you saw fit to disinherit me I would thank God fasting. Why don’t you? You have your heir in Jamie. You don’t need me any longer. Isn’t that why you arranged my marriage to Lottie? To get you a substitute?”

“You owe your wife an apology,” the baron said, “for both your language and for your insult to her about your marriage.”

“Fine,” Tristan said, his breath harsh. “Lottie, pray accept my apologies. Ellen, my dear, I am sorry to drag you into this. This should never have happened.” He rose, setting his chair under the table carefully, as if it mattered. “Sir, I shall be in contact with my solicitor in the morning. There must be some way for us to dissolve this legal connection, at least.”

“Tristan!” It was a cry of despair, and Tristan was shocked when his father raised his face to see tears streaming down his cheeks. “My God, son, have I so destroyed us?” He put his face in his hands and sobbed.

Dazed, Tristan closed his fingers on the chair back and stared at the stranger wearing his father’s body. Lottie was patting her father-in-law’s arm consolingly. “There, there,” she murmured. “Oh, sir, I would never have agreed to this if I had thought you would be so hurt by it.”

If she thought
he
would be hurt by it? Tristan’s gut wrenched. So Lottie’s loyalty was so easily bought? He had thought they were friends, at least.

“No,” Ware said, pushing her hand away. “It is not about my feelings, Lottie.” He looked at Tristan, his face bleak. “I had hoped that we had not gone quite past the point of no return, Tristan. That somehow we would be able to put the past aside and learn to be at least cordial to each other. But I….” He fished in his pocket for his handkerchief, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose soundly.

A woman’s voice sounded in Tristan’s ears: not Lottie’s, or Ellen’s. “You have hurt your papa, Tristan. Give him a kiss and say you’re sorry.” Only it wasn’t “Papa” the woman’s voice had said, it had been “little sister.” Eight-year-old Tristan had obeyed, hugging his beloved little Emily and whispering in her tiny ear, “I’m so sorry, Emmy. I won’t do it again.”

He didn’t remember what it was he had done, just remembered the voice, soft and sweet and loving. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. His fingers on the chair were white-knuckled.

“No,” Ware said again, “it is entirely my fault. I thought you needed guidance. I knew nothing about raising children—I never even expected to wed! But I met Alice, and then my brother died, and all this was thrust upon me. I did my best—I
thought
I was doing my best, but I’ve failed. I failed her, and I’ve failed you, and thus doubly her. Please. Sit. If you prefer, I will leave….”

“No, stay,” Tristan said. He felt unutterably weary. “We’ve already ordered. But I think we should leave this discussion to a more private moment.”

The baron nodded and patted Lottie’s hand gently. “Thank you, my dear. Ellen, I apologize for my poor behavior.”

“No need,” Ellen said softly. “It is difficult to maintain one’s composure when one is upset, I have found. One either gets emotional, or chilly, as Tristan does. But Tristan is right; you need to discuss this in private, without either Lottie or me there to interfere.”

“Thank you,” Ware said somberly.

Tristan drew out his chair and sat down, placing his napkin back in his lap. “Well,” he said, “and what did
you
think of Kean’s performance, sir?”

The baron looked at him and laughed softly. “I think he could take lessons from you, son. But he was quite adequate for the role.”

The waiters returned with their first course, and further conversation was light and casual. It was the first time in his life that Tristan had had the opportunity to interact on a social level with his father in so intimate a setting, and to his very great surprise discovered a droll sense of humor not unlike his own, a common sense attitude toward society, and a thorough understanding of the events leading up to Napoleon’s abdication and current return. Rumors of the Emperor’s escape from Elba had already begun circulating, and it gave Tristan an odd sense of accomplishment to be able to quietly confirm the rumors to his father.

“The Exchange is in a panic, of course,” Ware said, “and I think that it could be no worse if the government would just come out and acknowledge that Napoleon is back in France. Still, once Wellesley is in Brussels, the panic should ease. ’Change has a great deal of faith in the general.”

“We should really call him ‘Wellington’, sir,” Lottie opined. “Or ‘His Grace’—he is now a duke, after all.”

“Bah,” the baron said, with all the disdain of a lesser but ancient title for a johnny-come-lately, “I knew him when he was a lieutenant—and not a very good one, from all reports.”

“Some people are better generals than they are lieutenants,” Ellen said. “I’ve often observed that some people are much better at giving orders than at taking them.”

“And sometimes it just depends on who’s giving the orders,” Tristan said.

“What do your correspondents say on the status in Brussels, Lottie?”

“Well,” Lottie said, pleased to be given the floor, “mail is quite heavily censored these days, to prevent Napoleon’s spies—which are many in Brussels, as I understand—from discovering troop movements and so forth, so actual details are very few. But Baronne D’Hooghvoorst says that most of the cowhearted have already left for home, and the rest are quite merry and excited about the Duke arriving. He is quite a favorite among hostesses—even if his manners can sometimes be a bit stiff with his underlings, he’s quite charming in company. And of course his staff are very well liked.”

“Heard from your brother yet?”

“Just a short note to say he had arrived,” Lottie said placidly, “and to ask us to send on one of his books that he had forgotten. I’m sure he will write more later, when he has time. The Comtesse de Luiny has invited us to join them there, and for Charlie’s sake I would, but under the circumstances I think we can safely say no.” She patted the swell of her abdomen cheerfully. “She did give me the name of a gentleman who can arrange a house for when Tristan goes over there in the summer.”

“Tristan?” Ware glanced over at his son. “Are you planning on going to Brussels?”

“After Lottie and the children are safely settled in the country for the summer, I thought I would take a jaunt over,” Tristan said casually. “Just to see how Major Mountjoy does, so I can let his sister know that he is fine, of course. I have some acquaintance there, at any rate.”

“Hm,” the baron said.

Tristan thought there was a faint note of disapproval in the sound, but the baron didn’t elaborate, simply changed the subject.
Well
, he thought,
it could have been worse, given their history
. He could have made a stink about Tristan leaving so soon after the baby’s birth, but he seemed to be on his best behavior. Tristan rubbed his aching head and wished for brandy rather than the wine they’d been served with dinner.

After
dinner they returned home, and Tristan, to his own great surprise, invited the baron in for a drink. They bade the ladies good night and retired to the library.

Baron Ware took a sip of the brandy and nodded approvingly. “You keep a good cellar, I understand.”

“A few bottles of good stuff,” Tristan said carelessly. “We’re not entertaining much these days, so when we do we mostly get it from Berry’s. Brandy, of course, is a little trickier.”

He waited for his father’s disapproval, but the baron only said, “Run, of course. It’s a shame that Britain and France can’t manage to keep a business relationship even when they’re
not
at war. Tariffs on goods the British don’t produce are foolish; taxes should only protect British-made goods.” At Tristan’s look of surprise, his father said dryly, “I’m a businessman, Tristan, for all intents and purposes, though of course I don’t admit it socially. I know you think all I do is pore over dusty ledgers, but my interests are rather farther-ranging than that.”

“Shall I call you a ‘cit’, then, sir?”

Ware chuckled. “Perhaps not quite that bad, but I do more than just manage my properties.” He sipped his brandy, then said, “A few months ago I made you an offer regarding your string of hunters. I was disappointed that you did not see fit to take me up on it.”

“It wasn’t necessary,” Tristan said.

“You shouldn’t have had to sell your horses to settle a gaming debt,” Ware persisted. “Not when I have funds aplenty….”

“I sold them because I didn’t want them any longer, and thought it was foolish to maintain the expense,” Tristan said, “not because of any imaginary gaming debt! I don’t know who told you that I gamble to excess, but they are at best wrong, and at worst, lying to you.”

Ware frowned. “But I’ve heard that you play at parties….”

“At
parties
,” Tristan emphasized. “Card games, for penny points. I’ve been to hells, yes, and played there too—for the amount of cash I’ve carried in my pockets. I go if my friends wish to. When I am out of cash, I stop. I admit to being addicted to drink—I am not stupid enough to complicate that with an addiction to gambling as well. I like playing cards with friends; that’s a matter of skill. But faro, or roulette, or dicing? Those are just games of chance, and are boring to boot. The only kind of gambling that interests me is on the Exchange—and then, only when I’ve done my research.”

Ware sat back in his chair and regarded his son blankly. “You don’t gamble.”

“I have said so,” Tristan replied, irked.

“Then what could you have possibly spent the money on? I know your household expenses nearly to the penny, and neither you nor Charlotte are extravagant enough to account for the excess.”

Tristan sighed. “I have nearly forty thousand pounds in the Funds, in a trust for Charlotte and Jamie. And the new baby. Combined with Charlotte’s settlement, and whatever you have in trust for the children—you see, I at least give you the dignity of believing that you do have such a trust—they should want for nothing should something happen to me.”

“Tristan, you’re thirty-two years old,” Ware said, frowning. “A man your age doesn’t think about his mortality. Men your age think you’re immortal.”