Kindred Hearts (5 page)

He made the turn just past Hammersmith, and passed Hapwell on the way back to Kensington, overtaking a wagonload of turnips and slowing his pair to a cooling trot as he wended through the arch to the still-dark innyard. There were cheers and groans of disappointment, and he waved his whip in salute as he drew up, tossed a coin to the ostler’s boy, and jumped down from the seat. The boy took the pair off to walk them, and Tristan went back to join his friends.

“I trust you both made a profit?” Tristan asked, drawing off his gloves and wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

Berkeley grinned and handed him his tankard. “As usual,” he said. “Where’s Hapwell?”

Tristan shrugged. “I imagine about halfway back from Hammersmith. He hadn’t yet arrived there when I saw him last. Sun’s up; that will slow his eastward trip, I imagine.”

The sun came up over the innyard walls and one of the menservants came out to douse the flambeaux. “I’m for home and bed,” Gibs said. “Coming, Woods?”

“You go ahead. I have to wait for my cattle to cool, then take the curricle home. Maybe by then I’ll be sober enough to manage London traffic.”

“Send them home with a postboy,” Gibson suggested. “I’ll take you up. I imagine you’re ready to knit the raveled sleeve of care?”

“God, you and your quotes,” Berks complained.

“Shut up, or I won’t give you a lift,” Gibson threatened good-naturedly.

The barmaid came out with the pitcher again and refilled their tankards. Tristan watched her walk away, his eyes narrowed.

“It isn’t right,” Tristan said suddenly.

“It isn’t?”

“What id’nt?” Berkeley inquired.

“I’m getting married on Monday, and here ’t is Wednesday and I’ve never even met the woman!” Tris looked around the innyard as if he’d find the woman in question lurking somewhere there.

“Is it Wednesday?” Gibson asked no one in particular.

“I think so. At any rate, it isn’t right that the poor girl should be expected to marry someone she’s never met!”

“I like you, Woodsy,” Gibson said. “Allus thinkin’ of other people.”

“Besides,” Tristan said reasonably, “if she dislikes me intensely p’raps she’ll cry off. I wonder if I have to go into the cavalry if she’s the one that cries off?” He shrugged. “Ah, well. Don’t matter. Might as well be in the cavalry. At least it has horses, right?”

“Could be worse,” Berkeley mumbled. “Could be infantry.”

“Oldest damn cornet in history,” Tristan complained, and drained his tankard. “Her twin’s four years younger than me and is a bloody captain already. Bloody twin.”

“Whose twin?”

“My finance. Finnish. Betrot’d,” Tristan said, sketched a bow, and went after his curricle.

He tipped the ostler and swung up into the seat without too much trouble; a little voice awoke and said that perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to go calling on his betrothed while he was, if not completely pickled, then certainly well-to-live. He ignored it, as he had ignored it most of his adult life, but he did stop at home to change his curricle for the Brat, and for a quick wash and fresh cravat, so he was inadvertently a bit more sober when he trod up the steps to bang on the front door of the Earl of Chilson’s townhouse.

A supercilious
butler, no doubt valedictorian of the Supercilious School of Butlering, answered the door and regarded him askance. “Sir?”

“Tristan Northwood. Here to see Lady Charlotte.”

“I will enquire if her ladyship is at home,” the butler intoned, but took his card and permitted Tristan into the hall. Tristan glanced around curiously; he thought he might have attended a ball or two here, but then again, it was decorated much the same as any other townhouse, fashionably, with too much Chinese influence and too little taste. He shrugged carelessly.
He
didn’t have to live here, and when it came time to decorate his own townhouse—he wondered vaguely where it would be, since his father had promised him the house after he married, and that was only a few days hence. He should probably contact his father’s man of business—what was his name? Finchley? Fitzleigh?—to find out where he was supposed to take his bride since he couldn’t very well take her home to his rooms after the wedding, and…. His thoughts ran down as the butler came down the stairs to say, “If Mr. Northwood would follow me?”

“
Was
that the door?” Ellen asked curiously.

Charlotte glanced up at her companion from the letter she was reading. They had only just finished breakfast and retired to the drawing room. “Door?” she asked vaguely.

“Yes, I’m quite sure I heard knocking. Who do you suppose it could be?”

Charlotte thought. “Well,” she said, “it wouldn’t be Papa; he wouldn’t knock. Neither would Daniel, unless he’d lost his key. Neither Papa nor Daniel was particularly quiet this morning when they got home, so I doubt that either has gone out again. So I would have to say that I do not suppose it could be anyone. What time is it?”

“Just past eight.”

“Odd time to make calls,” Charlotte said, and went back to her letter. “Liesl says that she has some visitors from Naples. Apparently Mr. Murat is rethinking his alliance with the Austrians, and causing trouble with some of the Germans there. He is not making friends.”

“I wouldn’t think so. What is he, Bonaparte’s brother-in-law? That family has no sensibility.” Ellen got up and went to the window, glancing down at the street. “Just a horse, so a gentleman. I suppose he must be looking for Daniel. Not one who knows him, at any rate; if he was a friend he would know Daniel is never awake before noon. So a stranger.”

“My goodness,” Lottie said with a little laugh. “You are so logical! Calculating all that!”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“No,” Lottie said. “I do not think I am a curious sort. I imagine Jeppson will be in shortly to tell us who called. I have noticed that he does do that frequently.”

“I should hope so,” Ellen said, and sat back down again, giving her charge a rueful smile. “You are so practical, Lottie.”

Lottie just smiled serenely.

To both their surprise, Jeppson appeared sooner rather than later. “Mr. Northwood to see you, ma’am,” he said to Charlotte. “Are you At Home to him this morning?”

“Mr. Northwood?” Charlotte blinked in surprise. “Mr.
Tristan
Northwood?”

“Yes, Lady Charlotte.” The butler presented a silver salver with a card on it. Ellen got up and took the card.

“Tristan Northwood. Well, well, well.” She glanced at Charlotte. “Shall you meet him, then?”

“I suppose I ought.”

“I should advise Lady Charlotte that it appears that Mr. Northwood has been drinking.”

“Oh, dear,” Ellen said, and looked indecisive. “Already?”

Lottie laughed. “Oh, it’s probably ‘still’. Good heavens, someone’s always drinking around here. Send him up. I find that I am a curious sort after all.”

“Charlotte, are you sure?” Ellen asked anxiously as Jeppson left the room. “It’s not a proper hour for calls, and if he has been drinking….”

“My papa would not betroth me to anyone who is not a gentleman,” Charlotte said, as she set her embroidery aside. “Do ring for tea, Ellen, dear.”

“Yes, of course,” Ellen said, flustered, and did so. A moment later they heard footsteps on the stairs, and Jeppson entered, followed by a tall young man.

“Mr. Northwood,” Jeppson said.

“Thank you, Jeppson.” Charlotte rose and crossed the room, her hand outstretched. “How do you do, Mr. Northwood?”

“Fine, thank you.” He glanced from her to her companion. Charlotte took the hint.

“Ellen, may I present Mr. Northwood? This, sir, is Mrs. Ellen Bayes, my companion.”

“My pleasure.” Mr. Northwood bowed.

Charlotte led the way back to the pair of chairs before the fireplace she and Ellen had occupied moments ago. “Will you take a seat, sir?”

“Thank you.” He waited for her to sit, then followed suit.

Charlotte regarded him thoughtfully. Handsomer than she’d expected; though there was a tired, dissipated look about the gray eyes, he did not yet possess the broken blood vessels in the nose and cheek that were the hallmark of the perpetual drunk. His dark hair was tousled, but only fashionably; his cravat was neat and clean, and his coat tidy. His face seemed to have the conformation of one who smiled often; there were small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was well-built as well, broad-shouldered, long of limb and lean of hip. All in all a very pretty sight… except for those eyes.

He smiled at her. “Have I earned your approval, madam?”

“That remains to be seen,” she said. “Your appearance is quite satisfactory. I am much surprised.”

As was Tristan. He’d come expecting at the very least an antidote; instead, he found a very pleasant-looking woman. Not pretty, no: her snub nose and round face were not those of an Incomparable, but neither was she ugly. Just—ordinary. But pleasant enough. And a trim enough figure beneath her simple gown. Fair hair—curled, but he could not quite tell if that was natural or the product of curling-irons—in a plain style appropriate for a morning at home. And she looked… peaceful. Undemanding. Something inside of him unwound at that thought, and he smiled again. Perhaps this would not be quite as horrible as he’d suspected.

“I am pleased that my appearance is satisfactory. I hope I may reassure you on any other points you may question.”

“Indeed.” She glanced up as the footman came in with the tea tray and set it down on the table between them. “I do of course have a number of questions for you. I hope you won’t find them too personal.”

“Lottie…,” Mrs. Bayes said, pleating the plain gray stuff of her gown anxiously.

Charlotte smiled at her friend. “Oh, Ellen, dearest, don’t be concerned. Mr. Northwood is my betrothed. He and I can have no secrets, can we, Mr. Northwood?”

Tristan stared at her a moment, nonplused, then shook his head. “I suppose not.”
Like hell
, he thought,
am I telling you all
my
secrets!

His fiancée said to her companion, “You see? It would be quite proper for you to leave us in private for a short while, Ellen, dear. It would
not
be proper for you to hear a discussion between two affianced people.” Her smile was an amazing thing, Tristan thought in weird fascination, a sort of placidly immovable expression, as if she had no doubt that her will would be obeyed. Suddenly he wondered if he were up for it after all….

“Lottie?”

“Shoo. Come back in fifteen minutes.” Lottie studied him a moment, then went on. “That should be sufficient for the discussion I intend to have.”

“Fine,” Ellen said, “but it is against my better judgment.” She rearranged her shawl and sailed out of the room, nose in the air.

“It’s a sad duenna so easily routed,” Tristan observed.

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Is that a foreign word, ‘duenna’? Because it sounds like a foreign word. It sounds like something my brother Charlie might write. He’s in the Peninsula, you know.”

“I do now,” Tristan said.

“What does it mean?”

“‘Chaperone’, I believe.”

“Oh, Ellen isn’t my chaperone. She’s just my companion, to keep me company, you know. Not that I really need company; I’m perfectly happy by myself. But Papa prefers that I have someone with me when I want to go riding, or walking, or shopping, and so I hired Ellen. She’s actually….” She frowned, wrinkling her nose again. “A second cousin or something. Her husband died and she was quite bored, so she was happy to come here.”

“She may continue to live with you when we are married,” Tristan offered magnanimously.

“That would be nice,” Charlotte replied. “She can keep me company when you are out. I suppose you have a very busy life. Men seem to.”

Yes, of course
, Tristan thought. There were many demands on his time, drinking, swiving, attending mills, attending the opera—for the sole purpose of picking up the stray opera dancer, of course….

“Do you attend the opera?”

He blinked. “Yes, of course,” he said automatically.

She wrinkled her nose again. She was rather amusing, he thought dazedly. Like a puppy. “I went once. I fell asleep.”

“Well, it is….”

“My brother Daniel says most men attend to look at the pretty ladies on the stage.” She chuckled, a low, warm sound. “He then had to explain to me that the stage in opera is not the same as the stage one rides on to travel around. Isn’t that silly? Of course, I was quite young at the time, not yet out.”

“He said that to you when you were still in the schoolroom?”

“Oh, I was out of the schoolroom. But not ‘out’ yet, you know. When a girl is presented and all that.”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“I thought you might,” she said complacently. “You look like a clever person.”