Kindred Hearts (53 page)

Derek gave him a twisted smile, then remounted, snapped a quick salute, and trotted off down the street, his back straight. Tristan watched, his heart aching a little. He’d never broken a heart before—he’d always been careful to choose lovers as jaded as he was. But he’d never expected this—that someone as steady and confident as Derek Chamberlain could possibly have feelings for him.

He felt terrible.

Leaning his head against Paragon’s shoulder, he stood in the street waiting for the groom instead of leading the horse back to the mews. The horse was warm and steady under his forehead; he felt the flex of heavy muscle and then the soft tickle as Paragon nibbled at his hair, nudging his hat out of the way. He laughed. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re besotted with me too, stupid animal.”

Paragon snorted and Tristan laughed again, then bestirred himself to bring the horse back to his stable.

Reston
scratched on Charles’s door just as Reid was finishing up shaving Charles. In the last couple of days, he’d been able to move to a chair with his leg on a footstool for his morning shave; he’d taken for granted before just how good it felt to have a clean face. Reid had done his best with him in the bed, but it had been a catch-as-catch-can proposition. Now his batman wiped away the last traces of soap before calling, “Come in, Mr. Reston.”

“Dr. Crosby has arrived,” Reston told Charles. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready for visitors.”

“Send ’em up, whoever gets here,” Charles said. “I’m ready for anything.” He rubbed a grateful hand over his smooth chin. “Mr. Northwood done with breakfast yet?”

“Mr. Northwood went riding about an hour ago,” Reston said, “with Mr. Chamberlain.”

“Chamberlain? Do I know a Chamberlain?”

“Lord Seymour’s solicitor,” Reston supplied. “He made Mr. Northwood’s acquaintance when they were both tending to the wounded. I understand that he’s returning to London with the Seymours tomorrow. Shall I send Dr. Crosby up, then, sir?”

“Please do,” Charles said. When Reston had gone, he turned to Reid. “Do you know this Chamberlain, Reid?”

“I’ve met him, aye,” Reid said. “He and Mr. Northwood go ridin’ together a couple times a week. Pleasant enough gentleman.”

A pleasant enough gentleman. Whom Tris had met while tending the wounded. With whom Tris went riding a couple of times a week. And whom Tris had not thought worth mentioning to Charles.

Or was it that he didn’t choose to mention him?

The pleasure over his shave vanished, and it was with a grim expression that Charles greeted Crosby. “How much damn longer will I be laid up here?”

“You tell me,” the doctor retorted. “You know as well as I what recovery time for broken bones is.”

“Six weeks,” Charles snapped. “But one doesn’t have to spend the entire six weeks in bed.”

“No,” Crosby agreed. “So get your arse up on those crutches and we’ll see how you’re doing. How’s the pain?”

“Alive and well,” Charles said. “And reminding me of its presence.” He grimaced. “I suppose no one can tell how long
that
will be going on.”

“Pain is less measurable than bone. Best we can say is the sooner you heal—
don’t
, pray, put your weight on it! Damn it, Mountjoy, you know better than that! You, man, hold your master’s other arm. Mountjoy, if you ever intend to walk again, you can’t bloody rush it!”

Charles sucked hard on the inside of his cheek, cursing the impulsive move that had shot pain up his leg. He did know better, but never had his enforced idleness chafed more that at this moment.
Where was Tris? Surely an hour was plenty of time for a ride—more than enough time. What was he doing with the mysterious Mr. Chamberlain?
With an effort, he turned his attention to walking, using the crutches to support him while he exercised the knee joint in a mockery of his normal gait. “Good,” Crosby said, “you’re maintaining flexibility in the knee and quadriceps. That’s what I like to see. Those weights you’re using to exercise the ankle should be very helpful in minimizing muscular deterioration. You will walk with a limp, of course, but I’m inclined to believe you will walk.
If
you don’t rush it. We won’t know for sure, of course, until you’re well enough to put weight on it. But I’m optimistic, and you know I’m rarely optimistic.”

When he was finished with his exercise, he swung back into the bedroom, Reid at his heels. He turned carefully on the crutches, balanced, and held out a hand to Crosby. “Thank you for your attention, and for making the trip here. I appreciate it. My sister wants me to join them at the Northwoods’ country cottage for my convalescence, but I hope to see you in town soon.”

“I expect to see you in town for the Little Season,” Crosby said, “though I won’t expect you to return to your studies at St. Joseph’s until spring, to be fair. MacQuarrie will probably be in touch with you before that; he’ll have plenty for you to do whilst you’re abed.”

Charles laughed. “No doubt,” he said lightly, shaking Crosby’s hand again. “Good travels to you, sir.”

“And you, sir.” Crosby nodded and vanished down the stairs.

“Back to bed, sir?” Reid asked, “or would you prefer sitting in the chair for a while?”

“Bed, I think. I’ve still not recovered my stamina.” He pivoted on the crutches and swung over toward the bed.

He was just about to shift onto the mattress when he glanced out the window and saw a pair of horsemen riding up. One was a stranger, but even if he hadn’t recognized the second, the horse he was riding was Charles’s own Paragon. Tristan. And the mysterious Mr. Chamberlain, he supposed. Charles went to the window and looked down as they dismounted. They spoke too softly for him to hear them, but he could see clearly enough. Could see Tristan holding the man’s hand a shade too long; could see the man lean forward to kiss Tristan’s cheek; could see Tristan reach over and touch the man’s face. And when the man was riding off, could see Tristan resting his forehead against Paragon’s shoulder, as if in grief at the parting.

He hadn’t been able to see his rival’s face, but in his imagination painted it as handsome and aristocratic as Tristan’s own. A solicitor, so probably not of particularly good family, but then Tristan had never been a snob. He would be a gentleman, at any rate, and of good manners; those
would
be important to Tris. Charles could see himself that he was dignified and sat his mount well. Athletic then, like Tris.

Charles watched Tris as he raised his head and caught up Paragon’s reins to lead him to the mews and out of Charles’s sight. For a long moment, Charles just stared down at the empty street, but when Reid said, his voice tight with concern, “Major?” he shook his head and let his batman ease him into bed.

“I’m tired, Reid,” he said, hating the fretful sound of his voice. “I’m going to sleep; I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Mr. Northwood….”

“By anyone, Reid,” he said sharply.

“Yes, sir.” Reid clicked his heels smartly and took himself off.

Charles lay in the bed, brooding and unable to sleep.

“
How
strange,” Liesl said. “No one at all, Mr. Reid?”

“No, Contessa. He seemed quite tired—not at all himself. I did manage to touch his hand when I was tucking him in, and he did not seem feverish. But short-tempered.”

“I suppose his visit with Dr. Crosby wore him out,” Lottie said placidly. “He has been shorter of temper since his injury but I suppose that’s natural. I remember how
vile
Tristan’s temper was when he was recovering from his illness.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Tristan said, bowing politely.

She curtseyed back at him with a smirk.

“Children, children,” Liesl said with a sigh. “Well, we shall let
mein Junge
rest. Perhaps after luncheon he will feel more like visitors.”

But
after lunch, Reid brought down the message that Major Mountjoy was quite uninterested in having visitors, and continued to maintain that he did not wish to be disturbed. After dinner, Tristan sought Reid out in the servants’ dining room and took him aside, demanding to know what had happened, if Crosby had said anything to disturb Charles.

“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know what it was,” Reid admitted. “He was his usual self before Dr. Crosby came, but by the time the doctor arrived he was already in the sulks. The only thing I can think of was that Mr. Reston had mentioned you’d gone riding with Mr. Chamberlain; he asked me about the gentleman, but didn’t say anything on the subject. It was after that, though, that his temper got worse. I been thinking about it, Mr. Northwood, and that’s the only reason I can figure for it.”

“What could have disturbed him about my going out with Mr. Chamberlain?” Tristan asked, more to himself, but Reid answered.

“I think it was because he’d never heard of the man, sir. He seemed quite put out about that.”

“Never…. Of course he’s heard of him. I’ve mentioned him, surely?” Tristan thought a moment. “I must have mentioned him.”

“Not in my hearing, sir, but then I’m not always there when you’re visiting the major.”

“Well, still, what the devil would he find objectionable in my taking a ride with the man?” Tristan demanded.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” Reid replied with a sigh.

“Well, at this point I’m not interested in what he does and doesn’t want. He’s sulking for some reason, just as I did when I was unwell, and just as he did then, I shall shake him out of the sulks.”

“Very good, sir,” Reid said with a smile.

Tristan nodded abruptly, then turned and stomped back into the main part of the house and up the stairs to the bedrooms. Charles’s door was closed, but not locked; Tristan opened it and stuck his head in to see Charles awake and staring blindly out the window. “Sulking?” he said.

Charles turned toward him and said bleakly, “I’ve no need of anything, Tris. You don’t need….”

“Ballocks on what I do or don’t need, and the same for you,” Tristan said ruthlessly, coming into the room and shutting the door. “Now what are you so fussed about?”

“Nothing,” Charles said curtly.

“Ballocks,” Tristan said again. “What’s this about you being jealous of poor Chamberlain?”

“Jealous?” Charles echoed. “What in God’s name do you mean jealous?”

“I took a bloody ride with him, to the park and back, and nothing more. What in that is so upsetting that you’ve got Reid at his wit’s end with you?”

“Reid,” his lover said austerely, “is not at his wit’s end. And if I decided I want a little time away from your poking and prying and my sister’s poking and prying and my
mother’s
poking and prying, what matter to you, sir?”

Tristan guffawed. “Oh, that’s it, is it?” he said, and sat on the edge of Charles’s bed. “Put the blame on everyone else. Fine work, Major.” He folded his arms and regarded Charles. “For your information, poor Chamberlain is leaving tomorrow to return to London. He shall not be around to take my attention away from you. Satisfied?”