Chapter 4
It did not take Tristan long to locate Mr. Marlow. The man stood out on the fashionable paths of Hyde Park, more for his complete disregard for fashion than for anything else about him. His coat, while neat and clean, had seen many years of use if the slight sheen at the elbows was any indication. His hat, too, while a finely made beaver, was several seasons out of style. These facts were made all the more glaring as he weaved through the thickening throngs of fashionable elite in their bright colors and expertly cut outerwear. Was the man poor? Or was he simply frugal? Miss Gladstow had told him (on several occasions—the girl did like to talk about her particular friend) that he was the son of a local landowner. Yet while it told him the man was a gentleman, it gave nothing away regarding the financial aspects of the family.
Tristan fell in behind him, making sure to keep far enough back to remain unobserved should the man happen to turn and cast his gaze his way. He had an idea what to do. All it took now was to see what the man’s mettle was.
They exited the park at Hyde Park Gate, heading west along Knightsbridge toward Kensington Road, turning left at Sloane Street. Mr. Marlow kept up a brisk pace, never faltering in his apparently single-minded quest to get to wherever the blazes he needed to be. Tristan sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the hours of boxing and fencing and riding and whatever other physical activity had taken his fancy over the years. For it quickly became apparent to him that, no matter the distance he needed to traverse, the man wasn’t planning on hailing a hackney. Which was all well and good;Tristan would have a hell of a time following him if he took to the streets in a carriage.
At last, far down Sloane Street, Mr. Marlow turned into the yard of a small but respectable-looking hotel. It was certainly not Grenier’s or the Clarendon, or the newly built Mivart’s, but it was elegant and clean, with a freshly washed façade and friendly-looking grooms helping the other patrons.
So Mr. Marlow had some blunt. Not much, granted, if he had chosen to stay in such a place, but enough to be well-off. He might still be after Miss Gladstow’s money, but at least he did not appear to be in dire straits. For desperate men often turned to desperate measures to get their way. And Tristan would not see Miss Gladstow harmed.
But despite the reassurance that the man was comfortably situated, Tristan was smart enough to know that money alone did not make for a good man. No, there were plenty of men who encompassed all that was cruel and heartless in the world yet were rich as Midas.
His father had been chief among them.
Tristan pressed his lips together, banishing the jarring memory back to the pits of hell where it belonged. He had a purpose, and he would not be sidetracked. All it took now was to see where Mr. Marlow’s morals lay.
The man disappeared inside the hotel. Tristan took up a post across the street, weighing his options. There was no telling how long Mr. Marlow would be within. It could be minutes, it could be hours. Should he wait for him to emerge, to follow him again?
Or should he head within the establishment and ask about, to see what impression the people working there had gotten of the man thus far? For Tristan had learned over the years there was no better judge of character than a person in service. To most they were invisible, and thus saw much more than they were meant.
Finally, after fifteen minutes of prevaricating, he started off across the street. Best to take the bull by the horns, so to speak.
He entered the establishment, his boots clicking on the polished floor of the foyer, when a man stepped into his path. Stumbling to a halt, Tristan found himself looking into the hard, spare face of Mr. Marlow.
“Why are you following me?” the man demanded.
Either Tristan was an appalling spy, or Mr. Marlow was far cleverer than he had given him credit for. Tristan eyed him cautiously. He had certainly not meant to be seen.
Perhaps, though, he could work this to his advantage.
He assumed an expression of bored insolence. “You spent a good deal of time with Miss Gladstow this afternoon.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “And you have spent a good portion of the past fortnight in her company. Or so I’ve heard.”
Tristan allowed his lips to kick up in a self-satisfied smile. He adjusted a cuff. “You are surprisingly well-informed for a country bumpkin.”
“We get the paper in Baswich, you know. Despite your contempt for those of us who live far away from the vice of London life, I assure you I can read. And I have come to some conclusions while perusing the London papers.”
“Have you?” Tristan murmured.
“Yes. You are after Sarah’s dowry.”
Tristan laughed. “So what if I am? It is none of your concern.”
Mr. Marlow took a menacing step forward. “It is my concern. I won’t have her taken advantage of.”
“I am not taking advantage of her, dear boy. It is expected I marry for money, as much as it is expected she marry for a title. If there is anyone taking advantage, it is mutual.”
“But you don’t love her!”
“Of course I don’t. But that is hardly ever the case in these situations. Which you would know if you were a man of the world. Which,” Tristan looked Mr. Marlow up and down, letting amusement mingle with the repugnance currently gracing his face, “you most certainly are not.”
The man’s hands squeezed into fists at his sides, outrage twisting his features. “How can you marry a woman you do not love?”
“Oh, easily, I assure you. Especially when there is a fortune involved. My lifestyle does not come cheap. And I do have a presence in society to keep up. Besides, there are other avenues one may find love. Outside of the marriage bed.” He chuckled.
Tristan expected any manner of responses to that, from a fist to the jaw to being outright called out. What he did not expect, though, was the tightly controlled rage.
