Exhaustion weighed heavy on him. Though even the call of his bed and the oblivion of sleep was not enough to make him wish to return home, where he would see Rosalind around every corner. In the end he decided to go to the only place he knew he could find some semblance of solace: to Willbridge’s Brook Street house and the friendly ear he could find in Daphne.
But even that was denied him as he was directed to the sitting room and caught what was undoubtedly the most somber look ever to cross her perpetually cheerful countenance.
“What is it now?” he groaned as he came closer.
“It is Lord Sumner.”
Tristan dropped into a chair across from Daphne. “Don’t tell me Imogen has done away with the man after the idiotic thing he has done.”
Daphne did not even crack a smile at the pathetic attempt at a joke. “She has not. But he has died nonetheless.”
Tristan gaped at her. She was jesting. By all accounts the man had barely received a scratch in the carriage accident that had taken the life of his latest mistress. But the seriousness of Daphne’s face told him it was nothing but the truth.
He lurched forward, taking her hand in his. “Damn me, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You could not have known.” She sighed, the weight of the world in it. “We received word not an hour past. It seems an infection set in from the minor injury he sustained. Mama says we are to leave with all haste, before the day is even done.”
He squeezed her hand. How this must weigh on her. Daphne, who had so looked forward to her first London Season it had been all she could think or talk about for the year before. And too, he knew her genuine like of Lady Sumner. First, as their neighbor of many years back at the family seat, Willowhaven, but more so now through Imogen and Caleb’s marriage.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
She shook her head morosely. They sat in silence for a time, listening to the chaos that trickled down from above, no doubt the household being turned on end as Daphne’s mother, the dowager Lady Willbridge, saw to their hasty packing. He should depart, leave the family to their preparations. Yet even faced with Daphne’s grief he could not bring himself to leave.
He stilled. Why did he have to? Daphne could use a friend in the days to come. Willbridge would appreciate his sister and mother having a travelling companion on a trip that would doubtlessly be difficult for them. It would be perfectly natural for him to lend his services to them, being as close to the family as he was.
And if hying off to Willowhaven gave him time and distance to come to terms with his heartbreak over Rosalind, so much the better.
“Let me go with you,” he said.
Daphne frowned at the suggestion. “I would not want to impose.” He could not fail to see the glimmer of relief in her eyes.
“You silly thing, I think of your family as my own. Of course you would not impose.”
Finally a hint of a smile lit her face. “Oh, Mama will be so relieved. She has been in such a state since we received word, has been in such a frenzy of activity, I feared for her nerves during the long trip home. Now we may have some comfort.”
They wasted no time in locating Lady Willbridge. The dowager was directing servants in the family quarters, her graying copper hair frizzy, her clothing mussed. When Daphne apprised her of Tristan’s offer, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, my darling boy, you cannot know what it means to me. We shall be more than happy to have your company and protection on the long trip to Willowhaven.”
After quickly discussing the schedule, Tristan was off. It was necessary to pack, surely. More important than that, he must say goodbye to Grace. For he had a bone deep feeling she would be gone by the time he returned to London, headed back to Scotland.
And perhaps he would have the chance to bid farewell to Rosalind and close that painful chapter of his life for good.
• • •
“Rosalind.”
Having spent the better part of an hour standing at the ground floor parlor window, watching as Tristan’s gleaming black carriage was made ready for a long journey, Rosalind was unprepared for the quiet, somber voice behind her. But it did not startle her so much as steal her breath with the pain it caused.
So he had come to say goodbye. She had not expected it, not after the way things had ended between them.
Regret nearly choked her. For the way things had ended, yes, but also that they had ended at all. Such anguishing thoughts had begun to encroach on her, though better sense told her she had done the right thing to protect herself from further hurt.
Silencing the mournful voice in her head was not easy. Over the last two days it had only grown louder and more insistent. Focusing on the memory of Guinevere hanging about her neck on its borrowed ribbon, and the constant reminder of the heartache in Grace’s face, she turned to face him.
“Sir Tristan.”
His mouth pressed tight, his eyes flashing with what appeared to be pain. No, she told herself firmly, he was annoyed and nothing more. In the next instant his face cleared and he took on a distant, businesslike mien as he entered the room.
