“The requested information is true to the best of our knowledge?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Tristan drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
Withholding the documents would deny the committee important information.
But if he released it, he would be in open opposition to his father-in-law. Something he had promised Isolde he would not do.
Yet . . . a petty part of Tristan still longed for Hadley to receive his comeuppance. If Hadley truly was innocent, then proving his claims shouldn’t be difficult. He would have his day in court. In the meantime, Tristan wished to ensure that all relevant facts were presented.
He reached a decision.
“Return to London and have the requested documents sent to the committee. Just ensure it is done with the utmost discretion and secrecy,” he informed Ledger. “I would greatly prefer that news of this does not reach Hadley’s ears, much less become public.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
An hour later, Tristan had given his secretary an additional list of tasks to perform and then put the man on a packet boat bound for Glasgow and on to London.
From there, Tristan summoned his valet and dressed for dinner.
Isolde sent him a speaking look when he finally joined her and Hadley in their private dining room at the Oban Inn.
“Ye were missed, Husband,” she greeted him with reproach in her voice.
Hadley’s faint grunt and baleful glare negated her sentiment entirely—the earl had not missed Tristan’s company in any fashion.
Tristan longed to kiss Isolde in greeting, to wrap her in his arms and never let go.
Instead, he settled for holding his hat in his hands and staring at the tense set of his wife’s mouth from across the room.
“Hadley,” Tristan nodded at his father-in-law.
“Kendall,” Hadley said stiffly in return.
Neither of them spoke another word. Tristan could not trust himself to speak politely to the man. And given the stern set of his brow, Hadley likely felt the same.
They walked the half mile to Dunollie House north of town, where they were to dine with Sir John and Lady MacDougall. Isolde alternated between taking her father’s arm and Tristan’s, as if desperate to sooth the animosity between them. Or at the very least, prevent her father and husband from coming to blows.
Dunollie House was less a grand estate and more a genteel farmer’s abode. In fact, Tristan was rather sure that Thistle Muir, Ethan Penn-Leith’s ancestral home, was more luxurious. Dunollie Castle, a derelict, medieval ruin, loomed over the more recently-constructed house.
Sir John and his son were just as presumptuous and irritating as the night before. Only this time, they had Hadley as an audience. While the men tried to impress Isolde with their volubility, Tristan conversed with Lady MacDougall and nursed a glass of sherry, praying for dinner to be announced soon.
But the sound of his wife’s laughter echoed through the shabby drawing-room, and Tristan found himself turning to look at her every other minute, noting the radiant happiness on her face.
A happiness he had no hand in creating.
“Let me show ye the Brooch of Lorn, Hadley,” Sir John said. “’Tis a brooch that belonged tae Robert the Bruce himself.”
They all dutifully followed Sir John across the room, where he pulled a wooden case from a cupboard. Inside, a silver brooch mounted with a large milky-white charmstone lay nestled on a bed of blue velvet.
Sir John lifted the jewel reverently, cradling it in his hand.
“’Tis a rare sight. It remained in my family for centuries before it was looted by the English.Sassenachstaking Scottish heirlooms as usual.” Hespared a glance for Tristan with those words. “But it was returned tae our family about twenty years past when General Campbell discovered it hidden in an old chest. Even Queen Victoria herself had tae stop and inspect it. Held it in her wee hands just like this.” Sir John cupped the brooch between his palms.
Hadley whistled. “An admirable piece of history, Sir John.”
“May I hold it, as well?” Isolde asked, smile bright.
