Finally, in desperation, Tristan suggested attending the opera to his father. It was the best place to conduct reconnaissance, and Tristan required information before mustering a campaign.
“I have never attended an opera, and I find it a rather appalling lack in my education,” he said to Kendall over dinner at Gilbert House, the family’s London residence.
As usual, Tristan removed any sense of a request from his words. Apathy was paramount when dealing with Kendall.
“What an idiotic idea,” Kendall harrumphed from his end of the long dining room table, pinning Tristan with his unsettling pale gray eyes. “Odious things, operas. Caterwauling women and plots that are as improbable as they are absurd. You are better off without them.” He shook his head and stabbed at his roast beef with a trembling hand.
Tristan said nothing in reply. Manipulating his father was a chess match, and Tristan had years of experience. Words were weapons Kendall could twist to his own advantage. The less Tristan said, the more power he retained.
Mentally, the duke was as sharp and cruel as he had ever been.
But Kendall’s physical decline became more apparent each year. Though it was said he had grayed young, his white hair had thinned dramatically and a tremor now racked his muscles. His skin, aged with liver spots, sagged over his bones like melting candle wax.
Most of the time, Tristan felt like he was merely waiting for the old bastard to die.
As Tristan hoped, apathy and silence won out in the end.
Three nights later, Kendall announced they were to attend the opera.
“I have decided it will be advantageous for others to see my heir,” he proclaimed.
In other words, Tristan was to be trotted about like a show pony. A reminder to all and sundry that Kendall’s scandalous behavior had not materially impacted his legacy.
And so, a week after the Duke of Montacute’s garden party, Tristan trailed his father up the steps into the Theatre Royal Haymarket, Babcock following discreetly behind. They were fashionably late, of course, as Kendall wished everyone to take note of their arrival. The old duke held his shoulders high, giving the impression that the walking stick in his hand was more for fashion than stability.
Heads did indeed swivel their way as they entered the lobby. Though Kendall’s expression remained haughty and aloof, Tristan could feel his father preening at the attention.
Covered in elegant carvings and gilt decoration, the interior of the theater was a feast for the eyes. However, Tristan’s attention rested on the vibrant silks and glittering jewels of the assembled elite of London. Knowing Kendall would disapprove of gawking, Tristan feigned boredom, keeping his face carefully blank as he scanned the thinning crowd. Surely his lady’s vibrant hair would stand out—a red cardinal flitting among drab sparrows.
She was not in the lobby.
He refused to be discouraged. The evening had scarcely begun.
Climbing the stairs to the first level, Tristan and Kendall wended their way along the corridor outside the aristocratic boxes, encountering few people as the notes of an opening aria had already sounded.
Abruptly, two tall, immaculately-dressed men stepped out from a box—one younger and the other gray-haired. The dim guttering gaslight rendered the doorway in shadow, masking the pair’s identity.
Kendall’s hiss of outrage and abrupt stop were Tristan’s first clues.
Sir Rafe Gordon—Tristan’s half-brother and Kendall’s now-illegitimate son—stepping into the gaslight of the corridor was the second. A quick look confirmed the younger man to be Sir Rafe’s eldest son, Mr. John Gordon.
Both men froze, obviously just as alarmed at encountering the duke and his heir.
“I knew coming tonight was a mistake.” Kendall turned his pale eyes to Tristan. “Nowadays, you never know what bastards they will admit to formerly-respectable entertainment.”
Sir Rafe laughed, a humorless crack of sound. “If I’m a bastard, ’tis only thanks tae the perfidy of my sire, would ye not agree, Father.” He gave a mocking bow.
“You are no son of mine!” Kendall spat.
“Ah, I do believe a parish register at St. George’s in Hanover Square would beg tae differ.” Scotland threaded through Sir Rafe’s voice, a nod to his Scottish mother.
Sir Rafe spared a glance for Tristan—and then for Babcock at Tristan’s back—expression almost apologetic . . . but not quite.
Tristan kept his own mouth firmly shut. The less Kendall noticed him in this situation, the better. He preferred his father’s vitriol to fall on Sir Rafe.
Tristan had not seen his half-brother in nearly a decade, though he had glimpsed Mr. John Gordon from afar once or twice at Oxford. Not long after being declared illegitimate, Rafe had been granted a baronetcy by then King George VI, becoming Sir Rafe.
The family resemblance between the four of them—duke, sons, and grandson—was astounding. All three of Kendall’s progeny sported their sire’s sharp features, broad shoulders, and striking height. Sir Rafe, Tristan noted, had a thin white scar that extended from his right templeto his cheekbone, the only mark on his otherwise handsome face. Tristan had to wonder if he himself would age as gracefully. His half-brother had avoided inheriting their father’s preternaturally gray hair—Sir Rafe’s good fortune, as ever, holding true.
