Gritting back an oath, he thumped the knocker with thunderous force.
Boom, boom, boom.
The sound echoed through the entrance hall beyond.
And then . . .
. . . nothing more.
He pulled Isolde in front of him, trying to shelter her, his own shoulders hunched in his overcoat as rain pelted his back.
This was ridiculous. He was a duke! Dukes did not stand on their own front stoop in the dripping wet, pounding to be admitted.
He could feel his Kendall self rising—the haughty, autocratic epitome of his loathsome father. A tyrannical man, yes, but one who marshaled underlings, commanded obedience, and ensured competence.
After another moment, he knocked again, louder this time.
Boom, boom, boom.
His wrath rose with each resounding thud.
Someone’s head would roll for this debacle. He might have spent the last five weeks on his honeymoon, but that was no excuse for slipshod household management in his absence.
Boom, boom, boom.
Finally, a scuffling noise sounded from within, feet scrambling on marble.
The lock turned with an echoingsha-shunk,and the door opened a crack, revealing the face of a young hall boy.
“Who goes—” was all the lad got out before Tristan pushed the door wide and stepped inside, pulling Isolde with him. The youth stumbled back, toppling onto his bottom in the middle of the grand entrance hall, mouth agape as if seeing a ghost.
“Y-Your Grace,” the boy stammered, skittering backward on the marble floor.
Tristan kicked the front door shut with a satisfyingthwackthat rattled the windows in their casements and echoed up the stairs.
“Fetch Fredericks, boy,” Tristan barked. His butler should have answers. “Also, summon Mr. Ledger immediately. And light the lamps.” He spared a glance at the one candle lit on a side table. “This place is hardly a graveyard.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace.” The lad jumped to his feet. “I-immediately, Your Grace.” The boy disappeared down the hall toward the servants’ quarters.
Good.
Someone needed to restore order here. Though a cursory look around the entrance hall with its shined marble and impressive rising staircase showed the house to be tidy and clean. At least his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, was doing her job.
Tristan turned to Isolde who remained silent and tight-lipped at his side. “I am most sorry you had to arrive home to this, Duchess.”
“Hush. All is well, my love.”
“It isnotwell, Isolde. It is an utter disgrace.”
His wife touched his arm. “Surely, there has been a misunderstanding that shall be easily righted. There is no need for such alarm.”
Tristan ignored the reproach in her tone. “We shall see.”
Some lackadaisical person would feel the sharp edge of his anger before the night was over. If Tristan had to be Kendall in order to protect and provide for his duchess, then so be it.
Stripping off his gloves, he dropped them inside his hat and deposited the whole on a sideboard. Isolde followed suit with her own gloves and bonnet. Tristan had just shed his overcoat when a voice carried down the central stairs.
“What the devil is this racket?! Fredericks!” A stout figure in a lavish dressing gown stomped down the stairs, a flickering candle held aloft. “Fredericks!” the man called, leaning over the railing.
