Fury rose so quickly in Tristan’s chest, he worried steam would pour from his ears.
This explained much.
The man turned his attention to Tristan and Isolde.
“How dare you call at such a late hour, sirrah!” he shouted, stomping down the stairs. “I do not care what your business here regards or how important you presume yourselves to be, you will return at a civil hour! Fredericks!”
Tristan’s rage coalesced under his sternum, anger retracting and turning to ice, hardening his ribcage to frosty steel. Stepping into the light of the single candle on the side table, he stared up at the man.
“Cousin Aubrey.” Tristan’s voice vibrated with the ducal outrage of every Kendall who had preceded him. “You will refer to me asYour Graceif I ever deign to speak with you after this outrage.”
Mr. Aubrey Gilbert—Tristan’s cousin and heir—staggered back on the steps, shoulders hitting the wall opposite the banister, face blanching pure white in the light of his candle. His mouth flapped open, like a spawning salmon gasping for breath.
“Furthermore, how dare you commandeer my household,” Tristan continued. “It is appalling to return home and find you here—uninvited, unannounced, and decidedly unwelcome.”
“K-Kendall,” Aubrey stammered.
“Your. Grace. You will refer to me asYour Grace. What part of that instruction was unclear?”
“You’re alive!”
“Your. Grace. Truly, Cousin, I question your mental abilities.”
“Alive . . . . Y-Your Grace.”
“Of course, I’m alive, you dolt! Ledger informed you of that fact, I am sure. But perhaps your diminished mental acuity could not comprehend such simple information. Shall I have a doctor summoned?”
To his credit, Aubrey rallied, standing and continuing down the stairs. Though scarcely older than Tristan’s own thirty years, Aubrey’s receding hairline and rotund belly gave him the appearance of a man a decade older. Only the set of his eyes and the gray peppering his dark hair echoed his familial ties to the Dukedom of Kendall.
“I-I am g-gratified to see you well, Your Grace.” Aubrey managed a stiff bow. He flickered a glance at Isolde.
“Spare me your lies,” Tristan snorted. “It appears you heard rumors of my demise and raced to London to claim my home and title before receiving confirmation of my cold corpse. Such appalling behavior is beneath any gentleman, particularly one who claims the surname Gilbert. Perhaps that should be reevaluated.”
Aubrey blanched. “W-We truly did not know, Your—”
“Nonsense! Did Mr. Ledger die on his way to London? Or did he arrive mute and dumb and unable to speak?”
“N-No, I gather he is well, but—”
“Butwhat, Cousin?”
Aubrey spluttered for a moment, proving yet again why Tristan considered him a prize idiot. Honestly, he and Isolde needed to produce a son post-haste. The dukedom wouldn’t survive a year with Aubrey at its helm.
“Husband? Whatever is the matter?” a female voice called from the top of the stairs.
Tristan took in a deep breath before looking up.
Of course.
The true architect of this debacle.
Lady Lavinia Gilbert, Aubrey’s aristocratic wife.
Not registering Tristan’s presence, she descended the stairs in a cloud of French perfume and a fashionable silk dressing gown, an expensive beeswax candle held aloft in a silver holder. Short and thin with a large nose and a pinched sort of face, she resembled a ferret. Or rather, Allie once remarked upon the similarity and now Tristan couldn’t unsee it. A pretty ferret but a weasel nonetheless—sneaky and conniving.
“Who has come calling at this late hour to inconvenience our househol—”
Lady Lavinia froze on the second to last step, eyes widening as she finally recognized who stood in the entrance hall.
