“Look who has arrived home, Wife,” Aubrey said with forced cheer. “Is it not a miracle?” He waved a hand in Tristan’s direction.
“Yes. A miracle,” Lady Lavinia said, voice monotone. “Welcome home, Your Grace.” She curtsied, elegant and neat, her candle flickering with motion.
The youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Andover, Lady Lavinia took her husband’s designation as heir to theDuke of Kendall as a proclamation of fact—Aubreywouldbe the next Duke. Never mind that Tristan was hearty and hale. Never mind that his lovely duchess currently stood at his side, possibly already carrying his heir.
No, Lady Lavinia, along with her parents, assumed that their daughter would one day wear the eight golden strawberry leaves of a duchess’s coronet—Tristan and Isolde be damned.
“Lady Lavinia.” Tristan inclined his head. He turned to Isolde at his side. His clever wife hid her surprise well. Her expression remained bland and impassive though her eyes sparkled with some emotion. Outrage, like himself? Or was it . . . hilarity?
Regardless, he took her hand in his. “Duchess, may I present my cousin and heir, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, and his wife, Lady Lavinia Gilbert?”
Isolde dipped her head the precisely proper amount for greeting a social inferior, proving her impeccable manners. “Mr. Gilbert. Lady Lavinia.”
“Duchess,” they both echoed, bowing and curtsying as appropriate, though Tristan did not miss the faint sneering curl of Lady Lavinia’s lips illuminated by her candle.Ferretscurried through his brain.
Lady Lavinia’s rancor likely stemmed from the fact that Tristan had spurned her advances years ago. Well,spurnedmight be too strong a word. Ignored, more like. She had thrown herself at him over and over—at balls, at dinners, at soirées—and he simply had pretended to not notice.Hell hath no furyand all that.
But that certainly did not excuse either Aubrey or Lady Lavinia’s current appalling behavior.
Cold rage continued to band Tristan’s chest.
“Lady Lavinia,” Tristan said, “I have been attempting to understand why my secretary’s description of my health andwholeness was unable to penetrate my cousin’s thick skull. Perhaps you could enlighten me?”
Lady Lavinia smiled—the strained sort of expression one makes when scrambling for a believable fib—and turned to her husband.
“Secretary?” she asked with a feather-headed laugh.
“Mr. Adam Ledger,” Tristan supplied blandly. “Tall fellow, brown hair, brown eyes, spectacles. He has a room beside the butler’s in the servants’ quarters.”
Given how Aubrey blanched once more, they knew to whom Tristan referred. They had to have heard Ledger’s account of meeting with Tristan in Oban from the man himself. So . . . why had they assumed Tristan to be dead?
Lady Lavinia rallied. “I believe, Your Grace, there were concerns over the veracity of Mr. Ledger’s statements. It seemed odd that you yourself hadn’t returned to London.”
“Why should I have needed to return to London in order for firsthand accounts of my health and continued breathing on this earth to be believed? If you readily accepted hearsay of my death, why not also believe verified reports of my survival? Truly, such logic is deeply flawed.”
Aubrey stood tall. “There were rumors that you had suffered a terrible blow to the head, Your Grace, and were no longer ofcompos mentis.”
“Do I appear injured, Cousin?” Tristan spread his arms. “Or of a diminished mental capacity?”
“Of c-course not,” Aubrey stammered.
Before Tristan could continue his questioning, the door to the servants’ quarters at the back of the entrance hall clacked open.
A flustered Fredericks burst through, a dressing gown hastily tied around his waist. Two footmen in shirtsleeves and the hallboy followed at his heels.
“Your Grace!” the butler all but crowed.
“Ah, Fredericks.”
“Your Grace!” Fredericks bowed, eyes shimmering with emotion and, if Tristan was reading the man’s expression correctly, no small amount of relief. “We are all deeply grateful to find you and Her Grace alive and well.”
Fredericks motioned for a footman to begin lighting the gas lamps before stepping forward and sliding Tristan’s damp overcoat off his shoulders. The other footman followed suit, assisting Isolde with her pelerine.
“Thank you, Fredericks. We are pleased to be home, despite the current circumstances.” Here, Tristan spared a scathing glance for Aubrey before looking back at the butler. “Would you please have the ducal bedchambers readied? Also, Lady Allegra and Mr. Penn-Leith are not far behind us, so please see to their rooms, as well.”
Tristan did not miss the panicked look Fredericks sent to Lady Lavinia.
“Is there a problem, Fredericks?”
