Moving quietly, he pulled on a banyan and crept from the room, leaving Isolde asleep in their bed, her red hair splayed across the pillows.
His plans for the day were simple:
One, ensure Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia made a hasty departure. Gilbert House was large enough to house them, but given Tristan’s lingering rage over their brazen audacity, he couldn’t imagine his cousin wishing to remain. They could easily find lodging with Lady Lavinia’s parents in Belgravia.
Two, re-hire Ledger as soon as the man appeared and include a generous bonus for the difficulties Aubrey had caused. From there, Tristan would have Ledger work with Fredericks and Mrs. Wilson to catalog all items in the house, no matter how small,and ensure everything was accounted for. Tristan would not put it past Lady Lavinia to have “accidentally” filched something.
Three, accompany Isolde to Buckingham Palace this evening, smile at the Queen, listen to Penn-Leith, and avoid conversation with vipers such as Lady Lavinia’s mother, the Duchess of Andover.
Four, retire to bed in preparation for an early departure for Hawthorn tomorrow morning.
The plan seemed sound.
Unfortunately, Fate had other ideas.
It began when he surveyed the hasty arrangement of items in his private study, a small room between his bedchamber and dressing room. The study was Tristan’s inner sanctum—two chairs before the hearth, a small desk, and a liquor cabinet. Not even his valet was permitted to touch items in his room. Just the thought of Cousin Aubrey or Lady Lavinia pawing through his most personal effects set Tristan’s skin to crawling. Neither Ledger nor Fredericks would be able to catalog the contents of the room to ensure his cousin hadn’t pocketed something.
No, that would be Tristan’s task alone.
Frowning, he crossed and pulled open the top drawer of the desk. Instead of his own tidy bundles of correspondence and stacked papers, he found the contents scattered haphazardly.
Tristan’s ire flared, anger tasting acrid in his mouth. Bloody hell but he wanted to pummel his cousin. To lash out, beat him bloody, and let the man feel the sharp edge of the Duke of Kendall’s wrath.
Tristan’s father, abominable man that he was, would have disowned Aubrey for such malfeasance and then set about making the man’s existence a living hell. Granted, as Aubrey had once literally pissed himself out of fear in Old Kendall’s presence, Tristan doubted his cousin would have dared touchanything before ensuring Old Kendall’s corpse was cold and locked away in the family crypt in Hawthorn.
That was the problem with reforming one’s character, Tristan supposed. Upstart mushrooms were no longer as terrified as they should be.
Regardless, it would take Tristan the better part of the afternoon to catalog the room and determine what, if anything, Aubrey had taken.
Sighing, Tristan dressed and made his way downstairs to his public study to see what havoc Aubrey had wreaked there.
In the past, Tristan had used this room to discuss matters with his secretaries and man of business. Just two months ago, he had employed three secretaries to help him manage his political aspirations and busy social calendar.
His marriage to the delightful but unorthodox Lady Isolde had altered that.
Mr. Cartwright, his political secretary, had been let go with excellent references, as Tristan’s choice of bride voided his political aspirations.
Mr. Marshall, his social secretary in London, had also not been needed, as Tristan did not intend to spend much time in Town going forward. Fortunately, the man also had excellent mathematical skills. Therefore, he had been reassigned to assist Tristan’s man-of-business, Mr. Eliason. The two men were currently touring and assessing all of the enterprises and properties held by the dukedom—meeting with Tristan’s numerous estate stewards and managers. It was no small task and would take about three months to complete. But as Tristan had anticipated being on his honeymoon and then rusticating at Hawthorn, the timing had seemed apt.
Tristan had only planned on keeping Ledger to assist him with his personal correspondence. But now he, too, was gone.
Tristan seated himself at his desk and began opening correspondence that Cousin Aubrey had thankfully ignored. Blast but he needed Ledger back. Preferably before luncheon.
A soft knock sounded.
Tristan looked up to see Lady Lavinia standing outside the open door.
“Lady Lavinia.” He stood, as he was a gentleman no matter his dislike of the lady before him.
“Your Grace.” She bobbed a shallow curtsy that was scarcely a millimeter away from being offensive, attempting to score a point, as ever.
“I assume you are here to take leave.” Tristan clasped his hands behind his back. “I wish you well on your journey.”
Deliberately, he looked down at his desk and the letters there—a clear signal that there would be no more conversation.
“In regards to that, Your Grace . . .”
Tristan’s nostrils flared as he raised his head and met Lady Lavinia’s gaze.
