Hadley took Tristan to visit his haberdasher, purchasing a new top hat while Tristan browsed kid leather riding gloves.
Then, they consulted with Barkers, the foremost carriage-maker in Town, on the building of a new coach. Tristan offered opinions as Hadley selected an elegant style of brass fittings for the black lacquered doors.
After, they took a leisurely lunch at an inn near Whitehall, supping on roasted lamb and potatoes.
All in all, Tristan was having an agreeable day.
“One more stop for the day,” Hadley announced as they ducked into the carriage after lunch.
Half an hour later, the coach rocked to a halt. Tristan peered out the window.
“Brooks?” He spat the word like an epithet.
Hadley laughed. “It’s not as bad as all that. Come. I ken ye will find Brooks a welcoming place.”
Brooks was the gentlemen’s club of choice for the more liberal Whig segment of the House of Lords. White’s was the preferred club for Tory conservatives.
Generations of Kendalls had passed through the door of White’s. However, Tristan suspected today would mark the first time a Duke of Kendall had darkened the halls of Brooks.
It was . . .
Well, Tristan was unsure how to feel.
His father was likely raging in Hell at the blasphemy, so Tristan counted that as a positive. And his marriage to Isolde had dashed his political prospects, so attending Brooks would have no repercussions there. Not to mention, being seen in Hadley’s company would bolster their claims of familial harmony.
But would Tristanhimselfenjoy it?
Perhaps Hadley was right. This could be a new place to belong. As he handed his hat to the doorman, he realized he was about to find out.
On the whole, Brooks appeared similar to White’s—acres of rich wood paneling, thick carpets, overstuffed armchairs, and the lingering smell of pipe smoke.
But the atmosphere . . .
White’s was a quiet, staid affair. Murmured conversations, the rustle of newspaper, the occasional snore from an elderly member napping in a chair.
By contrast, Brooks was laughter, back-slapping, and hollered greetings. No one could nap in this place.
“Hadley!” A liberal lord at the back of the main sitting area called, shouting the earl’s name with the same fervor as that of a returning hero.
Heads turned their way.
“Hadley!” another called. “At last! You’ve returned to Town!”
Another gentleman immediately crossed to greet him.
“Terrible business with that impeachment, Hadley. So glad that is behind you! That damned Kendall can go rot in—” The man paused, abruptly realizing who stood at Hadley’s shoulder.
“Ah, yes.” Hadley turned to Tristan. “As ye know, I had the good fortune to acquire Kendall as a son.”
The man’s horrified expression said louder than words his opinion on the matter.
The next twenty minutes did not improve—not in Tristan’s reception nor his own rapidly lowering mood.
Hadley continued his celebratory procession—hand shaking, shoulder gripping. And every time, Hadley turned to introduce Tristan to another acquaintance, the same scenario occurred.
The gentleman in question would freeze, his expression going rigid and his entire demeanor stiffening. As if Tristan were a foul-smelling breeze and the gentleman was unsure if he should press a handkerchief to his nose and suffer through or beat a hasty retreat.
Tristan could feel his Kendall mask hardening with every passing moment.
