Retying the letter bundle, he lifted a hand to set it back in the trunk when he noticed a final letter resting against the right flank of the trunk.
Frowning, he picked it up. It appeared to have not been secured with its brethren and had likely dropped unnoticed when he lifted the other letters.
It was yet another missive from Agatha, this one dated scarcely three weeks ago, just before Ledger’s dismissal.
. . . I cannot tell you my relief to hear that your duke was found safely. I wept great tears of joy, as I am sure you did. I cannot wait to hear the story in its entirety when next you call upon us here in Gresham Street . . .
Tristan stared at the words—Gresham Street.
At long last! A clue!
Though . . . he supposed it wasn’t much of a clue.
Regardless, he straightened his spine. It gave him a place to start looking. Maybe if he located this Gresham Street, he could find a woman named Agatha.
At the very least, it was worth a go. And heaven knew, he preferred pursuit of clues over rusticating in his library.
Standing, Tristan rang for his valet and coach.
Fortunately, Tristan’s coachmanwas familiar with Gresham Street, a quiet lane of small but smart row houses near St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Locating Agatha proved easier than Tristan had hoped. His footman merely had to inquire at two doors in order to discover that Mrs. Agatha Tolman, wife of Matthew Tolman, lived at number thirty-seven.
The Tolman’s townhouse matched the well-kept appearance of its neighbors with a glossy black door, swept stoop, and well-shined brass knocker.
Tristan went to the door himself, rapping with the head of his walking stick. Two doors down, a woman entering her home stared at him in open wonder, surely pondering the bizarre nature of a high-ranking nobleman standing on a stoop in this neighborhood—a gilded carriage complete with matching chestnut bays, a coachman, and two footmen waiting at the curb. Usually, a footman would come to the door while the aristocrat sat securely in his coach.
But as Allie had said, Tristan needed a hobby . . .
A maidservant in a white-starched cap answered the door, the sugar-pinching Matilda herself, he presumed. Her eyes flared wide as she took in his expensively dressed person and the gilt Kendall coat of arms blazoned on the carriage door parked on the street.
Tristan presented the girl with his card. “The Duke of Kendall wishes to speak with Mrs. Tolman if she is in residence.”
The girl blanched. “O’ c-course, Your Eminence . . . ehr . . . my lord, I m-mean, Your Grace.”
Blushing a rather alarming shade of violet, the girl immediately ushered him into a small parlor to the left of the door and bobbed at least five curtsies before scurrying off to fetch her mistress.
Tristan removed his hat. In her haste, the poor girl had neglected to take it. Turning in a circle, he surveyed the parlor. It appeared lived in . . . not raggedy, but homey. Two chairs and a sofa flanked the fireplace. An embroidery frame sat before an armchair with thread and scissors on its seat. An upright piano with sheets of music strewn across the bench rested against the back wall. Toy blocks and tin soldiers tumbled from a wicker basket to the right of the hearth.
In short, it was a comfortable room. Tristan could see himself and Isolde in such a space, sitting before the fire of an evening, discussing philosophy while playing chess, their children asleep upstairs.
How odd that he could envision himself in this room, in this life. Leaving a simple row house to labor as a secretary to some lord or work as a clerk in a solicitor’s office. It scarcely mattered what he did. He would work and then return home to Isolde, catching her to his chest and insisting on holding her in his arms as she cataloged her day. Their children would dash about their knees, making a merry mayhem and vying to show him the sticks they had collected at St. James Park or describe the kittens their cat had birthed in the kitchen.
Tristan would adore a life where all he had to do was care for his wife and children. A middle-class life, some would call it. Why was morality between the classes so different? Men like Ledger were praised by their peers if they doted upon their wives. But dukes were looked down upon for doing the same.
It made no sense.
With each passing day, a quiet yearning increased in his bones, an arthritic pang for domesticity and togetherness. A life like the one Ledger’s sister and brother-in-law led.
The door to the parlor opened, breaking his reverie.
A woman entered, eyes wide and apprehensive. Her resemblance to Ledger was immediately apparent—brown hair and eyes, broad forehead, wide cheekbones.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a low curtsy. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“Mrs. Tolman.” He nodded his head. “I believe you are sister to my former secretary, Mr. Adam Ledger?”
The woman straightened, a hand pressing to her waist. “Indeed, I am, Your Grace. But . . .” She paused before continuing. “. . .formersecretary? Has something occurred to sever Adam’s employment?”
