“I hope you uncover good news about Ledger.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I will be cheering you on in spirit, my love.”
He carried that promise in his heart all the way to Westminster.
The bank manager nearly fainted when the Duke of Kendall was shown into his office.
“Y-your Grace,” the man stammered, rising from his seat, his walrus-like mustache quivering. “Mr. Augustus Fitzsimmons, at your service. How may our humble branch serve the vast financial interests of the mighty Dukedom of Kendall?”
Mr. Fitzsimmons punctuated his florid speech with a bow that could only be described as obsequious. He bent over so far, his mustache nearly grazed the ground, and he had to take a step forward to bring himself upright without toppling onto his head.
Tristan stared at the man. Such fawning did happen on occasion as a duke, and it was always jarring to encounter.
As if feeling the weight of Tristan’s gaze, Mr. Fitzsimmons produced a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the perspiration gathering on his forehead.
Tristan tapped his hat in his hands. “I am here on a personal matter, not a financial one, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I understand a Mr. John Rutland is in your employ?”
Poor Fitzsimmons froze. “John R-Rutland?” he squeaked. “N-nothing of a financial nature? Merely . . . John?”
Tristan could practically read the man’s thoughts. Was the Duke of Kendall asking about his employee a good thing? Or . . . not?
“I merely wish to speak with Mr. Rutland.”
Fitzsimmons stroked his mustache, fingers trembling, and then straightened his coat. “I p-pray Mr. Rutland has done nothing to earn your displeasure, Your Grace. He has always been an excellent employee here.”
“Again, my inquiry is of a personal nature, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I readily believe Mr. Rutland is an exemplary employee. I merely require information that he can perhaps provide. Nothing more.”
Another fraught silence ensued.
“Of c-course. I shall summon Mr. Rutland immediately. Shall I fetch a spot of tea, as well, Your Grace?”
“Tea?”
“Y-yes . . . it is an excellent dark blend? With shortbread?”
Why the statements came out as questions, Tristan was at a loss to say. Overall, he found himself nonplussed. He had never been asked to sit down to tea with a bank manager before, and he hadn’t a clue how to reply. His past had only taught him to stare threateningly at people like Fitzsimmons until they stopped talking and minded their own business.
The Kendall he had been a few months ago would have snapped in irritation.
The Tristan he was now—the man who loved Isolde with his whole soul—recognized that a modicum of kindness in this situation would cost him nothing. Augustus Fitzsimmons was flustered and out of his depth, not a caricature to be mocked.
Tristan needed no further proof as to how much he had changed. His measured reaction to this situation said it all.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Fitzsimmons, but tea is unnecessary. I merely wish to speak with Mr. Rutland.”
Mr. Fitzsimmons nodded. “Right, right. Of course. I’ll just . . .” He motioned toward the door, mustache wafting in the faint breeze.
The manager bustled out, and a younger man entered approximately two minutes later.
Unlike his employer, this man appeared more wary than ingratiating.
“Your Grace,” he bowed. “Mr. John Rutland, at your service. How may I be of assistance?”
So this was Ledger’s friend? Tristan assessed the man. Average in height and painfully thin, Rutland pushed his glasses up his nose once every ten seconds. His clothing, neither expensive nor poor, appeared well-groomed. But he held his shoulders stiffly as if waiting for a blow.
What worried Rutland?
“I am seeking Mr. Adam Ledger, my former secretary,” Tristan said. “I was told you might have information as to his location.”
Mr. Rutland swallowed, expression turning cagey. “Adam? You are searching for Adam? Even after his dismissal from your household?”
