The woman snatched them both from his fingers.
Grimacing, he turned for his coach, ordering his coachman to return home.
Damn Lady Lavinia to hell and back! He could only surmise that Aubrey had been part of this plot, too, as he had been the one to sack Ledger.
The marble columns of the Covent Garden market passed outside Tristan’s window, but he scarcely saw them.
His thoughts roiled.
Assuming Lady Lavinia and Aubrey were the culprits, why had they wanted to harm Tristan’s secretary? Petty revenge? Or something more sinister?
Worst of all, what had become of poor Ledger after he landed in the Thames?
Tristan breathed past the ball of emotions lodged in his throat. The fear that his one and only potential friend had perished before their friendship had truly begun.
The coach had barely rolled to a stop before Gilbert House when Tristan threw open the carriage door and took the front steps two at a time. He burst through the front door, intent on hunting down his cousin and beating him bloody until he confessed all he knew.
Tristan relished the prospect.
But he had scarcely crossed the threshold when Fredericks accosted him. The butler looked, in a word,frantic.
“Thank the Lord you have returned, Your Grace.”
“Whatever is the matter?” Tristan shucked his hat, overcoat, gloves, and walking stick, handing the lot to a waiting footman.
Fredericks placed a palm over his heart. “There has been an incident, Your Grace.”
Isolde finished braidingher wet hair—still warm from her bath—tying off the end with a ribbon before crawling into bed. Her impromptu swim had heightened her nausea and fatigue. At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to sleep through to tomorrow morning.
She heard Tristan’s footsteps racing up the stairs a few moments before the ducal bedchamber crashed open.
Her husband stormed through the doorway, brows marshaled like a thundercloud.
“What the devil has happened? Fredericks told me there had been an incident.” He shut the door and instantly crossed to their bed. “Are you hurt, my love?”
“I am well,” Isolde sniffed, instructing her overwrought emotions not to react, but she feared that her pregnant body might have other ideas.
Tristan’s frown deepened. Tugging off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, he immediately joined her in their bed, pulling her into his arms, wet hair and all.
“Forgive me, but you do not appear well,” he grumbled against her temple. “What has happened?”
Isolde opened her mouth to tell him about Lady Lavinia, being pushed into the lake, the crowd that gathered to witness her humiliating swim to the bank, and Ethan helping her—dripping wet and shivering—out of the water.
Instead, a hiccupping sob emerged.
“Ah, love.” Tristan pressed a kiss to her forehead and gathered her even closer.
He let her cry for a moment and then propped himself up on one elbow, so he could look down at her and smooth the damp hair from her brow.
“Who put these tears on your cheeks?” he asked, expression dark and serious. A curl of his gray hair slipped from its pomade to tumble across his forehead. “I need to know so I can turn their lives into a living hell.”
His words made her cry harder. Damnation. Such an outburst was so unlike her normal self. The babe would likely rule her emotions for next year at the least.
“I’m w-with ch-child,” she stammered out.
Tristan stilled. “What did you say?”
Isolde peered up into his dark eyes. Reaching for his hand, she placed it on her abdomen. “I’m p-pregnant.”
