“Perhaps you are not as charming as you think you are.”
“No, that’s impossible,” Tristan remarked meditatively, inspecting the toe of one glossy Hessian. “I was just a little taken aback, that’s all.”
Isaac allowed himself a smile. “Who was it?”
Tristan didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t recall.”
“Try. There weren’t many women there that night, I’m sure I can find out…”
“Oh, do give it a rest, Isaac. I don’t want to see her again, do I?”
Isaac stared at his friend for a long moment. Tristan carefully avoided his gaze. It was always difficult to lie to Isaac. Just like his wife, Isaac had a way of seeing through a person’s nonsense and bluffs, straight to the truth.
It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Tristan preferred to avoid feelings of discomfort at all costs.
“I think,” Isaac said at last, speaking slowly and choosing his words with care, “that you get what you want entirely too often, Tristan.”
He flushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly what you think it does. You’re a clever man—you’re handsome, rich, charming, and powerful. Nothing is a stretch for you. I don’t believe it does a man good to get what he wants with such ease.”
Tristan scowled. “I can hardly manufacture difficulties for myself, can I?”
“Of course not,” Isaac acknowledged. “But life might do that for you. Perhaps this life of ease is the lull before the storm. Perhaps you’re fated to encounter some difficulties very soon. Perhapsyou are going to have to take a long, hard look at yourself and decide who you are and who youwantto be.”
Tristan eyed him for a long moment.
“A very pretty speech,” he commented at last. “If only I believed in fate.”
“If only,” Isaac agreed.
Movement caught Tristan’s eye, and he turned around to see a footman hurrying toward them; the same fellow who’d brought the brandies. This time, though, he carried a well-polished silver tray bearing a single letter.
“A letter for you, Your Grace,” the man explained, bowing and presenting the tray. “I was told it was urgent.”
Tristan picked up the letter slowly. It was clear that it had just come from outside. The smell of dirty London air hung about it, infused into the paper, and it was still cold to the touch. Wordlessly, he broke the seal.
“What is it?” Isaac asked, reaching for another brandy.
Tristan clenched his jaw until he heard his teeth squeak.
“It’s from my brother,” he commented brusquely.
“Oh, Anthony! I haven’t seen him in a very long time,” Isaac exclaimed, grinning. “It’s a rare man who can truly give up London and this mess of society. How is that wife of his?”
There was a long, tight silence. Tristan stared down at the letter, even though it was very short and he’d read it in a matter of seconds. He stared until the words blurred into wobbly lines, sliding across the page.
“Tristan?” Isaac prompted. “Tristan, what’s the matter? How is Anthony?”
Tristan closed his fist, crumpling the paper into a tight, sharp little ball that pricked the insides of his palm.
“He’s dead,” he responded bluntly.
CHAPTER 3
Tristan’s carriage rattled up a narrow, rutted dirt track toward its destination, a cottage on top of a hill. The cottage was a small, neat little thing, covered in ivy and sprawling honeysuckle.
A long kitchen garden wove its way down the hill. Tristan drummed his fingers on the windowsill. He had no intention of looking too intently at the life Anthony had made for himself. It was far too late for all of that.
