"Her financial circumstances are not my concern," Tristan replied, perhaps too quickly. "She is qualified to instruct Sophia in the ways of society, which is all that matters."
Henry settled himself in one of the leather armchairs before Tristan's desk, crossing one leg over the other with easy grace. "And her qualifications? Beyond being born to the right family, of course."
Tristan's fingers drummed against his desk as he remained standing, unwilling to settle into the comfortable pattern of their usual conversations. "She is her younger sister’s only guardian, and the girl set to debut next season. By all accounts, LadyFrances is making excellent progress despite their... reduced circumstances."
"Reduced circumstances," Henry repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes. "A delicate phrase for what I've heard is near poverty. The ton can be merciless when fortunes fade." He studied Tristan over the rim of his glass. "And her appearance? Beyond what I glimpsed from afar."
"Perfectly adequate." Tristan took a long swallow of brandy, avoiding his friend's gaze.
"'Perfectly adequate,'" Henry mimicked. "High praise indeed from the exacting Duke of Evermere. And her manner with Sophia?"
"Unconventional." Tristan's jaw worked as he recalled the scene described by his butler. "I found them balancing books on their heads."
Henry nearly choked on his brandy. "I beg your pardon? The formidable Duke of Evermere has hired a tutor who instructs through—what did you call it?—balancing books on heads?"
"It's apparently a standard deportment exercise," Tristan said stiffly. "Though her approach seemed unnecessarily frivolous."
"And yet you haven't dismissed her on the spot." Henry leaned forward, suddenly more interested. "That's... unusual."
Tristan turned away, ostensibly to refill his glass, though it was barely half-empty. "She made Sophia laugh."
The simple statement hung in the air between them, weighted with significance that required no elaboration. Henry's expression sobered immediately.
"Ah." He nodded slowly. "Well, that is something."
"Indeed." Tristan returned to the window, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "She claims Sophia is afraid to speak, that her method was designed to put my daughter at ease."
"And was she right?"
Tristan's silence was answer enough.
Henry swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the play of light through the crystal. "You seem unusually bothered by this particular tutor, Tristan. Normally you dispatch unsuitable staff with clinical detachment. Yet Lady Lavinia has you pacing like a caged beast."
"Nonsense," Tristan dismissed with a wave of his hand, though he stilled his restless movement, suddenly conscious of it. "She is merely the latest in a long line of educational disappointments. I expect she'll prove inadequate within the week, like all the others."
"If you say so." Henry's tone made it clear he believed otherwise, but he knew better than to press the point. He took another sip of brandy, his expression growing more serious. "Sophia is twelve now, Tristan. Soon she'll need more than lessons in deportment and French. She'll need a mother's guidance."
Tristan's jaw visibly tightened at this suggestion, the muscles working beneath his skin. He rose abruptly and moved back to the window, his back to Henry, his posture rigid as a soldier's. "I will never marry again," he stated with cold finality. The words rang in the quiet room, a declaration that brooked no argument. He added, more softly but no less decisively, "Sophia has everything she needs."
Henry sighed, setting his glass on a small side table. "Does she? You and I both know there are matters a young lady cannot discuss with her father, no matter how devoted. Questions about... womanhood, about love, about the mysteries of marriage that no man can adequately explain."
"There are other women in her life. The Duchess of Neads visits regularly. Lady Sophia will not lack for feminine guidance." Tristan's voice had taken on the dangerous edge that most people recognized as a warning sign. Henry, unfortunately, had never been particularly attuned to danger.
"I understand your reluctance, given what happened with Mary." Henry's voice was gentle, careful, but the mere allusion to his deceased spouse was enough.
Tristan whirled around, his face hardening into a mask of controlled fury. The movement was so sudden, so at odds with his usually restrained demeanor, that Henry drew back slightly in his chair.
"You would do well to watch what you say, Henry," Tristan warned, his voice dangerously quiet. Every word was precisely enunciated, as though carved from ice. "That subject is not open for discussion. Not now, not ever."
The tension in the room rose to nearly unbearable levels. Henry raised his hands in silent apology, recognizing that he had crossed one of the few immutable boundaries in their friendship. "Forgive me," he said simply. "I spoke without thinking."
For a moment, Tristan remained rigid, anger radiating from him like heat from a forge. Then, with visible effort, he mastered himself, returning to his desk and taking his seat. "Let us discuss the timber contracts," he said, pulling a stack of papers from a drawer. "I believe you mentioned some concerns about the new duty rates?"
"Yes." Henry gratefully seized the change of topic. "The import taxes have nearly doubled since January. I've been exploring alternatives in Norfolk, but the quality is inconsistent..."
As they settled into the familiar territory of business matters, Tristan's hand occasionally strayed to the top drawer of his desk, where a small amethyst pendant lay hidden beneath papers and correspondence.
As Henry spoke, Tristan was unable to keep his mind from welcoming the memory that slowly crept over him:
