Griffin arrived before Tristan had even reached his desk. The man was the model of unremarkable professionalism: neither short nor tall, neither young nor old, with a manner so inoffensive it practically erased itself from memory. He waited with hands clasped, the slightest tilt of his head indicating attentiveness.
“Mr. Griffin,” Tristan said, “I require an immediate report on Mr. Thomas Pettigrew. Debts, prospects, every entanglement. I want it before luncheon, and I want it discreetly.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” Griffin replied. “May I inquire as to the urgency?”
“You may not,” Tristan snapped. “Just see it done.”
Griffin gave a shallow bow and moved for the door. Tristan stopped him with a raised finger.
“And Griffin? Find out which young ladies he is currently pursuing. Names. All of them.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” This time, Griffin’s departure was even swifter.
Tristan turned to the windows, hands behind his back, and stared at the garden path where only yesterday Lavinia had walked with Sophia. The memory stung like a fresh wound. He could still see them: Lavinia’s dark hair glinting in the sun, her steps matching Sophia’s, the child’s hesitant smile as she tried—and failed—to hide her pleasure in the lesson.
Pettigrew is unimpressive, yet she endured his company. Why? What could she possibly?—
He cut the thought short, grinding his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw jumped. This was not about Lavinia’s choices, norabout Sophia’s instruction, nor even about the general idiocy of men like Pettigrew. It was about maintaining the order of his house, the integrity of his family name, and—he would admit this to no one—the future security of his daughter.
Yet the anger that seethed beneath his skin did not feel like righteous indignation. It felt like something far more base, something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
She is an employee. She is here to serve a function. Nothing more.
And yet, as he stood there, he could not banish the image of Pettigrew’s oily smile as he spoke to Lavinia in the park, the way the man’s gaze slid over her like the touch of a grubby hand. The very idea of that hand closing around Lavinia’s glove, or worse, her bare skin?—
A sharp rap at the door shattered his thoughts.
Tristan turned, expecting Griffin or perhaps a footman with an update, and called, “Enter.”
The door opened not to Griffin but to Sophia, standing with both hands knotted in the skirts of her dress, her lips parted as if she had rehearsed a speech but forgotten the opening lines. Behind her, a maid in gray livery balanced a silver tea tray, the cups rattling with every nervous step.
“Lady Sophia,” Tristan said, trying—without success—to soften the harshness of his voice. “What is it?”
Sophia bobbed a curtsey so shallow it barely qualified as movement, and looked at the floor. “Lady Lavinia said I should... that I should practice,” she stammered.
The maid, clearly instructed to set the tray on the low table by the windows, did so and withdrew with a bow, leaving father and daughter alone in the sudden hush.
Tristan frowned. “Practice what?”
Sophia looked up, her eyes enormous in her pale face. “The—um—tea service, Father. Lady Lavinia said that a lady must learn to receive company, and that it is... proper to pour for one’s guests.” She dropped her gaze. “She said I should practice with you. As you are my only—” She caught herself. “As you are my father.”
Tristan felt her words settle over him, unexpectedly heavy. He motioned her to sit, which she did, her posture so stiff it was a miracle she didn’t snap in half.
He sat opposite her, unsure what to do with his hands.
They sat in silence, the air thick with the effort of two people trying and failing to connect. Sophia reached for the teapot and, with the focus of a scholar reading Greek, poured two cups. The tea was slightly overfilled, the surface trembling dangerouslynear the brim, but she managed not to spill a drop as she passed him his cup with both hands.
“Thank you,” Tristan said, accepting the cup with more gentleness than he knew he possessed.
Sophia sat back, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes on the tea as if it might contain the secrets of the universe.
“You are progressing well in your lessons?” Tristan asked, then immediately regretted how stilted it sounded.
“Yes, Father,” Sophia replied, her voice barely more than a breath. “Lady Lavinia says I am improved in posture, but my handwriting is still... ungainly.”
“She says so?”
Sophia nodded, a single jerky motion.
