Joan scowled. So much for her attempts to cast it in an ordinary, uninteresting light. “Yes. He said something of that sort to me, too.”
For a moment there was silence. “He looks remarkably like his father,” Evangeline remarked. “Such a tragedy. Colin Burke was one of a kind.”
She darted a glance at her aunt, but Evangeline had tilted her head to peer out the window at the sky. “Oh?”
“Oh, my, yes.” Something like admiration lit Evangeline’s face as she smiled in remembrance. “He was the sort of young man your father was forbidden to associate with, for fear it would reinforce every wicked impulse your father had. Well, no doubt my father was right! You know your papa was once as big a rascal as Douglas, don’t you? But Colin Burke ... ah, my. He had the devil’s own charm, the handsomest face in England, and not a single ounce of fear. All the young ladies were fascinated by him—so dangerous, so attractive, so charismatic! But he was no fool, either. He wasn’t the heir, so he married the daughter of a naval man who’d made a fortune on the sea.” Evangeline’s smile faded. “Such a tragedy,” she murmured again.
Joan nibbled her lip. She didn’t actually know what had happened to Lord Burke’s parents, but it sounded very sad. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely his fault he’d grown up with no manners. “Tragedy?”
“Yes.” Her aunt’s mouth twisted sadly. “Both he and his bride died before the age of twenty-five. He drowned, I believe, and she ... I can’t remember. A broken heart, perhaps. I certainly would have, if I’d been his wife.”
Joan did some silent arithmetic. “Lord Burke must have been a very small boy when they died.”
“He’s the same age as Douglas? Yes, he must have been very young. I remember hearing about Colin Burke’s death the summer I was married, and that was the year before you were born. Ah—here we are.” The carriage was coming to a halt.
Evangeline said no more about Lord Burke, and Joan didn’t ask more as she followed her aunt. He must not even remember his parents. As much as she chafed under her mother’s strictures at times, Joan couldn’t imagine life without her parents. If they’d died when she was a baby, she might have been raised by—ugh—Lord and Lady Doncaster. Not even having her cousin Mariah as a sister would have made up for that. Somehow it seemed unlikely her parents would have left her and Douglas to Evangeline’s care. She wondered who had raised Lord Burke, and why, in Douglas’s tales of him, he’d always seemed to be at some schoolmate’s home for school holidays.
It wasn’t a reason to like him, of course, but perhaps it was a reason not to think so harshly of him.
Chapter 13
Tristan was so preoccupied by his provoking encounter with Miss Bennet that he walked into Bennet’s house without suspecting more trouble.
Murdoch met him in the hall, which was unusual enough. Even worse, the servant was worried. “There’s a lady waiting for you, sir,” he whispered.
For a brief, blazing moment, Tristan thought Miss Bennet had somehow darted across town to continue their confrontation. She’d clearly had more to say about his offered escort, and threatened kisses, than he had allowed her to express, and in that brief, blazing moment, he felt a thrill of anticipation.
But then reason asserted itself; of course she couldn’t have made it here before he did. He’d left her house, got on his horse, and ridden straight back here. And she wouldn’t come to this house in any event. The one time she had come, it had been because her brother was in residence, and Tristan’s presence had been completely unknown to her.
He looked at Murdoch warily. “Who is it?” There were very few women whowouldcome to see him here, and none of them were women he wished to see.
“Lady Burke,” was the reply.
And that was the worst possible woman, in Tristan’s opinion. He wondered if he could just turn around and leave the house again, but before he could act on that scheme, his aunt ruined it by appearing in the doorway of the small sitting room.
“Lord Burke,” she said in a frosty, civil voice. “I have been waiting.”
He took off his hat and thrust it at Murdoch. “I’m sure I don’t deserve such an inconvenience on your part, madam. I wish you had not troubled yourself so.”
“I would not have, if it weren’t for a pressing matter.” She looked pointedly at the hovering Murdoch. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have dreamt of calling upon you.”
Tristan peeled off his gloves one finger at a time, racking his brain for an excuse to cut this interview short. His aunt had never liked him, from the time he was a boy. When his parents died, he’d simply been left at his grandfather’s house with a nurse for a few years. This had suited him just fine, for Nurse was getting old and hard of hearing, and he was able to play at will, sneaking away from her whenever he liked. But once he reached school age, his uncle Lord Burke decided it was proper to take more of an interest in him. Uncle Burke had arranged for him to go to Eton, and to spend holidays at the Burke estate, Wildwood, in Hampshire.
Wildwood had been a wonderful place, but Tristan soon grew to hate it. He knew he’d been a troublesome brat as a boy, and he knew his aunt was a lady of very delicate sensibilities. Shouting and running and anything dirty were utterly abhorrent to her. She was petite and proper, and raised her twin daughters in her image, two perfect china dolls who would stare at Tristan, wet and muddy from wading in the pond, as if he were the most disgusting creature alive. It hadn’t taken him very long to decide he really didn’t want to live under his uncle’s roof if it meant he also had to live with his aunt. To the best of his ability, he’d tried to stay out of her way for both their sakes, wheedling invitations to visit any schoolmate who would have him over holidays. In turn, Mary had all but ignored his existence, which apparently pleased her as much as it pleased him. Whatever she wanted now, she must want very badly, if she’d not only come to find him here but waited for him to return.
“Let us discuss it without further delay, then.” He tossed the gloves at Murdoch and all but snarled, “Bring the lady a cup of tea.”
The servant nodded once and bolted for the back of the house. Gritting his teeth, Tristan followed his aunt into the sitting room.
Someone—likely Murdoch—had pulled a pair of Bennet’s mismatched chairs in front of the hearth. Aunt Mary took one chair, but Tristan leaned against the mantel. “What is this pressing matter?” he asked, hoping desperately it was something trivial.
“I have come to ask when the house in Hanover Square will be restored.”
His brows lowered suspiciously. “Why?”
Two spots of color appeared in Mary’s cheeks, but her expression didn’t warm. “Because I believe it would be better for Alice’s and Catherine’s prospects if I could entertain properly in their father’s family home.”
For a long moment he just stared at her in amazement. This was why he disliked his aunt. She only sought him out when she wanted something, and what she wanted usually involved great inconvenience to him. Barely two months ago she had described the house as intolerable, unfit for ladies, and beneath her dignity. He understood why, when the roof collapsed within a fortnight of her departure for a house across town, completely destroying the servants’ quarters and attics, flooding the bedrooms, and ruining quite a bit of plasterwork. Now she wanted to come back? “I understood, from our conversation several weeks ago, that their father’s family home—which is actually my family home, too, as it happens—was too old-fashioned and cramped for a decent ball.”
