“It should be,” he replied, emphasizing the second word. “I am under no obligation to support you. I’m generously offering to do so this once, out of compassion for the extra burden you are under in sponsoring your daughters’ Season this year, but you should not expect it in the future.”
She rose, radiating bitterness. “That is very good of you, Lord Burke.”
“Good day, Lady Burke.” Tristan bowed and escorted her out of the house, although she didn’t look at him again.
Murdoch edged into the hall as he closed the door behind his aunt. Tristan glared at him. “How dare you let that woman into the house? If she ever calls again, I am not in, I will not be returning soon, and under no circumstances may she wait for me!”
The servant winced. “Apologies, m’lord. Mr. Bennet left no word, and neither did you. She bowled her way past me, she did, like she was a royal princess or something.”
“Well, at least you didn’t bring the damn tea. She would have stayed an hour just to put me out of pocket for the leaves.” He sighed. All the crackling energy of meeting Miss Bennet had dissipated into the almost resentful tension that always gripped him after Aunt Mary’s visits. Even though she no longer had any authority over him, and in fact the advantage in their relationship had decidedly shifted to him, Tristan could still feel the weight of her scolds, the sting of her distaste for him, the yawning loneliness he had always endured when he was sent to his uncle’s house. She made him feel filthy and unwanted, and he hated that.
He grabbed his hat off the hook again and jammed his hands into his gloves. “I’m going out,” he told Murdoch. “From now until Mr. Bennet returns, your continued employment here depends on forbidding entrance to any and every woman who calls. Throw yourself in front of the door if necessary. Tell them there’s plague within. Do whatever you must.”
“Yes, sir.” Murdoch’s expression lightened with relief. “Yes, indeed, my lord.”
Tristan strode out of the house and set off for Hanover Square on foot. He could use the exercise, to clear his head. He wanted to have a word with the builder about letting other people view his house. In fact, he would issue the same commandment to the builder that he’d just given Murdoch: no women were to be allowed on the premises for any reason. Perhaps he ought to move into the house now, unsettled and unfinished as it was. Whatever Aunt Mary chose to believe, the house was nowhere near done, although it would be habitable by his standards within a month or less. He wouldn’t be entertaining; he could live with wet plaster and workmen underfoot. Bloody hell—even if a little rain came in through the roof, it would be a small price to pay for peace and privacy and complete freedom from female interference.
Chapter 14
The whirlwind of recent events necessitated a long chat with Abigail and Penelope. Joan had dashed off a brief note about her parents’ leaving town, delaying their walk, and Abigail had replied with all due concern and felicitations for Lady Bennet’s health. But that had been days ago, and between Evangeline’s arrival, Lord Burke’s dangerous promise, and the visit to Mr. Salvatore, Joan was bursting to talk—and her friends were desperate to hear it, judging from the quickness of their reply to her request to see them. Abigail proposed a drive in the park, and Joan agreed at once after obtaining her aunt’s permission.
“At last!” was Penelope’s greeting when Joan came down to meet them. “I haven’t slept a wink since the Malcolm ball, worrying about you!”
“It’s true she hasn’t slept, but I heard far more than worry from her lips,” said Abigail. “You are about to be interrogated to the point of senselessness, Joan.”
Penelope made a face. “I daresay I won’t have to ask twice! It’s not good for a body to keep everything inside. It relieves one’s spleen to vent it.”
“I was astonished you waited so long to ask.”
“Papa has it in his head that he needs a country estate, to lend us stature.” Abigail looked amused. “He’s made us all drive out first to Chelsea, then to Greenwich and even to Richmond, to view properties. Mama told him she wouldn’t live further than a day’s drive from London, so I suspect he drew a circle on the map and has been sending out enquiries to every property in that range.”
“Bother all that,” said Penelope. “I barely saw anything at either property, I was so consumed with worry about Joan! And now you simply must tell us all or I think I shall die from the anxiety.”
“We’ve brought Olivia to chaperone, and Jamie decided to come along at the last minute, so we haven’t got complete privacy.” Always cooler-headed than her sister, Abigail looked at Joan. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s so good for Olivia to get out.”
“Of course not.” Joan much preferred Olivia Townsend to Mrs. Weston as a chaperone. She was only a few years older than Abigail, and had known the Westons for years. When she went out with them, she acted more like an older sister than the respectable widow she was. Joan suspected her circumstances were somewhat strained, for she almost never saw Mrs. Townsend out in society without the Westons.
James was Abigail’s and Penelope’s older brother. Joan wasn’t as fond of him—he was far too serious and staid—but he was always kind to her. Besides, his sisters knew how to handle him. All it took was a discussion of stockings or cosmetics to send him hurrying in the other direction. And with both Mrs. Townsend and Mr. Weston accompanying them, Mrs. Weston wouldn’t see the need to go herself or send a maid to dog their heels.
They rode in Mr. Weston’s open barouche to the park, James Weston riding his horse alongside. Conversation was light and carefree, and Mrs. Townsend only reproved Penelope once for laughing too gaily. It was a lovely day, and Joan lifted her face to the sun. Freckles be damned; it felt good to be outside, and with her dearest friends.
Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to have had the same thought. The park was crowded, and the parade of carriages moved at a crawl. After a quarter hour, Penelope was squirming in her seat.
“If you can’t sit still, you might as well get down and walk,” said Mrs. Townsend, who was sharing the seat with Penelope.
“Brilliant thought, Olivia!” Penelope beamed at her. “Jamie, we want to stroll,” she called to her brother, who nodded and urged his horse forward to speak to the driver. “Will you come with us, Olivia?”
Mrs. Townsend smiled wryly. “And spoil the confidences you’re dying to exchange with Miss Bennet? I wouldn’t dream of it. Just sitting here in the sun for a few minutes will delight me.”
It took a little while to find a spot for the carriage away from the traffic, but finally the driver stopped. Mr. Weston dismounted and helped them all down, then stayed behind to talk with Mrs. Townsend.
As soon as they were ten feet from the carriage, Penelope burst out, “Tell us everything!”
“She means to ask, how have things been since your mother fell ill?” said Abigail with a sharp look at her sister. “Are you well, Joan?”
“Oh, yes, well enough.” She paused. “I’m worried about my mother. She’s not usually ill, but this time ... Papa nearly had to carry her into the carriage. It was alarming.”
“Have they reached Cornwall yet?”
