Lyndon dropped the tartlet back onto his plate. “You mean to tell me you saw one of Lady Clifford’s fiendish sprites on Lord Everly’s rooftop and followed her to St. ClementDane’s Church?”
“She was following Peter Sharpe.” Tristan hadn’t realized it was Sharpe at the time, but when he’d caught the girl—Sophia—at the door of the Clifford School, the puzzle pieces had fallen into placequickly enough.
Of course, it was Sharpe. It was the only thing that made sense.
“Sharpe?” Lyndon gave a low whistle. “That’s some trouble waiting to happen, that is.”
“You may be certain it’s already happening. The only question is, how far has it gone? Lady Clifford is no fool, and it’s no accident the girl was following Sharpe. They mean to see what they can do to save Jeremy Ives.”
“Not a bloody thing, from what I’ve heard. Everyone in London knows Ives is guilty.”
Everyone but Lady Clifford. But then perhaps she did know it, and simply didn’t care. “Heisguilty, and I mean to see him brought to justice for his crimes, no matter what mischief Lady Clifford and her, er…” Hellions? Vixens, perhaps? “…students are doing to helphim escape it.”
“I see. You intend to remain inLondon, then?”
Tristan was only meant to be in London until the end of the week. He’d promised his mother he’d return to Oxfordshire then, and get on with the business of being Lord Gray.
But he’d made other promises, too. Promises to Henry, and on Henry’s behalf to Abigail, and their infant son, Samuel. “For a brief time, yes. Another month, perhaps.”
Lyndon had been tearing what was left of his tartlet into pieces, but now he pushed the plate aside and dusted the crumbs off his fingers. “Your motherwon’t like it.”
“No.” Tristan’s mother had made it clear she expected him to fulfill the duties of a title his elder brother, Thomas, had been shirking for years, starting with resigning his place with the Bow Street Runners and ending with marriage to a lady from a neighboring estate Tristan had only the vaguest recollection of ever meeting.
“The countess’s grief over Thomas’s death is…extreme,” Lyndon said carefully, but Tristan knew well enough what his friend meant.
The Countess of Gray had never been much interested in Tristan. He was more like his father—that is, dull and serious and far too concerned with tedious things like propriety and honor. Tristan’s elder brother, Thomas, had always been her favorite child, and she’d petted and spoiled him since he wasin short pants.
Thomas’s death was a great loss, but not, unfortunately, an unexpected one. After he inherited the title and fortune a decade ago, he’d embraced dissipation with the sort of single-minded dedication that put a premature end to the lives of firstborn sons all across England. Tristan had loved his brother dearly—Thomas had been handsome, charming, and affectionate—but he hadn’t been surprised when years of debauchery had sent Thomas toan early grave.
Now the countess’s overindulgence of her elder son had led to predictably tragic results, she’d succumbed to a grief so violent it bordered on parody. She’d declared herself mere steps from her own grave, and demanded Tristan return to Oxfordshire as soon as possible.
“She expects you to marry still?” Lyndon asked,his tone grim.
Tristan gave a short laugh. “Let’s just say the countess has taken a much greater interest in me since I became the earl.”
Lyndon shook his head. “You were better off before.”
Tristan didn’t argue that point. Lyndon knew him well enough to know Tristan didn’t relish the future now laid before him, but he’d do his duty by his motherand his title.
First, however, he’d do his duty by Henry Gerrard, a friend who’d been dearer to him than his own brother. “My mother will have to reconcile herself to my absence a little longer. I have the rest of my life to be theEarl of Gray.”
He hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, but when Lyndon’s gaze jerked to his face, Tristan knew he’d revealed himself.
“Yes, you do.” Lyndon’s face darkened with something that was part anger, part sadness. “And I’m sorry for it, Tristan.”
Tristan was sorry for it, too, but he didn’t voice his regret.
Lyndon took his leave soon after that, there being little, after all, left to say.
* * * *
An hour after Lyndon left Great Marlborough Street, Tristan arrived at No. 4 Bow Street, where he surprised the Bow Street magistrate at his breakfast. “Stratford—that is, Lord Gray.” Sampson Willis set his teacup hastily aside and rose from his chair. “I didn’t realize you’d returned to London. Last I heard you were in Oxfordshire.”
“I have some final business to resolve here.” Tristan waved Willis back to his seat and took the chair on the other side of the desk.
Willis cleared his throat awkwardly. “I was sorry to hear of your brother’s passing. It’s a terrible loss for your family.”
“Thank you.”
