two
Tristan added another piece of wood into the meagre fire in the drawing room. The room had once been crammed with silk sofas, chintz armchairs, and people in fancy dresses. Now it was dark, damp, and bare, like a shipwreck abandoned on the shore.
He and his father had chopped up the less precious furniture they couldn’t sell to fuel the fire, and the smell of burning paint made him queasy. Not that his stomach had any food to throw up.
Considering that Grandfather bankrupted the family and had been almost thrown into the Tower of London before dying of a seizure, it was a miracle they still held the title. A title that was more a curse than a blessing because it carried responsibilities and commitments they couldn’t take care of. Tenants had lost their incomes because of his family’s financial disaster.
Their butler, Harris, was the only servant who had decided to starve with them out of a loyalty Tristan didn’t understand anymore.
“Where have you been?” Father carried a pile of old blankets he must have found somewhere in the house.
Tristan shrugged. “Around, searching for a job.”
If Father knew he’d been begging for food in Lord Winchester’s house, he wouldn’t be pleased. He was fighting tooth and nail to find the funds to rebuild the family, but Tristan didn’t have much hope.
“Tea, my lord.” Harris brought them a steaming pot on an old tray. Although more than tea, it was a dubious potion made with old tea leaves and other herbs Harris found in the garden.
“Thank you, Harris.” Father smiled at the butler, but Tristan couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
Harris should run away from them and find employment in a house where he would be paid.
“Lord Tristan.” Harris poured him a cup.
The smell wasn’t terrible—a combination of mint, nettle, and black tea—but the taste had nothing to do with the rich, strong tea they’d been used to drinking.
Father winced when he opened his hands; they were covered in cuts since he spent hours chopping wood and furniture and meeting solicitors and old friends, asking for help.
“Things will get better,” Father said. “Mark me. I will fight for us until my last breath. My friend George has a good plan to help us.”
“I have no doubts, my lord,” Harris said.
Tristan didn’t doubt his father’s determination either. He doubted the result. They’d exhausted their list of friends and associates to ask for help. There wasn’t anything they hadn’t tried. For the first time, he was glad Mother had died of typhoid fever years ago. She’d been spared the humiliation and suffering of the family’s downfall.
The doorbell ringing caused the three of them to still. For a moment, Tristan thought one of Father’s friends had come for dinner. But that type of life was gone.
Harris put the tray down. “I’ll see to it.”
Tristan stood up and wiped the ash from his hands. “No, I’ll go.”
If it was another one of their creditors, he would beg to give them more time, no matter how much Father was against begging, and he didn’t want Harris to witness the scene.
Only a couple of candles lit the wide corridor, and their glows cast tremulous shadows on the faded wallpaper.
When he pulled the door open, the surprise tied his tongue. A young lady with large hazel eyes stared at him from under the cover of a hood. Her fine lines and expensive clothes made him sorely aware of the poor state of his clothes and pale skin.
She tilted her head. “Lord Tristan?”
He could only nod. He was so stunned he didn’t ask her how she knew his name or what she wanted.
“I’m Lady Effie, the daughter of the Earl of Winchester.” She cleared her throat. “I’m aware you visited my father this afternoon.”
He was puzzled. Why the earl would send his daughter to his house was beyond him. “I did, but I won’t disturb you again, my lady.”
“Oh, no. It’s not that.” She stepped closer, and the scent of cinnamon wafted from her, reminding him of lazy winter afternoons spent reading in front of a blazing fire and eating cinnamon cakes. “My father has a small present for you. If you open the servants’ entrance, the footmen will deliver it.”
He craned his neck to see past her. A footman stood next to the carriage, waiting.
“Of course.” He didn’t move.
