“I’m fine. Truly. Others weren’t so lucky.”
Including Tristan. The incident had troubled him deeply, and she wanted to be close to him. No matter what Papa said.
After a night spenton a chair next to Rowan’s bed and hours with the police, going home was a strange but welcome change for Tristan.
Harris had broken a strict code of conduct and hugged him so tightly he’d felt pain in his ribs. His valet, James, had nearly wept when he’d seen him. At first, Tristan had thought James’s distress was due to the state of his dirty and crumpled clothes. But no. James had been genuinely concerned about his master, which should tell him something about how much his servants worried about him.
He’d never spared a thought about that before, but now he wondered if he should do something to show his appreciation for his servants’ care.
After a hot bath and a few hours of sleep, he went to the dining room for breakfast, almost refreshed. Worry about Rowan turned the tea and scones into paper in his mouth. Effie had told him the incident wasn’t his fault, but Rowan was his responsibility, and so far, he’d done a poor job at keeping him safe.
“My lord.” Harris brought a fresh pot of tea. “Mr. Fleet wishes to see you.”
He nodded. He couldn’t avoid seeing George, and on the bright side, his friend wouldn’t be here to lecture him that day.
“If you’re too tired,” Harris said, “I’ll inform Mr. Fleet to return later.”
His first instinct was to dismiss Harris’s concern, but he changed his mind.
“Thank you, Harris, but I’m fine. I would like to see Mr. Fleet. I appreciate your concern, and I’m sorry if I haven’t shown my gratitude.”
Harris’s expression reflected his surprise. “No need to apologise, my lord.” He sniffled. “I’ll be…I’ll tell Mr. Fleet to come.” He left, wiping his eyes.
George strode into the dining room, eyes wide with fear. “Tristan!”
“You’re in time for breakfast?—”
“I was worried.” George hugged him, leaving him speechless. “I’ve just returned from Bristol. I sent a wire yesterday, but you didn’t answer.”
“I probably haven’t seen it yet.”
“How is Rowan?” Sheer fear cracked George’s voice.
“At the hospital. A broken ankle and some bruises. He should be sent home this afternoon. It could have been worse.”
“I want to see him.”
“You will.” He patted George’s shoulder so the hugging would end. “Take a seat.”
“Bloody anarchists. It was the Russians. They decided to bomb the station after one of them was given a seven-year prison sentence. Too short a sentence in my opinion.” George sat on the chair next to him, looking worse for wear. “The locomotive?”
“Damaged but nothing that our engineers can’t fix. The police informed me the explosion didn’t go as planned. The device didn’t employ its full energy.”
“What would have happened if it had?”
He, Effie, and Rowan would be dead.
George poured himself a cup of tea from the buffet table and drank a few sips immediately.
“I reckon we’ll be able to fix the machine in a few weeks,” Tristan said. “A waste of time and money, but I don’t care about that now. The important thing is that Rowan is alive.”
George inched closer. “I’m starting to think there’s more behind the bombing.”
“What do you mean? They wanted to blow up the entire station in revenge. Pretty simple.”
“Yes, but I can’t believe no one knew about the attack.” George took out of his pocket a piece of paper. “I always keep an eye on the stock market. Our competitors are earning a lot of money after the blast while our company is losing it. And guess who is earning more than anyone?”
Tristan read the short stock market report. “Winchester gained twenty thousand pounds in one afternoon.”
