Page 122 of Courting the Country Miss

“Why, Tristan!” she exclaimed.

He faltered. “Is Richard home?”

“No, he said he planned to stop by White’s for an informal gathering of some of his friends.”

He nodded.

She fixed a searching gaze on him. “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing of import.”

He backed away and continued on foot, ignoring his fatigue. Inside White’s, Tristan squared his shoulders and mustered up enough dignity to greet his new friends with a smile and a few casual, light-hearted quips so as not to appear a kicked dog.

Deeper in the club, he spotted Lord Bradbury seated at a table alone. Tristan’s blood heated. Torn between the desire to warn him that Leticia might be playing them both, and the urge to flatten the lord for pressing his advantage, Tristan marched to the good-for-nothing lord and glowered at him.

Bradbury raised his gaze and stared at Tristan as if he were a watercolor painted by an unskilled novice. “Barrett. Come to glo—”

“I should call you out.”

Bradbury’s expression went blank. Then pained. “She told you?”

“I saw you. How long have you been taking such liberties?”

Glancing around, Bradbury leaned forward. “Lower your voice lest anyone overhear and suspect who the lady in question is.”

He was right, curse him. Regardless of what Leticia had done, Tristan had no desire to smear her reputation. He settled for wishing for the lord’s demise.

Bradbury spread his hands. “I know it was beneath a gentleman. I assure you, that it went no further. You, of all people, should understand that sometimes a man—”

“I expect you to behave as a gentleman from this moment on,” Tristan snarled. How dare that arrogant scoundrel throw Tristan’s past into his face as a way of excusing his own bad behavior? Tristan planted his hands on the table and leaned in. “If I hear that you’ve insulted her or hurt her, I will call you out.”

“You don’t—”

“Be warned.” Tristan strode away before he struck Bradbury in truth.

Tristan came within a hair’s width of colliding with a waiter, and made his escape into another room.

The Duke of Suttenberg passed him. “Barrett.” The duke inclined his head in a greeting.

“Suttenberg,” Tristan managed.

The duke checked his steps. “I say ol’ chap, you seem rather blue-deviled.”

Tristan swallowed and grappled with his self-control. “Have you seen my brother, perchance?”

“I’m about to meet him in the coffee room. Care to join us?”

Tristan nodded and fell in step. In the coffee room, Richard sat surrounded by his peers in an animated discussion. Suttenberg took a seat at the table. Tristan had no stomach for conversation. Instead, he caught Richard’s eye, turned on his heel, and walked out. He found an empty reading room nearby. A waiter came by with the offer of a brandy. Tristan almost accepted, but hesitated. A difficult decision lay ahead; having a mind numbed by drink would not help him. He declined.

He picked up something to read in the hopes that people would leave him alone, but the words blurred into nonsense.

“Did you wish to speak with me?” Richard’s voice drew him out of his fog of sorrow.

Tristan looked up, unable to give words to the pain crushing him.

Richard peered at him. “I promised Elizabeth I wouldn’t be late. Care to join me in my carriage?”

Tristan dragged himself out of his chair and kept pace with his brother. Once inside the Averston coach, Richard settled back and eyed Tristan. “You look the very devil, little brother, but you’re sober.”