Kindred Hearts (9 page)

And now his wife—his
wife
—had shattered that illusion.

His eyes stung, and he rubbed them impatiently, only realizing when his hand came away wet that he was crying.
Crying
. Over something so stupid. He was an idiot. So Charlotte didn’t care for lovemaking. He had the rest of his life to teach her. And in the meantime, he still had the rest of the world—the female half, anyway—who
enjoyed
him. His lips thinned. If Charlotte didn’t want him—and he didn’t care, anyway, if she did or didn’t; the only advantage to sleeping with her was that he
finally
got to feel what it was like to be naked inside a woman—there were other people who
did
. He’d never promised her fidelity.

But God, he so wanted to. He wanted a wife who was a
lover
, a wife who would save him from those other women, those other beds. A wife who would care for
him
, not for his position or expectations.

Still—he had time. And maybe, just maybe, Charlotte would come to care for him the way he needed to be cared for, and he could do the same for her. He snorted softly. Once, he’d felt that way about his father—that if he was just patient enough, just obedient enough, just
good
enough, the baron would come to love him. But he hadn’t. And when Tristan was thirteen, he’d given up waiting. Four years he’d given the baron. He owed his marriage at least that. And surely, surely by then they would love each other. Surely, surely four years was enough to build a real life together? Surely, this time, he would be good enough?

Hope in his heart, he turned and went back to bed.

London, 1814-1815

November, 1814

Tristan
,

I am given to understand that you are looking to sell your string of hunters. I can only assume that this is an indication that you are rolled up. I find it difficult to understand how you have managed this, given your and Charlotte’s quite-generous allowances, but I suppose you have engendered gambling debts or something of that nature. I cannot see where a sporting-mad man like you would otherwise be willing to dispose of a set of animals so painstakingly acquired. To say that I am disappointed will of course be unnecessary, as unnecessary as taking this step.

You may give the list of your debts to Franklin; he will present it to my solicitors in London, who will resolve the debts. The only recompense I expect is that you will remove your family from Town and return to Wareham or to Lilac Cottage for the holidays, remaining there until at least the beginning of the Season. Perhaps if you cannot control your gambling impulses in Town you will be able to restrain yourself in the Country.

I would appreciate it if you would keep me apprised of such situations
before
they arise again.

Ware.

Tristan folded the letter, his fingers idly pressing on the broken wax seal as if he could reseal it, and in doing so, pretend he hadn’t read the contents. He should be used to this by now, he thought bitterly. Ware might spend most of his time in the country, but his spies were everywhere. Not solitary spies, but whole battalions…. And of course he would put the worst possible interpretation on his son’s actions.

He glanced up as Franklin came into the library. He liked the old man; it wasn’t his fault that he took his orders as much from Ware as he did from Tristan. He’d retired three years ago, leaving the complexities of Ware’s business interests to younger men, but had found retirement irksome, and when Ware had suggested he take on a much less demanding position as Tristan’s man of business, he’d been quick to agree. Tristan had had no interest in finances at that point, so he’d acquiesced reluctantly. Despite his connection with the baron, however, Franklin had proved to be an honestly helpful resource for Tris and Charlotte’s young establishment. Tris was fairly sure that Franklin respected Tristan’s privacy as much as possible, and the only things that reached Ware’s ears were things that were public knowledge, like the sale of his hunters. Well, not public knowledge, per se, but certainly public rumors. He tapped the edge of the folded letter against his lip.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Franklin said cheerfully.

Wordlessly, Tristan handed him the letter. The older man settled in the chair before Tristan’s desk and drew out his spectacles before examining the piece of paper. His lips pursed, but he only shook his head.

Tristan took the letter back and folded it again, tucking it into the drawer of the desk where he kept his father’s missives. “I trust that you will not be distressed if I fail to present the list of my debts for Ware’s solicitors?”

“Gambling debts,” Franklin said, and he shook his head again.

Franklin’s tone of voice so precisely echoed the tenor of his own thoughts that Tristan chuckled. “Well, then. Shall we begin with our real work?”

Tristan
reviewed the document under his hand before signing it. “I’m only transferring funds from one account to another,” he said in annoyance. “Why must it require so much paperwork?”

“To keep otherwise unoccupied men of business occupied,” his man of business quipped. “That’s the last of it, until the sale of your hunters.”

“When will that be?”

“The notice will be in the papers next week. Should there be no interest at that point, we’ll have to bring them up from Leicestershire to sell at Tattersall’s, but I don’t expect that it will be necessary.”

“I should hope not,” Tris said. “They’re exceedingly fine animals. I’ve had plenty of offers in the past. But I haven’t hunted in two years, and all they’re doing is eating their fool heads off. Plus there’s the waste of maintaining a staff to tend them. Eventually I’ll put the house on the market, too, unless Mrs. Northwood prefers I keep it, but in the meantime I see no reason to maintain the stables as well.” He thought a moment, then added, “Put in the articles of sale for the string that the buyers are to hire the three younger grooms as well. Riley and Martin are old enough to retire—write something up including a decent pension for them. They can stay on at the hunting box until they find a cottage or something to retire to, or until I decide to sell the place.”

“Pension to come from the trust?”

Tristan thought. “Yes—they won’t be much of a drain on it. Fifty or sixty pounds a year each, I think.”

“Most generous.”

Franklin’s employer snorted. “Mrs. Northwood spends more on hats.”

“One last item of business.” Franklin noticed Northwood’s glance at the mantel clock but went on. “The owners of this house are inquiring if you would be interested in purchasing it when the lease expires.”

“No,” Tristan said flatly. “When does the lease expire?”

“The first of June. Do you wish me to tell them that you prefer to continue leasing, then?”

“No,” Tristan repeated. “Mrs. Northwood’s confinement is expected in April. At that point the baron will be signing over a property in Lincolnshire that is presently empty. I intend to move my family there as soon as my wife is able to travel. We will not require a London residence. If I need to come to Town, it’s cheaper to stay at my club.”

Franklin regarded his employer thoughtfully. He’d known Tristan Northwood since the rebellious boy had first been sent to Westminster, when Franklin himself had been Baron Ware’s estate manager. Tristan’s marriage four years ago had been intended to settle him down, but Franklin had seen little evidence of it until the birth of his heir some eighteen months ago. Then over the following year and a half, Tristan’s personality had undergone a complete change, no longer the devil-may-care rogue known for hard drinking and wild living.

From what Franklin could see, he was still drinking as heavily as any other man of the ton, but on a schedule as clockwork as any businessman could wish. He was stone-cold sober when he met with Franklin three times a week at nine a.m.; from ten to eleven thirty he was closeted in the nursery with young Jamie; then from eleven thirty to twelve thirty he lunched with his wife, with whom he was on cordial if not warm terms. Then he left the house, for his club, or Jackson’s Saloon, or to ride in the park, returning in the early evening in time for supper or to escort his wife to a scheduled social event.

On their return, however, after his wife had retired for the evening, Mr. Northwood would settle in his library. At two a.m., per his precise orders, two sturdy footmen would “assist” him to bed, leaving his long-suffering valet to attempt to get him disrobed and comfortably in bed. Then he would rise again at seven or eight to start the whole cycle over again.

Franklin and Reston, the valet, were longtime friends, and what Franklin did not witness with his own eyes he heard from Reston. What he heard did not reassure him or the valet. “It’s like he’s not all there, Franklin,” Reston said. “He’s here, but there’s nothing inside him. He’s walking through his life, not living it.”

Tristan Northwood was no different from many another gentleman of means in London. The difficulty for both of his two old retainers was that for most of his life, Tristan Northwood
had
been different. Wild, true, but never cruel in his jokes; he had dozens of friends, too many lovers; he was a wit, a bon vivant, a charming rogue. A smiler.

Franklin thought regretfully,
He never laughs anymore
. A perfunctory smile where there had once been a broad grin; a businesslike attitude where there had once been cheerful carelessness. It was as if his interest in the financial security of his family had taken the joy out of his life. And yet Franklin was willing to swear that Tristan adored his little boy. What was it about being a father that had changed him so, taken the life out of him? Franklin sometimes got the impression that there was a caged animal looking out of Tristan’s cloud-colored eyes, one desperate to escape. But from what?

A thought struck him and he studied his employer surreptitiously as he put his papers away. No—he didn’t look ill: a little thinner than a year ago, but by less than a stone if Franklin were any judge. His eyes were tired, true, but averaging five hours of sleep a night, plus too much brandy, would do that to a person. “Will that be all, then, sir?”

“If you’ve no further business.” Tristan gave him a brief smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I have another appointment, as usual.”

His
appointment was waiting anxiously when he came into the nursery, and all the stress of business and the ache of his morning hangover vanished at the sight of that beloved face. “Papa!” Jamie cried, and shook the wooden frame of his cot. “Papa-papa-papa!”

Tristan crossed the room in a rush and lifted him into his arms with a loud smacking kiss that set the toddler chortling. Tristan glanced at the nursery maid, who bobbed a curtsey.

“If you please, sir, he’s been fed and his nappy’s been changed and he’s just woke up from a nap,” she said in her usual rush. “I’ll be right next door should he need me.”

“He won’t,” Tristan said to the little boy in his arms, “will he, my little man?”

The baby gurgled at him happily. Then he squirmed to be let down and when he was, toddled over to pick up a stuffed dog with well-chewed ears. He brought the toy back to Tristan. “Papa,” he said decisively, holding it up to him.

“Thank you,” Tristan said seriously, then grinned and scooped the little boy up, tossing him into the air. The baby squealed delightedly, and Tristan pretended to drop him, setting him off into giggles, before settling them both on the floor to play with his blocks. While he did, he studied Jamie, amazed all over again at the little miracle that was his son. Wide, dark eyes like Charlotte’s; dark, curling hair like his own; and a personality and a temperament that was all Jamie—quick to laugh, rarely fussy, and even at eighteen months quick to learn new things. He showed Tristan one now, stacking his blocks by size so that he could build a pyramidal structure as tall as he was himself. Tristan picked up the stuffed animal and went to put it on top of the smallest block. “No, no, Papa!” Jamie said. “B’ocks! No puppy!”

“You are a very smart boy,” Tristan said soberly to him.

“Papa give,” he ordered, and Tristan gave him the puppy. Jamie cuddled it, crooning to it tunelessly. Charlotte often sang him to sleep; sometimes on his way out for an evening, Tristan would stop by the nursery to see her sitting in the rocking chair beside the cot, rocking Jamie and singing some lullaby. She loved Jamie every bit as much as Tristan did, he thought. She was an excellent mother. She was a good wife, too, even if he was a poor example of a husband. The smile faded from his face.