A letter was on his desk next to the train tickets, without an address of the sender, but he recognized Blackstone’s painstakingly even handwriting at a glance. The man could destroy people and apparently find out his address on a whim, but still wrote like a child practicing his ABCs. . . . The rest of the note was much in the way of Blackstone, too, congratulating him on paying off the first rate of the loan, and confirming that publishing was a solid investment these days. It read friendly enough, but it was above all a reminder that Blackstone kept an eye on his whereabouts.

Tristan dropped the letter in the bin. He should have handed his former partner his ledger of debts and secrets in full as payment and let it be done with. Let the investor deal with the tedium that came with collecting gambling debts and the delicate maneuvers required for extortion. He had not used it in years. But the mere thought of giving the ledger away made his gut twist in protest. And his instincts never betrayed him.

Half an hour later, he folded himself into the steaming copper tub, wondering whether his instincts had betrayed him for the first time last evening when they had urged him to spend the night between Lucie Tedbury’s pale thighs. Muscles he hadn’t known he possessed were aching, because he had slept on a hardwood floor. And he had woken up one company share poorer.

He sluiced soapy water over his chest. Pressed a testing finger onto his bullet scar, and it responded with the same dull ache as always, as though she hadn’t kissed it better.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax into the pine-scented warmth swirling around him. The tension remained tightly coiled in his limbs, because although one might as well lay claim to the wind, a feeling returned and returned: she is yours now. She is yours.

Chapter 25

Rochester must have been lying in wait after learning of his arrival, for he came sailing at him with great purpose the moment he entered the Great Hall.

“Tristan—a word, if you please.”

He faced his father with a polite mask in place. If Rochester had but a sniff of his private turmoil, he’d root for the cause like a hound for blood, and nothing good would come from it.

The earl fell into step beside him, staring ahead, his hands clasped behind his back. The eyes of a dozen long-dead ancestors followed their silent track along the portrait gallery until Rochester said: “I want to commend you.”

Now, that put him on edge impressively fast.

“I heard you made a full success of Montgomery’s house party,” Rochester continued. “The prince, the matrons, everyone was pleased.”

Considering all these were good things in Rochester’s world, his eyes were oddly flat when he finally looked at him. “Wycliffe has signed the marriage contract as a result.”

Everything inside him went quiet. Lucie was looking back at him, her usually pointy face trusting and soft. His knuckles cracked into the silence.

“Congratulations,” he said, sounding bored.

Rochester halted. “It has also come to my attention that you are financing a business with Blackstone money.”

And there was the reason for his father’s mood.

“In part, yes,” he said.

Rochester’s pupils narrowed. “The man is dangerous.”

“Is he,” Tristan said mildly. “It must have escaped my notice.”

There was a pause, where Rochester was deliberating. “Blackstone was one of the reasons I had you enlist in Her Majesty’s army,” he then said, and, when Tristan’s face must have shown his surprise, he nodded. “I don’t know what crimes you were involved in precisely, but it was only a matter of time before something would have besmirched the reputation of our house or seen you dead. And he may count as a reputed businessman now, but Blackstone has deliberately ruined the lives of peers before—mark me, he is ruthless.”

“He is utterly ruthless,” Tristan said, “and dangerous, and intractable—and quite beyond your reach, I presume.” Precisely the reason why he had borrowed from Blackstone.

Rochester took a sudden, small step toward him. “I do not know yet what your game is,” he said softly. “But I know that you are playing. And I am watching you.”

Tristan tilted his head in acquiescence. “I would expect no less.”

It was why he hoped he’d find that his mother was improving as he climbed the stairs to the west wing, because he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running out of time sooner than expected.

His hopes were answered when the lady’s maid admitted him to a sun-flooded bedchamber. Mother was sitting up in bed, supported by several large pillows, her braid tidy and her eyes promisingly lucid. Her gaze lit on the bouquet he had forgotten he carried, pink hothouse peonies with big fluffy heads.

The maid scurried to take the flowers and to procure a vase as he approached the bed.

His mother raised a white hand toward him, and he bent over it.

“My dear boy, I’m cross with you,” she said in a mildly chiding tone.

A hint of alarm sizzled up his spine. No, she could not possibly know about what he had done with Lucie.

He pulled a chair closer and sat. “What have I done, Mother?”

“You should have told me.” She nodded at a letter on her cluttered bedside table, several pages crammed with erect and narrow penmanship. “Lady Wycliffe tells me you and Lady Cecily are engaged.”

“No,” he said, and, when her brow crinkled at his abruptness, he added, more gently: “I haven’t signed any papers yet. Nothing has been announced.”

“I see,” his mother said, her frown easing, and then the corners of her mouth lifted. “No announcement is required. I can tell the change in you—there is a dazzling brightness about you.” Her fingers made a fluttering motion toward his head, and he could not blame this on any of her tinctures, because it was the kind of thing she would say even when she was well.

“Still,” she continued, “I should have liked to hear it from you, rather than have Rochester confirm it. How terribly unorthodox in any case, to leave the matchmaking to the lord of the manor instead of the mistress. But I suppose I’m not much of a mistress these days.”

“Do not worry about it,” he said quickly.

“Oh, I do—but I am so pleased for you, Tristan.”

He blanched. “You are?”

Her lashes lifted, and the warm glow in her eyes nearly took his breath away.

“Of course,” she said. “I badly wish for you to be happy. And a wife might settle you.”

“Ah,” he said, amused. “But I’m hardly unsettled.”

“All officers are lost after the war, my dear. Like fish on the dry. Now. Tell me everything. Because while the girl was obviously besotted with you since she wore braids, I confess I never noticed any particular affection on your part.”

She was looking at him expectantly while he processed the revelation of Cecily’s enduring attachment to his person. Meanwhile, the maid was moving about with the vase, her head bent, her cheeks flushed, more mouselike than usual. She was all ears, wasn’t she?

“Well,” he said. “Rochester certainly recommended her wholeheartedly.”

“Your father doesn’t have a heart, darling.”

“I cannot possibly comment on that,” he said slowly.

There was something different about his mother today. Glimpses of her old gumption were shining through, possibly revived by the prospect of a wedding. Well, hell.

“Who would have thought such a demure girl would attract your attention?” she mused. “But then it’s always the quiet ones who make for a good wife, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” he drawled.

“I’m so terribly happy.” She sighed, and again her lips were making the effort to smile.

His throat constricted unpleasantly. “It pleases me to see you happy,” he said.

She patted his hand. “You must take her out.” She glanced back at the letter. “Lady Wycliffe says you reside a few streets away from each other—I understand they settled there to be close to you for the summer, to give you time to become more closely acquainted. And yet you haven’t even had an outing in Oxford.”

He was aghast. They had settled in Oxford because of him? “Lady Wycliffe is very involved,” he said.

“Why, of course. We women are always worried about our charges. And a gently bred lady needs to be wooed, especially”—and now her tone turned a little stern—“when the groom has a past. You must leave no doubt in Lady Cecily’s mind about your affection if you want your sweetheart to rest easy.”

He shifted on his chair. “Right—”

“Why not take them on a picnic? No, I know—take them punting.” She looked visibly invigorated by the thought.

A mental image of him, Cecily the Cat Poet, and the mother of the woman he had recently deflowered, in forced proximity on a wobbly punt, accosted him, and he’d rather enlist in another tour through the Hindu Kush.

“Oh, how delicious the sky looks from here,” his mother said, her eyes now wistful on the slice of blue revealed by the tall windows. “Is it warm outside? I’m of a mind to take a trip.”

“Grand,” he said quickly. “What do you think of, say, India?”