Blanche squinted against the sun as it broke through a tuft of clouds. She held Christine’s gaze for a moment and then nodded.
“Doubtless. It is exactly the kind of odd thing you like to do. And precisely the sort of thing a woman like Martha would seize upon. You do not need to worry. As your man pointed out, you will be a Duchess. Take courage from that.”
Christine glanced down at the bright petals trembling in her palm. Courage. It was an odd sort of courage that meant accepting help from a man she barely knew. But she could not deny that the air felt easier to breathe since she had agreed to the Duke’s plan. Perhaps for a while she could allow herself to pretend that freedom and safety were the same thing.
“Anyway, it is vile gossip and will not stick,” Blanche said, “patently ridiculous. Lady of the Scullery indeed,” she sniffed. “We were enjoying ourselves. Let us continue.”
Thirteen
The carriage rattled down the rutted road into the little town of Greytonwich that blinked up at Greystone like a contented cat. Its rooflines warm with sun, chimneys crooked as old fingers, and the market square bright with bolts of linen and baskets of early pears.
Ernald Thynne sprawled opposite Tristan, his long legs bracketed around a picnic basket Elizabeth had insisted on bringing.
“You’ll come with us after your appointment in town,” Ernald said, tapping the basket, “Elizabeth means to parade me and the girls before the milliner like prize geese. You may as well suffer with dignity.”
Tristan grunted. “I have no interest in ribbons.”
Elizabeth, perched beside Ernald, smiled sweetly. “You have an interest in a certain lady who looks as though she might haveworn her ribbons out. New ones do wonders for a woman’s courage.”
“I did not come to purchase courage,” Tristan said. “I came to gather facts.”
“Facts,” Ernald mused, “are fluid. I’ve found ribbons much easier to acquire.”
The solicitor’s little brass plate,Jamison & March,caught the sun on the brick building in a corner of New Square, Lincoln’s Inn. Inside, Jamison himself sprang up from behind a desk arrayed like a battlefield. Ranks of ledgers, carnage of loose papers, a quill stuck like a flag in an inkwell.
“Your Grace,” Jamison said, breathless, extending a hand, “it has been some years.”
“Three,” Tristan said, “you were thinner.”
Jamison laughed. “Marriage and clients, both fattening.”
He ushered Tristan through to a back room. “Tea?”
“No.”
They sat. The room smelled of old paper and beeswax and the faint iron of ink. Jamison folded his hands.
“You wrote that you wanted any whisper of Charles Davidson. I have whispers. And one shout.”
Tristan’s pulse did not quicken; he would not allow it. “Speak.”
Jamison drew a note from the mess, flattened it.
“A tradesman, a cooper by the river, has a cousin in Clerkenwell who swears a gentleman answering Davidson’s description let a tavern room for a night, three evenings past. He paid in new coins and left before dawn. More usefully, the landlord overheard him ask after Greystone. He has learned where the Dowager’s party is staged.”
Tristan’s fingers drummed once, twice on the arm of his chair.
So he is close enough to know that his sister is at Greystone. He knows of the Duke Hunt and who has been invited. More well-informed than I gave him credit for.
He felt a thrill at seeing the fulfilment of his quest move closer. Tangibly closer.
“You advise?”
“I advise that pretense will draw him within reach. A scandal may suffice, but it would obviously impact your own good name. A betrothal to the young woman in question?”
Jamison’s eyes held the acquisitive sparkle of a magpie. Tristan smiled, pleased that his solicitor was quick enough to see the plan that Tristan had already formed. A canny ally always saved time that would otherwise be spent on explanations.
“What brother would not be drawn by news of his sister’s betrothal?” Tristan said.
