“I am keeping this.”
His mouth moved. The ghost of something suppressed.
“As you wish.”
She turned. At the door, she paused.
“Thank you. For watching.”
She did not specify what he watched, or when. She simply said it. And left.
Tristan stood alone. The carved horse lay on the desk, its painted eye gazing at nothing. He rang for a footman.
“Take the parcel to the workhouse on Drury Lane. Leave it without a name.”
The footman bowed and retreated. The note remained on the desk, and Tristan read it once more—not for content, but for construction. For the places where the varnish of affection had been applied most thickly, because those were the places where the rot was worst.
He folded it and locked it in the lower drawer of his desk, alongside two other documents bearing Edwin’s name—documents that told a story Rosamund was not yet ready to hear, documents that would, when the time came, rearrange everything she believed about the destruction of her family.
He had promised to tell her. He had meant it.
But not yet.
* * *
That evening, Eleanor arrived at Rath House unannounced.
She materialised in the entrance hall at half past six carrying a slim volume of Cowper’s verse and an expression that Rosamund recognised as the one Eleanor wore whenshe intended to conduct reconnaissance under the guise of friendship.
“You asked me to come on Thursday. I came on Wednesday instead. I trust this is acceptable.”
“You trust correctly. Come in.”
“Is your husband at home?”
“He is in his study. Why?”
“Curiosity. I should like to observe the creature in his natural habitat.” Eleanor unbuttoned her pelisse. “Also, your letter concerned me. ‘More to feel than I know what to do with’ is not a sentence a woman writes when things are going according to plan.”
“I do not have a plan.”
“That is precisely what concerns me.”
Clara appeared at the top of the stairs, assessed the situation, and descended at speed.
“Eleanor! Can you stay for supper? His Grace makes terrible jokes at supper. Last night he told me that a duck who reads too many books becomes awise quackerand I nearly died.”
“I am certain the jest improved with delivery,” Eleanor said.
“It did not. He was very proud of it. Rosamund put her head in her hands.”
Eleanor glanced at Rosamund. The look contained volumes.
Supper was laid for three—Tristan having been informed of the guest and having responded, via Harding, that Miss Whitby was welcome to join them and that he would endeavour to suppress his more lethal material. He appeared at eight, dressed for dinner, and greeted Eleanor with the grave courtesy of a man who understood he was being evaluated and had decided to submit to the examination with dignity.
“Miss Whitby. A pleasure.”
“Your Grace.” Eleanor took her seat and placed her napkin in her lap with the deliberation of a woman setting out her instruments.
