twelve
Once again, Tristan had trouble focusing on his work. Being alone in his study with a nice cup of tea and the sunlight coming from the window didn’t help.
The survey of the factory in Pimlico he had with his manager had been sheer torture. He’d asked the manager to repeat simple concepts a few times because he’d got distracted.
He’d gone through the meeting wishing for time to speed up so he could go home and wait for Effie. The situation was ridiculous, or worse, worrying.
She intruded into his thoughts with an ease that surprised him, almost as if she belonged with him.
The only saving grace of the day was that George hadn’t joined him at the factory. He didn’t have the patience to endure a new sermon from him or questions about his relationship with Effie. Besides, he wasn’t sure what the relationship entailed, aside from pulse racing and sudden bouts of good mood that shocked him.
So here he was, sitting at his desk, unable to focus yet again as he waited for Effie. He’d sent her a message hours ago. No, actually, the clock on the mantelpiece informed him that only half an hour had passed.
He looked out of the window at the carriages driving by, and the people hurrying along the pavement. The smell of burnt coal sneaked inside the room.
He glanced at the mantelpiece again. Only five minutes had passed since the last time he’d checked the bloody clock. Ridiculous.
He’d burnt the midnight oil with his father for many hours in those earlier years, doing accounting or replying to urgent letters, and he hadn’t had trouble staying concentrated. Nor had he cared about time slowing to a crawl.
He tried to start reading again, a document from his solicitor. Intruding thoughts were a challenge he was quickly losing. Then Harris opened the door.
“My lord, Lady Effie,” Harris said. “And Lady Vaughan.”
Effie entered, carrying her leather bag. Lady Vaughan wore a polite smile, holding a chestnut Pomeranian dog in her arms.
“Hello again, Lord Montcrest.” Effie put her bag down.
“Lady Effie, Lady Vaughan.”
“Montcrest, I hope you don’t mind that I came.” Lady Vaughan kissed the dog. “Effie was kind enough to take a look at my sweet Turi. He got something stuck in his teeth, and I couldn’t get it out.” She laughed.
“I don’t mind at all. Shall I lie down?” he asked.
“Lie down?” Lady Vaughan stopped stroking Turi. “Is your dog going to jump on you, Montcrest, while Effie visits him?”
“Nothing of the sort.” He wasn’t amused.
“I’m not here to visit Lord Montcrest’s dog.” Effie opened her bag. “I need to check his stitches.”
“Stitches?” Lady Vaughan paled, holding Turi more tightly.
“A nasty cut. Here.” She ran a finger over her abdomen to mimic the wound. “It wasn’t clean either.”
“Isn’t that a job for a physician?” Lady Vaughan raked a hard gaze over him.
“I trust Lady Effie to perform a good job.” He returned the hard glare. He was a champion in returning hard glares, and it worked because Lady Vaughan averted her gaze.
“It shouldn’t take us long.” Effie rummaged through the bag, muttering under her breath.
Lady Vaughan half-turned towards the door. “But Effie dear, you know how I feel about blood, sharp scalpels, and stitches. Montcrest should be attended by a physician. I thought you were here to see an animal.”
She glanced at him then at Lady Vaughan. “Perhaps Jane you should wait for me somewhere?”
He didn’t care one way or another. But spending some time alone with Effie wasn’t a bad prospect. “I’m sure my butler will be happy to serve you tea.”
“But—” Lady Vaughan fell silent when he lifted his waistcoat and shirt enough to uncover a couple of stitches. She swallowed hard. “Very well.” She spun on her heels and left quickly.
“Lady Vaughan is a little sensitive,” Effie said. “Even the smell of carbolic acid causes her to faint.”
