three
London, 1897
Tristan was a simple gentleman—he wanted something; he got it.
And right now, he wanted to have a chat with the bloody Earl of Winchester.
He hitched Zeus to the fence around Archer Hall, the earl’s white townhouse in the middle of Belgravia, and marched to the front door. Zeus shook his head, and his black mane flapped around his strong neck. For a moment, Tristan thought he’d heard an odd noise from the horse, but he had more pressing matters to pursue.
Drops of mud fell from his dirty riding boots to the pristine paved path cutting through the front garden, and he couldn’t care less.
He’d been riding in Hyde Park when his footman had found him to deliver a message from his secretary: Lord Winchester had rejected his offer again.
Tristan hesitated to knock only for a moment, remembering that night, many years ago, when he’d used the servants’ entrance to beg for food in this very house. That sad time was long past gone.
He wasn’t that beggar anymore, and while he was still grateful to the earl for his help, he had a business to run and responsibilities to care about.
He and his father had thanked the earl for his generosity years ago. The food supply hadn’t simply kept them alive, but it had also renewed their hopes.
But the past was the past. The end. No one could accuse him of sentimentalism.
He knocked on the front door, gripping the riding crop hard. An earl couldn’t be the reason for his failure to expand the London and West Marches Railway. He’d worked too damn hard for that. Hell, his father had died from working too hard. Now he was the Marquess of Montcrest, and it was his duty to complete the job.
The butler opened the door.
“Montcrest to see Lord Winchester.” Tristan walked inside.
The butler gazed around, still holding the door open. “My lord, His Lordship isn’t available.”
Tristan wasn’t surprised. Winchester must have ordered his butler not to let him in.
“Is he hiding in his study?” He climbed the marble stairs two steps at a time.
“My lord!” The butler closed the door and moved towards the stairs.
An itch started at the base of his neck, that nervous nagging demanding attention, but he closed his fists and focused on his imminent confrontation. Once he finished with the earl, he would have plenty of time for a long boxing session at The Octagon to silence ‘the twitch.’
“I must see the earl.” He strode to the study and pushed the door open.
Three voices cried out at the same time—two were human, one wasn’t.
“My lord, I beg you,” the butler said, catching up with Tristan.
At the same time a woman said, “What is it?”
And a dog barked.
Tristan surveyed the study. The room was drowning in brown wood and ancient bookshelves, as if it were out of the Bodleian Library. The woman standing behind the desk stared at him with annoyance. An English setter peeked at him from behind a chair, his large brown eyes on him.
“My lady.” The butler entered the study as well. “Lord Montcrest was looking for your father.”
“My father isn’t here,” the lady said, brushing a lock of chestnut hair from her cheek.
She was familiar, but he couldn’t remember where and when he’d seen her.
“I can write down any messages you want to leave him.” She nodded at the butler. “Thank you, Doyle. You may go.”
“My lady?” The butler sounded shocked.
