Page 47 of Duke of Sapphire

Henry had sent word from the last coaching inn. He had been entirely clear about the hour and the day. And yet there was Tristan, arms folded, wearing an expression that said he had received an interesting letter and had spent the intervening hours composing questions.

The carriage had barely stopped rolling when Tristan came down.

“Four days,” he said. “I expected three.”

“The road north of Grantham,” Henry said.

“Mm.” Tristan extended his hand. Henry took it. The handshake held a beat longer than usual, and then Tristan clapped him once on the shoulder, firm and brief, which was as close to an embrace as either of them generally managed. He stepped back, looked at Henry for a moment with those assessing eyes, and then turned.

Henry turned back to the carriage to help Charlotte alight.

“Duchess of Sappherton.” Tristan’s entire manner shifted—not into formality, but warmer and genuinely meant. “Welcome to Evermere. I am glad you are here.”

Henry opened his mouth to complete the introduction.

He did not get the chance.

“Your Grace,” Charlotte said, with a small, composed smile. “My husband has spoken of you.”

“Has he?” Tristan looked delighted. “Nothing accurate, I hope.”

“Nothing incriminating.”

“Then he has shown considerable restraint.” He turned to Henry. “I like her already.”

Henry did not comment on this. He was already looking toward Ian, who had descended last and was now standing on the gravel drive.

Tristan looked down at Ian. “You must be Master Ian Drummond.”

Ian said nothing. He looked at Tristan the way he had once looked at Henry from the stable roof, measuring every detail.

A footman appeared at the precise moment, tray in hand, and held it toward Ian. On it were biscuits.

Ian looked at the biscuits. Then at Tristan. Then back at the biscuit. He took it.

Tristan said quietly, “I had a feeling about that.”

Then Lavinia, Tristan’s wife, the Duchess of Evermere, appeared in the doorway, dressed in an emerald green velvet dress and a cream shawl. She was a tall, graceful woman with bright blue eyes and dark hair. She took one look at the group standing on the steps in the cold afternoon air and said, “Absolutely not,” and descended with a hand extended toward Charlotte’s elbow and the other reaching for Ian.

“Poor dears. You have been in a carriage for three days. I have tea waiting inside and a fire that has been burning for an hour,” Lavinia said, steering Charlotte and Ian toward the door. “I will not have you standing in the cold while they do whatever it is they are about to do.” She looked down at Ian. “Are you enjoying your biscuit, my dear?”

Ian smiled up at her and nodded.

“I have had the blue room prepared,” she said to Charlotte. “It has a fine view, though you will not care about the view until tomorrow at the earliest⁠—”

The door closed behind them.

“Come,” Tristan said. “The library.”

The fire was already built up. Two glasses of brandy sat on the side table, which meant Tristan had been expecting this conversation and had made arrangements. Henry sat. Tristan sat across from him, crossed one ankle over his knee, and waited.

He was incredibly good at waiting. Henry had always found it irritating.

“Scotland,” Henry said, and began.

He gave Tristan the account in order: Charlotte’s situation, the carriage, the coaching inn, the discovery at Drummond Hall, Ian on the roof. The solicitor’s documents. The deed of guardianship, the London clause, the problem it created. The marriage as the resolution.

He kept it brief. The facts were the facts. They arranged themselves neatly.