Page 10 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Lord Lynden’s frown deepened. “Look at yourself, my boy. When have you last eaten properly? When have you slept? And then, to rouse yourself enough to come here, when you should be with your family. What the devil’s the matter with you? I know that for once it’s not a woman. That’s something, at least. But by God, it’s not enough, sir.”

“I daresay if I took a wife and sired a passel of brats you’d feel differently.”

“Perhaps once, but I’ve long given up my hopes of your choosing anyone suitable.” Lord Lynden shook his head in defeat. “No. I’ve finished with you, Tristan. Go to Northumberland and do what you will there. Drink yourself into an early grave. Scatter the countryside with your by-blows—”

“My by-blows?” Tristan had the sudden urge to laugh. Or to cry. He didn’t know which. “If this is more of the rot Musgrove’s been feeding you, then let me tell you that he’s got it wrong, sir.”

“Has he.”

“I’ve never sired even one bastard, let alone enough bastards to populate the county of Northumberland.”

This revelation seemed to give Lord Lynden pause. “Not a one?” he asked with ill-disguised concern.

To Tristan’s chagrin he felt himself turning a dull red. “I’m more than capable, sir,” he bit out. “If you must know, I’ve always taken…precautions.”

“Ah.” Lord Lynden settled back in his chair with relief. “Frankly, that’s more than I would have expected of you. But no matter. You may have failed in your duty to marry and set up your nursery, but John has not. As it stands, Charles will inherit the earldom when you and your brother are gone. And I intend to preserve it for him.”

Charles Augustus Sinclair. Damnation, he was not even one year old! “I wouldn’t be too hasty on that score,” Tristan said. “Lest you forget, Charles is an infant and I’m a man in my prime. I may yet marry and sire a legitimate heir.”

Lynden snorted. “I shall believe that when I see it.”

“Even if I don’t, I intend to live a good long while.”

“At the rate you’re going? Between the curricle races, the dueling, and the drink, you’ll be lucky to live another ten years.”

Tristan glared at him. It had been years since he participated in a carriage race. As for dueling… Bloody hell. That had been a single instance of stupidity at Oxford. A drunken lark at the age of seventeen. Shots had been fired, true, but to categorize it as a duel was a stretch. And he’d certainly never repeated the behavior. Not with pistols, at any rate.

“I see you’ve accounted for everything,” he said at last.

“I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”

“And how long do I have before you cut off my funds?”

“The first of the year seems reasonable enough, assuming you see your way to spending Christmas in Devonshire.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I shall send a wire to my secretary, instructing him that no more money is to be advanced to you and no more of your creditors are to be paid. Effective immediately.”

Tristan reminded himself again that he’d expected this. That he’d known his father was nearing the end of his patience and that drastic action was soon to be forthcoming. The knowledge did nothing to prevent him from feeling as if his entire world had just been brutally upended. “So I’m to leave Devonshire after Christmas and make straight for Northumberland? With no funds at my disposal to repair the estate?”

“That’s right.”

“And what if I should marry before then?”

Lord Lynden folded his hands across his midsection. “In the next two weeks?” he asked with a chuckle of disbelief. “Do you have someone in mind?”

The short answer was no, but these were desperate times. Tristan promptly blurted out the first name that popped into his head: “Felicity Brightwell.”

His father had plainly not been expecting an answer. And he had certainly not been expecting the one that Tristan gave him. “Hortensia Brightwell’s chit?” His face darkened like a thundercloud. “By God, sir. Is that the sort of creature you imagine as the next Countess of Lynden? The lady to wear your mother’s jewels? Preside over your mother’s house?”

Again, the answer was no. Tristan could not see Felicity Brightwell wearing his mother’s jewels—though she would undoubtedly relish doing so. Neither could he see her presiding over the great house in Hampshire. The truth was, he didn’t like Felicity Brightwell at all. Though technically well bred, she was as vulgar as her mother. Not that he hadn’t consorted with vulgar women before, but a wife was something different. A wife was meant to be gentle, gracious, intelligent, and kind.

Like his own mother had been.

Like John’s wife was now.

Even so, he might have been able to stomach marrying Felicity Brightwell. He might even have been able to rouse himself to get an heir off of her.