Page 43 of The Duke’s Suspicion

With little other recourse left to him on what was shaping up to be an absurd day, Tristan laughed. He knew, suddenly, why the other man seemed so familiar. “Were you in the army, Mr. Remington?”

“I was. The Fighting Fortieth. Until ’77. Injured at the Battle of Germantown and sent home to stay.”

Tristan knew the regiment by reputation, fierce men whose service during the war against the American colonies had spanned the Atlantic, from Nova Scotia to the West Indies. No wonder Remington spoke with pride, and a hint of regret at the unwelcome end to his career. “An officer?” he ventured.

“No, sir!”

Only a certain sort of soldier would issue such a vigorous denial of an officer’s rank. But Tristan had no doubt the man had held a position of authority. A sergeant, then, probably in command of a platoon. Tough as nails. And far better to have as an ally than an enemy.

Stepping from behind the desk, Tristan offered his hand, which Remington shook firmly. “Welcome to Hawesdale, Mr. Remington.” When he released the handshake, Tristan swept his arm toward the door to usher the other man out. Almost to the threshold, though, he hesitated. “May I ask one more question?”

Remington cocked his head. “I won’t stop you.”

Tristan dropped his voice, hoping to prompt the man’s confidence. “What’s in Miss Burke’s journal?”

The other man rocked back on his heels. “So the fellow down at Endmoor isn’t the only curious fool in these parts, eh?” When Tristan made no reply, he shrugged. “Sketches, so she says. Notes about flowers. But I’ve never seen inside it, you understand.” He laughed to himself as he preceded Tristan through the door. “For all I know, it could contain the plans of the entire French fleet.”

And that, Tristan thought, a grim smile twisting his lips, was precisely the problem.

Chapter 14

Already distracted, even more so than usual, Erica did not immediately realize she was party to a staged distraction. The simple breakfast, enjoyed tête-à-tête in the Duchess of Raynham’s private sitting room, was followed by a comfortable coze about family life, educational principles for young ladies, and Lady Viviane in particular. Tristan’s name was never mentioned.

Only when the girl failed to appear, despite her mother’s repeated insistence on Viviane’s enthusiasm for her botany lessons, and the servant who came to clear the dishes was waved away, did Erica begin to suspect that she was being deliberately kept apart.

Did the duchess hope to shelter her from facing the combined scorn of Hawesdale’s occupants? Or were those worthies being protected from further exposure to a woman of dubious character?

Erica came to her feet so abruptly her journal slid from her lap, and she had to fumble to keep it from ending up on the floor. Her journal. Her anchor. And Tristan had very nearly succeeded in severing that tie and casting her out to sea.

“Miss Burke?”

Erica hardly heard her. Inside her head, all was chaos, confusion. Of course. Always. Except…mightn’t there be times when such confusion was justified? And wasn’t this one of those times? Perhaps even the duchess, all smooth good grace in the face of the unexpected, would have met the events of last night with uncertainty. An intruder. A near-theft. An offer. Had she done the wrong thing? Said the wrong thing? Propriety might demand she accept, but didn’t good sense dictate she refuse a man she couldn’t trust? Besides, Tristan demanded perfection in all things. And no one had ever thought her perfect.

She was at the door before she realized her feet had begun to wander too. “Miss Burke? Are you all right?” The duchess’ voice came as if from far away. If she followed Erica to the threshold, she let her cross it unaccompanied. Let her go. Where was she going? The conservatory, of course. Its peace beckoned.

Fate smiled on the decision; she met not a single soul in the corridors, and the glasshouse itself was empty.

Deep, desperate breaths. One, two, three. A damp, heavy scent that had no name. The smell of growth and decay combined. Weakly, she sank onto one of the benches ringing the orange trees and wondered where she would find the strength to leave.

She might have been sitting for a moment or an hour when she heard the door open, the protest of its hinges echoing in the glass-ceilinged jungle. He’d found her again. The only real surprise was that he’d been looking. He clearly had not wanted to propose last night and had done so only out of that twisted sense of honor the duchess had described. After his coolness in the library, she had not expected to speak with him again before she left Hawesdale. As she turned toward the sound of his footsteps, the figured metal bench pressed into her skin, giving her back some of its iron resolve.

The visitor was not, however, Tristan.

“Captain Whitby?”

She struggled to rise as he wended his way toward the center of the room. But before she was fully on her feet, he had sunk to the bench beside her, his posture relaxed. A shade too relaxed. The sour odor of brandy mingled with the other scents of the glasshouse.

When he spoke, his voice had lost some of its usual crispness. What had happened to put him into such a state, and the day not half gone? “I wish I knew your secrets, Miss Burke,” he mumbled.

Reflexively, she curled her fingers around her journal where it lay on the bench between them.

“Oh, not just those,” he said with a laugh, reaching to tap its cover, his index finger brushing the back of her hand in passing.

Given their positions, his touch could not fail to call Tristan’s to mind, though the effect could not have been less similar. She drew back, pulling the book more tightly against the side of her leg, braced by the bite of its one remaining sharp corner.

“I thought I knew the game you were playing,” he said, “but I can’t for the life of me figure out your rules.”

“Game?”