Kindred Hearts (12 page)

Releasing her hand, Charles covered his eyes. “You didn’t tell him about me, did you, Lottie?”

“No, of course not.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “I would never do that. You told me a long time ago that one must
never
under any circumstances reveal details of a private conversation, and I hope I will always obey that rule.”

“You understand that if you were to slip, my life would be endangered,” Charles said carefully.

“Yes—and that is why you must be very, very careful with Tristan, Charlie. I don’t
think
he’d do anything against you, but one can never tell, can one?”

“No,” Charles said ruefully in English, “one can’t.”

Tristan
drank his way through dinner, barely touching his meal. Charles watched him covertly while talking to Lottie; his brother-in-law was quiet, not sullen, but seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He answered pleasantly and readily enough when addressed directly, but the only time his eyes met Charles’s was when Lottie mentioned that she’d had the room next door to his prepared for Charles’s habitation. Then he glanced up, startled, to meet Charles’s steady gaze, and flushed. “That’s fine, Lottie,” he said, turning hurriedly to his wife.

“Is it? I hoped so,” Lottie said serenely, “but I wasn’t sure. You may, of course, lock the adjoining door if you feel the need.” She turned to Charles. “This house is rather small; there are only four bedchambers on the second floor, and a sitting room across the back of the house that Tristan and I share. All of the bedchambers connect; Ellen is of course next door to me, and Tristan and you will be across the hall. Your and Ellen’s rooms are a little smaller than ours, but not much, are they, Tristan?”

“No, not by much,” Tristan said, and took another drink of his wine. It was his sixth or seventh glass—Charles had lost count—but he did not seem affected. Charles supposed that with the amount of drinking that went on in society these days, especially among the gentlemen, that putting away entire bottles of wine was no great matter.

“Excellent vintage,” Charles said to Tristan. “Do you keep your own cellar?”

“A small one,” Tristan said. “I’ve a few bottles of decent enough stuff laid away, but for entertaining we usually order through Berry’s.”

“We dine simply enough at home, as you see,” Charlotte said, “so a bottle or two is plenty for us.”

“Of course,” Charles said, giving her a smile. “And you don’t like wine anyway, do you,
Liebling
? Or have your tastes changed since your marriage?”

“Not much,” she admitted, “but I don’t mind this red, or the white stuff we have with a fish course. I still don’t like port.”

“Neither do I,” Tristan said, almost belligerently, “and I don’t like lingering over it after dinner, as has become fashionable. I think it’s rude to the ladies.”

“And I tell him that it merely gives us the opportunity to dissect the characters of the gentlemen among ourselves,” Lottie said, chuckling.

“Ouch,” Charles said in amusement. “Well, then, since it is not the custom of this household, you and Ellen will have to wait until later to dissect our characters, eh, Northwood?”

Tristan frowned faintly, then raised his glass to Charles. “As you say, Major.”

“I trust,” Ellen said mildly, “that you shall give us no reason to, Charlie.”

“I hope not. But being men, we are of course of coarser clay than the ladies.”

Tristan turned to Lottie. “Shall I give your regrets to Mrs. Osborne, Lottie? I assume you will prefer to stay home this evening to visit with your brother?” Tristan glanced at Charles again briefly. “Or did you both plan to go tonight?”

“Oh, I’d rather stay home, but if Charlie wants to go out, then….”

“Not tonight, please. I would like to settle in and make sure my batman knows his way around. I took the liberty of introducing Reid to your Reston, Northwood. I trust he won’t distract your valet too much from his duties.”

“That’s quite all right,” Tristan said.

The table conversation turned naturally to the latest word from the Peace Conference in Vienna, and moved into the drawing room when Charlotte directed. Tristan visited for a short while before disappearing upstairs to change for the evening.

“I hope you aren’t hurt that Tristan decided to go out tonight,” Lottie said. “But we did have an invitation, and while people are
quite
used to me not coming, he has friends there that will miss him.”

“Not at all,” Charles assured her. “We are virtual strangers, after all, and he’s just been notified I’ll be living next door to him. It would be outside of enough to expect me to live in his pocket as well.”

“He did say something to Lottie about sponsoring you at Boodle’s, and White’s,” Ellen said in her quiet way.

“That is quite generous of him, seeing as the only knowledge of my character he can have is filtered through my devoted baby sister.”

“‘Baby sister’!” Charlotte poked at him with her fan. “I’m barely five minutes younger than you are.”

“But it was a very long five minutes, according to Papa’s reports. No, don’t poke me again—my ribs won’t take it.”

“Hah,” Lottie said. “Big strong soldier, you.”

“Mr. Northwood was very quiet at dinner,” he said, changing the subject. “Is that normal, or is it because of me?”

“He was a
little
quieter than usual,” Ellen told him, “but he seemed to be distracted about something. I trust all is well with him, Lottie?”

“I assume so,” Charlotte replied. “He has not said anything to me to the contrary. He did have one of his headaches this afternoon, so perhaps that is it.”

“Ah,” Ellen said, “perhaps that was the reason.”

“I think I will check with Reid and make sure he’s managed to get everything put away,” Charles said. “If you ladies will excuse me a moment?”

“You will come back downstairs?” Charlotte asked with a faint frown.

“My dear Lottie,” he replied, “I doubt that I shall find any reason to remain upstairs.” He bowed to them both, then went up to his room.

The connecting door was unlocked; he turned the knob and opened the door. It opened inward, into his own room.

Tristan looked up from the pier glass where he was adjusting his neckcloth. “Found your quarters all right, then?” he said politely.

“Yes, thank you. I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you hadn’t left yet. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then Tristan said coolly, “No, not at all.”

“I do want to thank you for letting me stay here, and hope that it’s not too much of an imposition. I expect once I’ve sold my commission, I’ll have enough funds to manage a set of rooms at least. Lottie said that prior to your marriage you lived at Albany—do you recommend it?”

“It was fine. It is a bit expensive, though.”

“Ah. Then perhaps I shall set my sights a bit lower.”

“You are welcome to stay here,” Tristan said stiffly. “It would delight Charlotte if you did.”

“But not her husband?” Charles’s voice was soft.

Tristan shook his head. “It would be fine with me,” he corrected. “It’s not as if we don’t have the room. But I must warn you—we’ll be giving up the lease on this house this spring, probably before the forthcoming Season is over. Once Charlotte is delivered, we’ll be retiring to the country. Charlotte prefers it.”

“And Charlotte’s husband? Does he prefer the country as well?”

“Charlotte’s husband has no preference one way or the other,” Tristan said flatly.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Charles said. “I would hope that you would be as enthusiastic as my sister at the prospect. She is quite delighted.”

“I’m glad,” Tristan said. He hesitated, then said, almost unwillingly, “Do you wish to accompany me to the Osbornes’? Charlotte’s condition limits her social activities, and this will be quite a small party—no dancing, just music and cards, which is why she had originally agreed to go. I shall only be there an hour or two, and then expect to meet friends. You are welcome to join me, if you like.”

“Some other evening, perhaps,” Charles said with a smile. “I really would like to settle in tonight after doing so much traveling. I feel like I’ve barely made it to port.”

“You came direct from Vienna?”

“Yes, and traveling from there across the Alps in midwinter was an experience I’d not like to repeat,” Charles replied.

“From what Lottie says, nothing seems to bother you,” Tristan said. Was there a note of annoyance in his tone?

“Not much does,” Charles admitted. “Stupidity, arrogance, and waste, but not much else.”

Tristan was quiet a long moment, then said curtly, “Well, if I’m to spend any time at the Osbornes’ before my next appointment, I’d best be leaving. Good evening to you, Major, and if I didn’t say it before, welcome.”

A most grudging welcome
, Charles thought, and wondered what in his previous words had triggered the abrupt withdrawal from conversation.

The
Osbornes’ was insipid, but Gibs was late and Tristan stuck there until he arrived, since they hadn’t previously decided on where they would be meeting Berkeley. He drank a little, conversed a little, but the rooms were hot and he was—anxious, he decided the feeling was. Anxious was as good as any word to describe it.

It was all Lottie’s damn brother’s fault. Who was he to come into Tristan’s life and turn it awry like this? And why
should
Tristan’s life be turned awry? There was something—
peculiar
about him. Not just the way he made Tris feel, but the way he’d said that: “Stupidity, arrogance, and waste….” It was as if he’d summed up Tris in three small words carelessly tossed off. Charles, the war hero, Charlotte’s beloved brother, the admired staff officer. Of course he would despise Tristan if he knew him. Tristan was all of what he least admired.

Tris found his way out of the main rooms and into what was apparently a sitting room, but one with French doors out onto a balcony. He opened the doors and went outside into the frigid January air.
No
, he thought, leaning his elbows on the balustrade and resting his forehead on his palms. There was nothing peculiar about Charles. What was wrong, was wrong with him.

The realization he’d come to this afternoon terrified him. He thought he’d known who he was, what he liked and disliked, what his admittedly limited future held, knew what his standards were and his (again limited) morals were. But what he was thinking, what he was
feeling
, was so far outside those parameters that he wasn’t sure who had got in and taken over his head. Certainly not Tristan Northwood the notorious womanizer, the Corinthian, the man’s man. That man would never look twice at another man, not in
that
way. That wasn’t right. Wasn’t
decent
.