Kindred Hearts (16 page)

His sister gave him a calculating look; Georgie only laughed.

Tristan
stood, bowing, to let the Countess of Carlisle’s companion take her seat, said something politely meaningless, and wandered off in search of a drink. A voice at his elbow said, “Rumor has it that you’ve become quite the Darby to Lady Charlotte’s Joan.”

He turned. “Lady Barbara,” he said, with a curt half-bow.

“It was Bab and Tris between us not so long ago,” she purred.

He studied her discreetly. She had lost none of the beauty she’d always had, but he was unmoved. He’d broken with her not quite a year after his marriage, replacing her with a series of shorter-lived affairs with women less demanding, but the ennui he’d attributed to his growing boredom with Bab Abernathy hadn’t dissipated; the other women bored him too. “You’re looking well,” he said distantly.

She cocked her head and studied him. “I’ve heard nothing of your taking on a new mistress,” she said coolly, “and several people have said that you’ve sworn an oath of fidelity to your insipid bride. Nonsense, I told them, Tristan Northwood has never had any truck with something as banal and bourgeois as fidelity. Certainly not to a woman as dull and uninteresting as his wife. Too bad her brother got all the looks in the family—he’s quite handsome.”

Automatically Tristan glanced up, looking for Charles, and found him, laughing at something Lady Morpeth or Lottie had just said. What Lady Barbara had just said wasn’t quite true: Lottie was neither insipid nor dull, and she was attractive in an ordinary sort of way. It was just contrasted to her twin that she came off the loser; his strong features and graceful build were more than just a masculine version of Lottie’s. Lady Barbara was right in one respect: he was—quite—handsome.

“My God,” Bab said faintly. “You
are
besotted.”

He turned back to her, paling.
Oh, God, did she just see him lusting after Charles?

“I can’t believe you’re actually
in love
with that pale passive princess,” she went on in disdain. “But that look on your face tells me a different tale. Really, Tris!”

He made her another half-bow, said, “Thank you for your felicitations, Lady Barbara. If you will excuse me?” and strode across the drawing room to his wife—and her brother. Taking Lottie’s hand, he tucked it into his arm and smiled down at her.

Lottie said dryly, “Lady Bab becoming importune again?”

“You know it,” he said in the same tone.

She laughed brightly and patted his sleeve, as if he’d just said something flattering. “Witch.”

“I wish I hadn’t had to invite her,” Georgie said, “but her mama is a friend of my mother’s, and we’ve been forced to associate since we were children.”

“Odd,” Lottie said, “to think of Bab as a child. I always sort of thought of her as being, oh, I don’t know, hatched or something.”

“Conjured,” Georgie said, giggling.

“Transformed from a poodle, like Mephistopheles in
Faust
,” Charles said.

“From a
poodle
?” Georgie said. “What is
Faust
, Major?”

“A book by the German writer Goethe. I don’t think it’s been translated yet,” Lottie said. “Charles sent it to me last year; it’s been quite the rage in Europe. Mephistopheles is a devil or demon or something that makes a bet that he can steal a man’s soul. It’s quite frightening.”

“The devil’s a poodle? One of those German hunting dogs?” Tristan laughed.

“I thought it was supposed to be cats that have the relationship with Satan,” Georgie observed.

“Cats are quite angelic in comparison to Lady Bab,” Lottie pointed out.

“Goethe? Isn’t he the one who wrote that terribly sad book about the young man who shoots himself?” Georgie asked.

Tristan’s blood ran cold. He glanced over at Charles, who was, thankfully, looking at Lady Morpeth. “Yes,” Charles said. “
The Sorrows of Young Werther
. It’s about considerably more than just a foolish young man’s suicide, though. It started a revolution in German culture. Lottie’s named for the heroine.”

“Really?”

Lottie smiled at Lady Morpeth. “My mama always said so, but the fact is my grandmama’s name was Charlotte, too, so it’s only partly true. Besides, I can hardly imagine anyone perishing for love of me.”

Tristan raised her hand to his lips to hide his trembling. After a moment he released her and said, “Don’t sell yourself short, love.”

“My dear Tristan,” Charlotte said in amusement, “some of us need love to breathe, and you are one such. Others, like me, see the whole concept as something to write stories or operas about and little more. I should think being the subject of a passion such as that to be sorely uncomfortable. And I certainly could not reciprocate. Charlie, on the other hand….” She gave her brother a mischievous look. “He has all the passion I lack, don’t you, dearest?”

Tristan saw Georgie giving Charles an interested look. “Oh, have you a grand passion, Major?”

“Of course, if my sister says so. Alas, the object of my affection is wed, so I must not share the name.” Over Georgie’s head, Charles’s eyes met Tristan’s and held them a long moment before turning back to his sister. Tristan’s breath went short.

“Oh, no, you must tell, mustn’t he?” Georgie turned to Lottie. “We promise to keep it a secret.”

Laughing, Charles shook his head. “Oh, no, my lady. I am content to worship from afar, and to give a name will only ruin the innate chivalry of my passion.”

“How
romantic
,” Georgie breathed. “Is it a lady of the ton? Or someone you know from abroad?”

“Someone I’ve only met recently.”

Georgie turned to Tristan. “Mr. Northwood, you
must
know who it is. You know everyone.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know who he means,” Tristan said shortly. “Sorry. Besides, what does it matter if the lady is already wed? They can have no future.”

“That,” Lottie said complacently, “sounds like something I would say.”

A short
while later, he managed to corral Charles in an anteroom as they were fetching the ladies’ wraps. “I need to speak to you,” he said sharply.

Charles glanced at him. “I would think that would be easy enough to do,” he said, “inasmuch as I live in your house.”

“This can’t wait until later,” Tristan snapped. “What the devil were you playing at in there?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That comment about the subject of your passion being wed. Was that a slap at my infidelity? I’ll have you know I’m faithful to my wife; have been for months now. It’s not fair that you should judge me by my past behavior….”

“What? Slow down, Tris!” Charles raised his hands placatingly. “I had no such intention. I was merely being honest. I
am
in love, and the subject of my affection
is
married.”

Tristan scoffed, “You’ve hardly been in society enough since you’ve been back to form any such attachment.”

“‘Whoever loved, if not at first sight’?” Charles quoted softly.

“That’s drivel,” Tristan said scornfully. “Well, if you insist that it wasn’t an insult, I’ll have to accept it. Society would look askance at me if I call out my brother-in-law.”

“‘Call out’? You aren’t serious?”

Tristan drew himself up and looked down his nose at him. It wasn’t easy; while they were close in height, Charles had an inch or two on him. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Good God, no! Tris, I don’t know where you got this bee in your bonnet about my insulting you. I meant nothing of the sort. And there are no circumstances under which I would meet you in a duel.” Charles put his hand on Tristan’s sleeve. “Tris, please trust me in this. I meant nothing by my statements, and neither Lottie nor Lady Morpeth took them any way other than surface comments. No one questions your fidelity or your courage.”

The heat from Charles’s hand burned through Tristan’s coat. “No,” Tristan said, suddenly tired. “No.”

“Cry friends again?”

He glanced up, but Charles’s brown eyes were simply their usual merry, warm selves. There was no significant intent in their expression, no condemnation, no judgment, nothing but friendliness. He managed a faint smile. “Of course. Do you have Lottie’s coat? I think this is her shawl.”

Charles
had been in residence for a week or so before his books arrived from Dr. MacQuarrie. He met the package with delight, already bored with both Tristan’s frenetic social life and Charlotte’s placid one. He enjoyed the afternoons he spent with Tristan at Jackson’s or Angelo’s or riding in the Park on clear days, but the evenings of endless parties and dinners to which he, a new, eligible single male, was invited were beginning to pall. Thus it was a relief to have an excuse to turn down another evening party in favor of his new studies.

He was deep in the description of the symptoms of malarial fever when he heard the door to the library open. Tristan came in and headed right for the brandy on the sideboard, pouring himself a glass and tossing it off before refilling his glass and turning toward the desk. He froze, obviously not expecting Charles to be there. “Oh. Up late, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” Charles glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “I suppose I am. I got quite absorbed and didn’t realize the time. Shall I yield the library to you, Tris?”

“No, no,” Tristan said, “I’m in no hurry. Brandy?”

“Thank you.”

Tristan blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. Why? Did you think I was a teetotaler? You’ve seen me drink.”

“Wine, with dinner. Ale, at Jackson’s. I’ve never seen you drink brandy before. Certainly not late at night.”

Charles shrugged. “I don’t feel the need to drink before bed, other than a cup of tea, or chocolate. I sleep well enough.”

“God, I wish I did,” Tris said, half to himself. He poured Charles a glass of brandy, then brought it over to where he sat. Propping himself up on the corner of the desk, he set the glass down at Charles’s right hand. “What keeps you so interested so late?” he asked, angling his head to look down at the text open in front of Charles.

“It’s about malarial fever,” Charles replied. “Cinchona bark seems to be the best remedy for it, but even though we’ve known about it for centuries, the disease itself is still mysterious.”

“You’re interested in
diseases
?” Tristan asked disbelievingly.

Charles laughed. “Not per se,” he admitted. “I’m studying to become a physician. One of the ones that attended us in the Peninsula is living in London now and has offered to take me under his wing. I’ll need to return to school, but it will be worth it.”

“A
physician
? But why?”

“I have to do something,” Charles said reasonably. “I’m a younger son, my half-pay won’t last once I’ve sold out, and you know yourself my family fortune is minimal. It doesn’t stretch to supporting indigent relatives.”

“You could always marry an heiress,” Tristan pointed out.

Charles laughed and shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said merrily. “I can’t imagine selling myself that way. I have no intention of marrying.”

“But a
physician
?”

“You say that as if it’s a surgeon or something lower-class like that,” Charles said. “Physicians are one of the few careers a gentleman can enter, along with barristers—and I’m not cut out to argue the law. But I’ve had enough experience with medicine to know that it’s something I could find interesting—and I’ve enough desire to know that I can follow through with it. Besides, I’d be bored to insanity if I had to live a life of leisure.”

“A life like mine, you mean?” Tristan asked bitterly.

“Yes,” Charles said gently.

“Well, better you than me,” his host said, once again in that careless voice. “I haven’t the brains for such a thing.”

“Oh, I think you’re wrong there. Here.” He pulled another book from the stack. “Look at this and tell me what you think.” It was a simple anatomical text, and he opened it to a plate of a human skeleton. “You’ve got an analytical mind—don’t you see how all the bones fit together? Like a puzzle. Isn’t it fascinating?”

Tristan set his glass down on the desk and leaned over to study the plate. “Good Lord,” he said in amazement. “I never saw anything like this at university. We have all those bones inside us?”

“Something like 208. The actual numbers vary. Newborns have more—almost half again as many.”

“You’re joking!” Tristan blinked. “What happens to them all?”

“They fuse into other bones as the child grows.” Charles sat back in his chair, watching Tristan’s face in the lamplight. Tristan’s expression was solemn, intent as he studied the plate; he reached out with a finger and drew it down the illustrated spine, tracing the rib cage and the pelvis. Charles felt as if it were his own body Tris traced, felt the ghost finger along his spine, curving over his abdomen to trace the lower edge of ribs, the taut muscles, then down along his hip, sliding inward…. He caught his breath silently.

Tris looked up, his eyes bright. “Is there more of this?”

Wordlessly, Charles flipped the pages to a plate illuminating the muscular system. Tristan sucked in a breath. “This… this is amazing! How do they know how these are all shaped, and where they go?” He pointed to a spot on the plate. “The muscles attach to the bones?”

“Yes, or cartilage. All muscles attach at both ends—except one. Only one attaches at one end.”

“Which one?” Tristan asked curiously.

Charles met his eyes. “The tongue,” he said softly. “The most dangerous—and the strongest—of all the muscles.”

“I see,” Tristan said. He’d looked back down at the page, but his neck above his cravat had darkened. He didn’t move for a moment, then turned the page and looked at the next plate. “What is this? Is this in German?”

“Yes. There is a strong scientific bent to the German mind, I think—some of the best medical texts come out of Prussia and Austria. I brought that one back from Vienna, along with a few others. But I believe it’s also been printed here, in English translation. I could look for a copy, if you’re interested in studying it?”

Tristan laid his hand over the plate, which was of a detailed drawing of the shoulder structure. “You would do that?”

“Of course,” Charles said in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I?”

His host met his eyes, a wry smile twisting the graceful line of his lip. “People don’t, in general.”

“Don’t what?”

“Give me things. At least not things that are, well, things I want, if you know what I mean.” Tristan closed the book. “Yes. I’d like to see more of this. It’s interesting.”

“Believe it or not, you have some very interesting books in this library,” Charles said. “There’s a very nice copy of Culpeper’s
English Physitian
, if you’re interested in herb-lore, and what looks like a first edition of Fuller’s
Pharmacopoeia Extemporanea
. That one must be an hundred years old and is in prime condition.”

“I bought the library lock, stock and barrel from George Roberts’ widow when she was selling all their lumber,” Tristan said, then he cocked his head and studied Charles in mild amazement. “You’re really enthusiastic about all this, aren’t you?”

“I’ve always been interested in helping people,” Charles said, adding wistfully, “it’s such a
change
from killing them.”

Tristan slid off the desk and drew the guest chair up to lean on it opposite Charles. “You didn’t like being in the military? Why did you stay so long, then?”

“Oh, I didn’t dislike it, precisely,” Charles said. “Particularly after Wellesley tapped me for a staff position after Badajoz. God, what a nightmare battle
that
was. It wasn’t any easier—God knows that he works his ADCs to death!—but at least I didn’t have to
watch
my men die.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “As an officer you’re in the best position to protect your troops, but there was only so far you could do that, and ultimately, it was you who gave the order for them to fight. And dying in battle is a horrible way to go. It’s rarely quick, and more often slow, bloody, and painful. The screaming… God save you should never experience that.”

“Were you ever wounded?” Tristan asked.

“Yes, a couple of times. Kept me out of action for a few weeks, but nothing of consequence.” Charles sipped at his brandy. “But in between the battles, there were so many shared experiences—and even bivouacking in the cold, or ghastly forced marches in the rain, were easier to take when you knew everyone else was going through the same thing. Sometimes it was just… funny. There comes a point in misery where you just go beyond a certain point, and it doesn’t matter anymore.” He smiled to himself in remembrance. “And when you’re all making common cause, that makes it worthwhile.” He looked up at Tristan. “Didn’t you have close friends at school that you could always rely on to buck you up when you were miserable?”

“Yes. Gibs and Berks—Roger Gibson and Jasper Berkeley. We met at Westminster, a bunch of scrubby schoolboys. Watched each other’s backs and got each other into mischief, through public school and all the way through Cambridge.”

“Did you take your degree?” Charles asked curiously.

Tristan flushed. “I didn’t do well,” he said. “I was only twelfth.”

“Twelfth what?”

“Twelfth Wrangler.”

“
Twelfth Wrangler
?” Charles gasped. “Good God, Tris! That’s first-class honors!!”

“It’s
twelfth
,” Tristan said. “And besides, the Tripos is just a test of memorization. You learn the rules, it’s easy.”

“For you, perhaps. Good God, Tris, if I were Twelfth Wrangler, I’d have it engraved on my calling cards.”

“It’s
twelfth
,” Tristan muttered.

Charles reached out and ruffled Tristan’s hair. “It’s brilliant,” he said softly. “I’m proud of you.”

Startled, Tristan raised his head and gazed at Charles. Charles blushed and drew back his hand. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be so familiar…. It’s just that from Lottie’s letters, I feel like I know you so well—I do apologize.”

Tristan smiled faintly, his cheeks blooming. “No, that’s all right,” he said quickly. “I don’t mind. It’s…. No one’s ever given me that, either, you know.”