“London.” Tristan nodded. “Cordie will be there, and with her recent loss, she could use all of our support. She puts on a brave face, like she always has, focusing on one project or scheme or another, but she’s completely devastated, Greg.”
Of course their sister was devastated. She’d been so happy at the prospect of having another child, but that apparently wasn’t to be. Still, Greg was the last person whose support she needed. “As Clayworth is not terribly fond of me, I don’t know how much good I would do for her.”
“Clayworth loves her, more than life. He won’t push you away. He knows how happy she would be if you came to Town.”
“To even endure my presence?” Greg asked, and a self-deprecating laugh escaped him.
“He never loved Marina,” Tristan said, and hearing her name spoken aloud, after all these years, nearly made Greg’s knees buckle from the weight of it. “So perhaps we can all put the past behind us and move forward together. If not for ourselves, then for Cordie’s sake. She loves and needs you both.”
Unshed tears stung Greg’s eyes, but he refused to let even one measly tear stream down his face in Tristan’s presence. He couldn’t find his voice to reply, so he simply nodded instead.
London, of all the damned places. He could go the rest of his life without setting foot in that bloody city. Still…he would go if his presence could somehow lighten his sister’s heartache. After all, Cordie—sweet, devoted Cordie, whom he should have taken better care of in her youth—was the last person who deserved heartache. She cared about everything and everyone, up to and including him, whether he was worthy of her concern or not.
“I have been meaning to stock my stables,” he conceded. “It wouldn’t hurt to look over horseflesh at Tattersalls, I suppose.”
Chapter 1
Chatham House, Mayfair – April 1816
Trepidation tiptoedacross Lady Arabella Winslett’s spine. Chatham House was never quiet. Well, perhaps it was quiet in the dead of night when no one was awake to appreciate the novelty. But it was never quiet during the day, and certainly not whenever her grandfather was at home. The boisterous and gruff Duke of Chatham made ultimatums, issued commands, and expressed his wishes in no uncertain terms. Day in and day out.
But not at the moment.
And though Bella had often wished for peace whenever her grandfather was about, she found the deafening silence in this moment more than a little terrifying. Standing at the far end of the corridor, she pulled her attention from the silent, ducal study to exchange a glance with her sister, Priscilla, at her side.
“You’re certain he’s still in there?” she whispered and gestured to the large mahogany door.
Prissa nodded quickly, her silvery eyes round with fear, the exact same way Bella’s eyes must look to her little sister. “And Papa,” Prissa muttered quietly.
Grandfather and Papa in the same eerily, silent study? Bella wasn’t certain what that was about, but she couldn’t imagine it boded well for anyone. “Did he look angry?”
There was no need to specify which he Bella meant. Their father, the Marquess of Aylesford, was never angry. Happy, sometimes. Charming, on occasion. But mostly, he was thoughtful and quiet. The exact opposite of his father in almost every way.
Prissa shook her head. “Worried,” she mouthed the word.
Worried couldn’t be good.
“Sign your damn name, Aylesford!” Grandfather’s voice suddenly boomed from the study.
Bella and Prissa exchanged another look.
Their father mumbled something, but his voice was too low for Bella to hear his words. What in the world did Grandfather want him to sign?
Bella started toward the door, but Prissa grabbed her arm to stop her. She glanced over her shoulder to find her sister shaking her head most vehemently. They’d both be in a heap of trouble if they were caught eavesdropping. Still, Bella couldn’t help her curiosity. Whatever was going on in their grandfather’s study required more investigation.
She pulled out of Prissa’s hold, left her sister in her spot, and quickly scrambled down the corridor toward the study. Bella pressed her ear to the keyhole just in time to hear her grandfather say, “She didn’t take last season, and there’s no reason to think she’ll do better this year.”
Bella managed to keep from gasping. Were they were talking about her? They had to be. While Grandfather might say something similar about Sophie or Charlotte, he’d most likely do so with Uncle George instead of Papa.
“She’s shy, Father. That’s all,” Papa’s soft voice finally reached Bella’s ears.
“The truth of the matter is she’s too much like Harriet,” her Grandfather complained.
Too much like her mother. She’d only heard that objection to her person nearly all of her life.
“And if she follows the same path your errant wife did, she’ll blacken our name worse than your son has done and make certain Priscilla’s chances next season are nonexistent.”
“I hardly think Bella would do something untoward, Father. She’s simply shy.”