Julian motioned to himself. “And what of your friend? I care for you.”
Tristan jerked his head up. He thought of his parents, long since gone, a barren memory. Then of his brother, who was too good and too foolish for this world. Then of the wife, who had claimed too much of his world and nothing of him.
Friendship made him uncomfortable. He was always waiting for something awful to happen. Everyone was flawed. So he had to ask, “Do you?”
“Don’t you care for me?”
Silence ensued.
Tristan frowned and took another sip of his brandy. “I offer company and advice, and the occasional financial support. I keep our secrets and provide political insight.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Julian pointed out. “Of course, I care for you, as do our friends. It only looks different because… well, you’re a very private fellow. You don’t make it easy for us to care for you.”
“It’s not easy caring for the lot of you either,” Tristan muttered with a huff.
“Easier than a mistress, at least,” his friend teased. “Speaking of which, I must tell you the most ridiculous tale. I tried explaining in recent correspondence, but I cannot do it justice with a quill.”
They spent hours conversing, long after supper ended and the table was cleared. Soon, they were drinking in his study, the candles casting a warm glow, and no one around to bother them.
Julian recounted countless stories, for his life was one adventure after the next. But eventually, as he always did—and as Tristan always dreaded—he began asking about his life and distractions.
“You were gone all day. For a few days, your staff noted,” he said. “That must have been an adventure. Were you really at Redcliff Manor?”
Tristan set his glass down. “If you know all of this, then you must know everything. Just ask the staff.”
“I did.” Julian shifted in his seat. “How was she?”
Tristan frowned. He remembered his butler saying that the weather would be fine, when it was not. And before that, the man had misremembered the lady of the house. Who did Julian think he was speaking of?
“She is well.”
“Beautiful?”
Tristan frowned. “Beautiful?”
Leaning forward, Julian drained his glass and set it on the desk. “Don’t be daft, Tristan. I’ve heard the rumors. I told everyone off, but I came to learn the truth myself.”
So, he did know already.
Tristan shot him a dour look while he processed his words. Verity had hinted at London knowing. He hadn’t taken that seriously, but now…
Now, there really wasn’t any way out of this.
He rubbed his chin in frustration. Part of him hadn’t taken it seriously. Hadn’t thought it was possible. But if London knew, he had no options left any longer; they would have to move quickly to quell any further speculation.
“Lady Verity Redcliff. Lovely young lady. I danced with her once. There were rumors about her father back then. Some said she was desperate, but she wanted nothing to do with me. Excellent dance partner. Is she still beautiful?”
Tristan exhaled, yet it did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. He curled his hands into fists and stared down at his desk, disliking the way Julian spoke about Verity. Like the charming fellow had anything to do with her.
Beautiful is not a word I would use to describe her. I was trying dearly not to look her way. And yet… one would be a fool to ignore her delicate, refined looks. The way her nose twitches and her soft ruby lips pucker. Those stormy eyes can undo a person.
He shook the image out of his head. “No. Yes. That is, she is still beautiful.”
“Ah, then perhaps I should call on her to hear the story if you won’t say a word,” Julian drawled. “I do love?—”
“No.”
He paused. “No?”
