“Lord no. I have no interest in marrying again. I have my daughters.”
“But no heir.”
Tarrant shrugged. “The title won’t die out: there are male cousins around.”
Gerald envied him his freedom to do as he chose. “So, tell me, what’s the news from Europe?”
Tarrant filled him in. Europe, in the wake of Napoleon’s ravages, was still a mess, with much rebuilding to be done, physically, economically and politically. “Every man and his dog jockeying for power,” Tarrant said, shaking his head. “The process won’t be over for years yet—if ever.”
“So what will you do now?”
“Apply myself to the running of my brother’s—no, my estate. And become a family man again.”
“Yes, the two little girls. You won’t be bored, leaving such a busy and exciting life to settle in the country?”
“I won’t be bored. To be honest, I was weary of death and destruction, and now the endless negotiation and devious stratagems.” He shook his head. “It’s not for me. Not any longer.”
Gerald thought it all sounded fascinating.
“And there are now three little girls to keep me busy,” Tarrant added, and Gerald belatedly recalled hearing that the colonel’s wife had died in England after giving birth to their third child. Was it four years ago? Or five?
“A gallant and lovely lady, your late wife,” Gerald said quietly. Young Mrs.Tarrant had traveled with the army, camping in tents, sharing the difficulties and the privation and the danger, but always with a smile for her husband’s men. “You knew, of course, all we junior officers were in love with her.”
Tarrant smiled. “Perfectly understandable. I was myself.”
“How old are the girls now?” She’d given birth twice in the middle of an army at war. Afterward, the two little girls had traveled with them. They’d been the darlings of the regiment.
“Judy’s eleven—can you believe it?—and Lina is seven, and the baby, Deborah, is four.”
So, four years since the colonel had lost his wife.
“I haven’t seen them yet,” Tarrant added. “They’re in the country with their grandparents, Lord and Lady Fenwick.” Seeing Gerald’s surprise—Tarrant had always been devoted to his children—he explained, “I only arrived in England a few days ago, and I’m getting Tarrant House prepared for them. It’s been closed up for several years, and I found leaks in the roof, birds’ nests in the chimneys and all sorts of other problems. Ross was never one for coming to London. As soon as the house is fit for habitation, I’ll drive down to collect them—I’m hoping by the end of the week. But we shall see.”
They went in for dinner then, and over steak and kidney pie and roly-poly pudding with custard—the Apocalypse Club catered to no-nonsense, hearty appetites with food that stuck to the ribs—they caught up on the last few years. The time flew—they had many acquaintances in common, and having worked together so closely for so many years, the two men knew each other well.
They talked of many things, but Gerald kept thinking about the current European situation. The fighting might be over, but so much was still unresolved. Disputes and dissension continued, but now they were handled through diplomatic channels.
Then, over cheese and biscuits with port, Gerald described the peacetime pleasures he’d been enjoying, even mentioning the curricle race in passing, skipping the part about the goose and the maidservant. It still galled him to have lost the race for such a reason.
Afterward, one of those silences fell—the contemplative sort, broken only by the murmur of other diners and the clink of glassware and cutlery.
Tarrant swirled the brandy around his glass. “So, Thornton, this is your life now, betting on races and card games and boxing matches.”
Gerald ruefully acknowledged it. His life was so superficial by comparison. He knew it—had felt it even before he’d run into Tarrant. And now, with the tales of his frivolous exploits still hanging in the air, he found himself viewing his life from the point of view of a man well used to doing important work, a man with a purpose in life.
As he had once been...
But what else was a man to do when his every attempt to be useful was blocked by a jealous father? “Actually, since you’re in town, my mother is holding a small party, supposedly to celebrate my twenty-seventh birthday. It’s mainly family and a few close friends. I’d be very pleased if you’d come.”
Tarrant eyed him doubtfully. “An intimate family party? I wouldn’t like to intrude.”
Gerald grimaced. “A ‘family’ party with a lot of unrelated but eligible young females present—I did mention my mother is trying to shove me into parson’s mousetrap, didn’t I?” He added in a confiding rush, “I’d be very grateful for a bit of masculine support.”
Gerald knew very few of his current friends would attend—either they were also bent on avoiding parson’s mousetrap, or they were the kind of friends his father called “fribbles and wastrels” and wouldn’t be invited. But Mama would hardly refuse to invite his former commanding officer, a military hero who was now a lord.
Tarrant sipped his brandy. He was going to refuse, Gerald knew it. And why wouldn’t he? An insipid family party with a room full of marriage-minded chits was hardly likely to appeal to a man of Tarrant’s sophistication, especially having come straight from the drawing rooms and diplomatic circles of Europe.
“Please? It would mean a great deal to me.”
