Page 1

“ T hank you, Your Grace.”

The steward bowed deeply before taking his leave, which meant Tristan was, once again, alone.

At last. This was the way he liked it. The way he anticipated his life to be. People came in and left. He remained.

He rubbed his chin in thought, considering this steward.

Mr. Henry was recently hired. He was young but somewhat experienced, though he’d never managed a portfolio like the Halewood estates.

That stirred a few doubts, admittedly. Still, Henry was distantly related to the last steward, and that was reassurance enough. Tristan could not keep managing these matters on his own as he had for the past five months.

What a pity it is that Jonathan Hartingale passed away. A youthful soul at nearly eighty years of age, but I would have liked him to carry on a little bit longer. Hopefully, this visit will be short, and then I can be off again.

Visiting his country seat had been vital to making the transition smooth with the new steward. But this didn’t quite feel like home to Tristan.

There was no family here and just as few friends. His family’s country seat was located near Northumberland, a vast estate with more woods than people.

Except the people still required something from him. He’d spent the last couple of years on a smaller estate in Scotland where he could avoid everything. Scotland held few people of interest to him as well; people had rarely ever interested him, beyond his brother and his four friends.

However, adulthood had shown him that such ties could not bind people well enough to one another for his satisfaction. So it was best he stayed alone, preferably in Scotland.

Soon he would return. A few more days, he told himself, and then he would be free again. All he needed to do was wrap up a few issues here first.

Mr. Henry would be a grand help to him, or so Tristan hoped. One of the last things his first steward had done before passing quietly in his bed four months ago was send him a clumsily packaged sheaf of papers.

It was an absolute mess Tristan would have to address sooner rather than later.

A duke is responsible for countless matters and numerous lives. I should have been informed earlier of such concerns. Jonathan, old man, whyever didn’t you tell me?

“You should have said something,” Tristan muttered under his breath as he set most of the papers aside.

“Your Grace?”

Tristan jerked his head up, realizing that his head butler was standing right before him with a laden tray in his arms. The look on his face said that he had been standing there for a while, waiting.

As usual, Tristan had been lost in his thoughts.

“Come in, thank you,” he said hastily while cleaning up a spot on the desk. “Just here if you will.”

Mr. Philipson had risen in the ranks to become head butler after a lifetime of service here. Tristan remembered him from the stables as a young man. Then, he’d taken on the mantle of footman and risen from there, now an elderly man albeit still a stranger with a neatly clipped mustache.

“I fear I must say it again, Your Grace,” Mr. Philipson began, grunting under the heavy weight of the tray. “What a pleasure it is to have a Northcott back in residence. I think it’s been nearly two years. Do you know yet how long you will stay with us this time?”

The last time was hardly more than a day. But I’ve already been here for three days now, though the work has only just begun.

While his butler smiled, Tristan wasn’t particularly confident that his face knew how to do that anymore. He thanked the man with a nod of his head. “Perhaps a week more if you can stand my presence.”

“Happily. And then you’ll be on your way to London?”

“Not this time.”

“Ah. Oh. No…” The butler cleared his throat delicately. “No other entertainments?”

Tristan had been preoccupied with tidying his desk. Having risen to his feet, he paid careful attention to the tray not being in the way of his papers. But he paused now to look at Mr. Philipson, noticing his wide eyes, as though the man was hopeful for… something.

“No,” he finally replied, and immediately noted his disappointment. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Philipson replied vaguely, his eyes skimming over him. Something was clearly on his mind. “The estate is quiet without any family… without your presence, Your Grace. I merely was wondering whether you might… Oh, never mind the ramblings of an old man.”

Entertainments like wives and family, he means. I already tried the former and thus gave up on the latter. Perhaps it takes the household longer to accept such truths.

“Indeed, mere ramblings.” Tristen gave him a nod.

“All is well, but this trip is merely for business matters. There are some complaints from the tenants I need to address, as well as some land disputes. Speaking of which, Philipson, I’m looking for some old contracts.

They are from my father’s time, regarding the Redcliff property line.

Do you have an idea where I can find them? ”

The butler furrowed his brow. “Perhaps in his old ledgers?”

That’s not particularly promising. I’m nine-and-twenty, much too old for treasure hunts.

Waving to the nearby shelves, Tristan explained, “I’ve already checked them.”

“All of them?”

He had only been here for three days, but he’d gone through every single one of his father’s ledgers. His eyes ached, and his head throbbed. He just wanted this work handled once and for all. It was tedious, leaving anything unfinished. He couldn’t stand such a thing.

Yet he’d made too little progress in this much time. It frustrated him. What more would he have to sacrifice to fix everything? The last couple of nights had been terrible with the little sleep he had in the master bedroom. Half the time, he was over here, sifting through more papers.

“Perhaps you could try the library. Or rather, you could visit Redcliff Manor,” Mr. Philipson suggested.

Talking to people wasn’t something that interested Tristan. However, the idea warranted consideration. They would surely have similar files on hand. The answers he needed.

He rubbed his chin, recalling the old marquess who had been his neighbor.

He was disgraced if I recall correctly. A few years ago, wasn’t it? I’ve not cared enough for the gossip rags, but I recall nothing about new neighbors since then.

So he asked, “Does anyone still live there? On a regular basis?”

“The current Marquess of Dunsbury resides in Italy year-round,” the butler explained, before pausing for a long moment.

“The former Marquess’s sister lives there, from my understanding, with a sparse staff.

She is quite old. If you call on her, I doubt she will even entertain you.

But she wouldn’t hold back any papers. Tomorrow morning would be a splendid time to visit. ”

What a boon it would be for the staff to know him so well. The skies had been nothing but gray since his arrival. The farmers would know the weather better than any almanac. Besides, a ride in the fresh air would surely relieve his migraine.

I could be there and back in time for luncheon with everything solved. Perhaps I could be off for Scotland in a day instead of a week.

“Very well,” Tristan decided with a nod. “I’ll ride over in the morning. What time is the visiting hour? Eight?”

“Eleven, Your Grace.”

He wrinkled his nose. Rubbish city hours. But not everyone kept to country hours even while away from London.

“If you say so.”

“Would you like a reminder when the time draws close tomorrow?”

“No. I’ll remember. Thank you, Philipson, that will be all.”

Tristan spent the rest of his evening there, in his study. A quiet life where no one else bothered him. It was just the way he liked it. Needed it. He slept half the night in his chair before slowly making his way to his bedchamber.

He counted down the hours after the sun rose—still hidden behind the clouds—to make his way to Redcliff Manor.

Eventually, he rode out of his cold and quiet estate, gray stone walls that harbored a past he tried not to remember.

Everything he left behind him was neatly managed. Clean. Tidy. Well-contained. The servants knew their roles well. Nothing had changed throughout the years until recently.

But it would all be taken care of soon.

Tristan slid down from the saddle and squared his shoulders upon reaching the unpromising grounds of Redcliff Manor. It was exactly what he would have expected of a disgraced marquess. Wild ivy taking over derelict walls. Dull and neglected gardens.

He tethered his horse to a nearby tree before moving toward the door. He would only be there for an hour if he could help it.

Perhaps longer, as it took exactly seven and three-quarters of another minute for anyone to answer the door.

Finally. Good heavens, what on earth does it take to…

He had to blink several times at the golden light shining in front of him when the door creaked open to reveal someone. His tight jaw slackened, and he blinked several times.

This is not an elderly woman.