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“ W ell done,” Tristan told Mrs. Heavensby as they walked down the hall. He nodded toward the updated painting near the corner. He’d always hated it and was relieved it was gone. “The landscape was a wise choice.”

The housekeeper beamed. “Isn’t it? Her Grace has a most excellent eye for decor.”

His steps almost faltered as he tried to mask the surprise on his face.

Should he be surprised? Tristan wasn’t certain. Verity didn’t particularly seem focused on fine fashion or decorations. Her manner of dress and her home in the country had been fine but rather plain.

“Hm,” was all he could offer.

“We’ll be selecting new curtains and a rug for the eastern parlor this week. A catalog just arrived for her,” Mrs. Heavensby added, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “She has a good eye, Your Grace.”

“How glad I am to hear it,” he muttered. Nodding to the footman at the door, he finished his instructions to her before adding, “I don’t care what the Duchess does to this house. But I don’t want to see any bright reds or oranges. Understood?”

She nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I can let her know. Is there anything else?”

Hesitating with one foot out the door, Tristan glanced around the entrance hall with mild distaste.

He didn’t particularly care for anything here.

He hadn’t spent much time in the house, often finding an excuse to stay out once Oliver passed.

This had been the place where his brother preferred to live.

To thrive. To laugh and gamble and woo and breathe.

He exhaled loudly. A heavy weight settled on his chest, but he tried to ignore it. “That will be all, thank you.”

Off he went to town to meet with his solicitor.

He should keep looking for a new steward, temporary or permanent. It wasn’t like he had time to do all the work himself. He had conducted at least eight interviews, but he hadn’t cared for any of them. All of them were just a waste of his time.

He had mentioned them last night to his wife while they were playing dominos.

“If you need assistance, I can be of service,” she had offered.

“That couldn’t possibly be reasonable.”

Except Verity was not particularly interested in bowing. She was a strong-willed woman bent on beating him in dominos and generally invading his life.

It was a strange war to wage, one he kept forgetting he was losing ground on. As she recounted the many interviews she had conducted in the past, Tristan had been forced to acknowledge that she had a keen mind and was more than capable of hiring a decent steward.

“I shall send out a new request in the morning and have one hired in three days,” she had promised him.

It had almost made him laugh in the moment. Having given her a list of eight requirements, Tristan didn’t think that likely. Even now, he held back a chuckle at the idea.

She’s bold and capable, but I’m not a fool. I haven’t had that much luck, and I doubt she will find anyone half-decent or clever enough to manage my estates. And yet I cannot help but wish that she succeeds. A steward is badly needed.

Tristan arrived at his solicitor’s offices and spent much of the day discussing the very contract that had driven him to London. There was work to be done, but he saw a glimmer of hope by the end of their four-hour discussion. He decided to spend a short time at his club in celebration.

I assume it would be my club. I haven’t been here in almost five years.

They let him right in, taking his hat and cane. He found himself a strong whiskey at the top of the stairs. He was going to browse through the available books for reading before he stopped in his tracks at the sight of three men playing billiards.

He turned his back to them in order not to be seen.

“Halewood, old boy!”

His hand tightened on the railing. With a grimace, he forced himself to turn around. “Westcliff. Southwick. Eastwynd.”

What the devil are they all doing here? The Compass of the Rose has not convened for years. We’ve outgrown such childish notions, and they have no reason to be gathered here ? —

“What are you standing there for?” Julian Ashcombe strutted over to him with his ever-charming smirk. “Do join us for a game. We won’t say no.”

Behind him stood Sebastian, large and looming over his cue stick with a wry smile. Then, there was Ronan, who leaned against the wall casually.

“Eastwynd will be forced to drag you back if you make a run for it,” Julian whispered theatrically with a wink.

Sebastian shrugged. Most likely, he would do it. He looked large enough to wrestle five men to the ground in a heartbeat.

Realizing that he didn’t know what his friends were up to these days, Tristan supposed he could spend some time with them. The natural apprehension was beginning to melt away. They were all friends, weren’t they?

“You look as cheerful as ever,” Sebastian noted, while Ronan offered him a stick to join the game. “Still enjoying the solitude of Scotland?”

“I was,” Tristan muttered.

Ronan tilted his head thoughtfully, glancing around at their friends before turning back to him. “I must admit, we’re all very surprised to see you in town. Have you finally decided to attend the Season? Will we see you at the balls, the parties, the salons?”

“You speak as though I used to enjoy the Season.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Sebastian agreed as he started off another round.

He managed to score several points at once. Smirking, he moved across the room to take a drink.

Julian nudged Tristan to take a turn. So Tristan leaned over the table, lined up his stick, and narrowed his eyes. As he prepared his shot, Ronan settled across the room to watch him.

“I can’t imagine that many reasons have brought you here to the club. It’s a miracle that we’re all here, in truth,” Ronan added with a frank expression.

But it was, of course, Tristan who intrigued them. For some reason, his peculiar manners always intrigued them.

“Well? What brought you here?” Ronan asked.

Tristan took his shot. “One point,” he muttered under his breath while straightening up.

“It’s more like who herded him here?” Julian quipped, before grinning. “You might not have seen the papers, lads. Our dear Northcott has found himself a new wife.”

Sebastian spat out his drink right next to Ronan, who jumped back and glared at him, before turning back to gape at Tristan. He, in turn, glared at Julian.

“What?” Julian chortled. “As though they wouldn’t have found out sooner or later. Can you believe I kept this a secret? I was waiting until this evening over port. But here we are. If you won’t say a word here, then I shall. What an injustice you do to the institution of marriage.”

“Then why don’t you get married?” Tristan shot back.

Shaking his head, Julian said, “Because I’m not the type. You’re the one who enjoys quiet morning rides, afternoon strolls, and peaceful meals. If anyone among the Compass of the Rose was meant for marriage, dear man, it was you.”

“You do well with children,” Ronan added.

The two of them had gone to Julian’s for the winter season in their last year of university and had been overrun by their friend’s countless cousins.

I forgot about that. We spent a day ice skating, and they wouldn’t stop pestering me with questions about ice and freezing all manner of items and creatures.

It was exhausting. But I suppose I didn’t scold them.

Still, I have no intentions of having any children.

That is not the type of marriage Verity agreed on.

Sebastian tossed a handkerchief at Ronan before giving Tristan a curious look. “You had a rough go with the first one. Mayhap this one will be better, yes?”

“No. I mean, yes. It’s only…” Tristan exhaled loudly. “It’s complicated. I was protecting her honor.”

“What a gentleman you are. A saint!”

It was times like these when he wanted to throttle Julian.

Sometimes it was hard to understand why they were friends.

But they’d been thick as thieves in university.

Tristan had concentrated on his studies, but it often led him to more complicated topics and arguments with his professors, who were always wrong.

Julian used to smooth things over, and he also had a knack for finding anything Tristan wanted—books, rare plants, and more.

They had spent many a night up late, drinking and discussing philosophy until they laughed so hard they cried.

Huffing, Tristan shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ashcombe. Any of you would have done it.”

“But we didn’t. You did,” Ronan pointed out. “What is she like? An ancient crone?”

“Certainly not,” Tristan bit out. His grip tightened on his stick. “The Duchess is a lady of quality. The daughter of a marquess. She managed her own estate before our union.”

His friends exchanged looks before Ronan spoke for them. “She sounds very pretty and charming.”

Though he sounded sincere, and appeared that way, it felt like a jest more than anything.

Tristan scowled at him. The game was forgotten as he imagined throwing the stick at his friends to knock sense into them. How dare they mock her?

Clapping a hand on his shoulder as if he sensed the tension, Julian spoke up.

“Indeed, she is. Lady Verity is one of the finest ladies I’ve met so far.

A charming soul, and rather witty. Her sharp tongue will keep Northcott here in line, I’m sure.

You should have seen her eyes. A dark, mystical blue.

She has little need for paltry fashions when her natural beauty attracts every living thing to her like a moth to a flame.

A very fine duchess, indeed. I could hardly believe Tristan had found himself such a superior match. ”

“That’s enough,” Tristan growled. “I’m the one married to her.”

His friend laughed before moving toward the table. “Then perhaps you should have said that.”

“Is it true?” Sebastian asked flatly.

Everyone turned to Tristan.