Page 18 of How to Capture a Duke

Tristan nodded, and his trusted butler shuffled forward, a crutch in his right hand, and extended a silver salver bearing a letter.

Tristan removed the letter from the salver and added it to the neat pile on his desk. “You also have a visitor, Your Grace. Your cousin, Lord Jeffries. Shall I send him to the drawing room or see him here?”

No doubt his cousin, Spencer, otherwise known as Lord Jeffries, had heard the news that Tristan had married.

Tristan was aware of Gordon waiting. He motioned to the chair before his desk to let the butler know he’d see his guest in this room.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Gordon said.

Master and servant exchanged few words, but their method of communication was well-established and highly efficient. Their relationship was stronger than any typical English household. Gordon had returned from Waterloo with only one leg; his other had been blown off by a faulty English cannon. Gordon now used a wooden leg and a crutch. A well-experienced butler before he’d enlisted, he’d been turned away from every household for employment, save one. The man’s pension, which was distributed by the Royal Hospital of Chelsea, was a pitiful one shilling per day and insufficient to live upon.

Tristan had hired Gordon soon after he’d crossed the threshold of Keswick Hall seeking employment. He recognized competence when he saw it. A war injury would not prevent a butler from adequately performing his duties, and Tristan had been right. Gordon was an invaluable part of his London household.

Soon after, Tristan had need of a new housekeeper, and he’d retained Mrs. Ludson, a woman who was cross-eyed and who’d also had difficulty finding employment because of her “condition.” He hadn’t cared about their disabilities, and it hadn’t affected their performance. He knew firsthand society’s cruelties, and if he’d bothered to have visitors, he still would not be concerned with their opinions of his staff.

Gordon, Mrs. Ludson, and a few other servants had been with Tristan for years, and they were loyal. None expected visitors to the Berkeley Square mansion. No balls or parties would be held in his London home. The ballroom remained dusted but never used. The drawing room rarely received guests. The gardens were well-maintained, but there would never be a garden party, and the maze would never see a couple enter the hedgerows to carry out a secret rendezvous. The Duke of Keswick Hall had other demands.

Tristan shuffled the papers on his desk in an orderly pile. His correspondence was orderly. His ledgers were precise, the numbers neatly lined up in columns and the math double and triple checked for accuracy. He expected perfection, and his steward knew to account for every shilling.

His grandmother, Antonia, didn’t fully understand Tristan’s need for isolation and wanted him to host something in town, but as far as he was concerned, his reputation as the aloof duke suited him just fine. His exposure to society, however, could not be entirely avoided. He took his duties in the House of Lords just as seriously as his correspondence. Being unable to speak in the House was his main obstacle, and he’d been frustrated that he could not argue for the benefit of one of the proposed bills to aid the soldiers who’d returned from war. Lord Ware falsely believed the bill too costly and staunchly opposed it. But it was Ware’s close confident, Lord Dumfries—Tristian’s long-time nemesis—who truly stood in the way.

Gordon cleared his throat, and Tristan realized the man was still in the room.

“Pardon my asking, Your Grace, but the dowager wrote and informed the staff that you have married.”

Of course, Antonia had. His grandmother had hopes, but she would eventually have to accept it was a marriage in name only.

Gordon appeared hopeful. “Shall the staff expect your bride?”

Tristan shook his head.

“I see. The dowager mentioned Her Grace is at Rosehill.”

“She will r…r-emain there.”

A flicker of emotion crossed Gordon’s face—distress? disapproval?—but it was gone in a flash and quickly replaced with the butler’s normally impassive features. “I shall inform the staff not to expect her. I shall see Lord Jeffries here.”

Gordon leaned on his crutch as he left the room. Tristan experienced a stab of remorse. He shouldn’t care what his staff thought. They didn’t know the full truth behind his marriage. It was a farce, nothing more.

He wanted to shout the words but stayed silent.

Moments later, Spencer stood in the doorway. “Congratulations are in order. When were you going to inform me of the good news?”

Handsome and charming, with light blond hair and hazel eyes, Tristan’s cousin was a few years his junior. Today, his exuberance only seemed to irk Tristan. “My marriage is n…n-ot of importance.”

“Not of importance! Where is she? I doubt she would agree with your assessment.”

He didn’t want to get into the details. Not with Spencer, who was always cheerful. “She prefers the country.”

“I see.”

“You have nothing to fear. The title will fall to you one day.”

Spencer’s face fell. “Do you think me a complete cad? I don’t need your money. I told you before that I’ve invested in a profitable shipping venture and even acquired a warehouse at the docks.”

“Your shipping venture sounds like a solid business enterprise,” Tristan said.

“Good. Because it’s not the title I’m asking about, but your well-being. You should not be alone. A bride is good news.”