Page 39

“No, my dear. I do not believe I do.”

A carriage passed in the square, sending a strip of lamplight across the ceiling. Tristan followed it until it vanished. When he looked back, his mother had moved the packet nearer his chair.

“What you have wanted,” she said, “is for someone to relieve you of a decision. I have declined to be that someone. But now I have arranged matters so that you will be obliged to make one.”

“By putting our names on the same paper before either of us has asked you to.”

“By reminding you that your conduct has been noticed. You interrupted her dance with Dunhaven, walked into the orchard with her, and brought her back from the wood the next day. There are people who will make a courtship of less.” She rested her hand on the packet. “If your attention means nothing, you owe her a discretion you have not shown.”

“Nothing in that account is untrue,” Tristan said slowly, “and all of it is unjust.”

“People are seldom just when they are entertained.” She spoke more quickly now. “I would prefer you to call upon her and settle the matter honestly, before your indecision creates a scandal that nobody wants.”

He rose. He had not decided to. The chair scraped, and the small sound was so loud in the quiet room that both of them looked at it.

“You have drawn up papers, frightened me half to death to bring me here, and now you propose to manage Lady Lydia’s reputation as well?”

His mother’s mouth tightened. “I am trying to prevent you from making a mistake.”

“Then allow me to make my decisions myself.”

She glanced toward the closed door. “I am asking you to stop pretending that nothing has happened.”

“Then ask me that. Leave her reputation out of it.”

The pen rolled off the blotter. His mother caught it against the edge of the desk, then laid it down with both hands. Tristan had watched her dismiss a steward and arrange his father’s funeral without faltering over a word. The effort required to sit still now disturbed him more than her threat had.

She reached for her chocolate. The cup touched the saucer twice before she lifted it.

“What do you want?” he said.

“I want you to call at the Pembrokes’ tomorrow afternoon. I have asked Lady Pembroke whether Lydia would care to walk in the Park. She will put it to her.” His mother withdrew her hand. “A walk, Tristan. You will be civil, and a little charming if you can manage it.”

“And afterward?”

“Afterward we shall see whether the girl has any wish to be rid of you. It is, as you will have noticed, not entirely impossible.” She paused. “I have known her four days in all, and she does not strike me as someone who will be talked into anything.”

“She is not.”

He heard himself say it and heard, too late, how much it gave away. His mother lifted her cup and studied him over the rim. She had the decency to say nothing.

He took the packet from the blotter. “You will make no further arrangements while I have this.”

“You cannot expect the whole of London to cease making arrangements.”

“I am speaking to you.”

At last, she inclined her head. He put the papers in his coat, aware that removing them from her desk did nothing to remove Lydia’s name from his thoughts. He would ask whether she wished to walk with him. That much he could do without pretending to offer more.

“You will find your room made up,” his mother said. “Hollis has aired the sheets.”

“I am certain he has.”

“Tristan.”

He stopped at the door.

“I cannot watch you shut yourself up at Ashcombe for another year,” she said. “You may be angry with me. At least you will have someone to be angry with.”