to pass his house-guests in the hall. He’d wait, but only for a bit.
To fortify himself, he picked up the letter that had been delivered before he’d left. Pennwright’s neat script was badly smudged, but he expected the man’s dry humor would be intact. He sliced the envelope with an opener, removed a single sheet and began to read.
Dear Tristan,
I’m writing to you with a heavy heart. Both of your brothers are dead.
Tristan read the opening words again, then a second time. As the ramifications sunk in, his insides shook the way they did before weapons were drawn for battle. The shaking signaled danger and the loss of life … his life … the life in Wyoming he wanted for his children. With his brothers dead, he’d become his father’s heir and the next duke of Willoughby. The clock in the entry gonged six times, a death knell to accent Pennwright’s perfect script.
As if surveying a battle report, he took in the rest of the letter. Andrew had died of cholera, and he’d left no sons or daughters. Tristan immediately thought of his widow, Louisa, alone and grieving without even children to comfort her. She’d broken his heart when she’d married his brother, but he held no bitterness. He only wondered why she jilted him and if somehow he’d failed her. Oscar had died a week after Andrew. Pennwright’s explanation chilled Tristan to the bone.
He died from a gunshot to the head. Your father is calling it a hunting accident.
Tristan knew his brother well enough to read between the lines. Oscar had called hunting the sport of fools. He didn’t like horses, exercise or perspiration. With a heavy heart, Tristan acknowledged what hadn’t been written. Oscar’s “hunting” accident had likely been suicide. Tristan viewed the deed as cowardice, but he understood why Oscar had done it. A man of little discipline, he’d have become the duke’s whipping boy.
Pennwright’s next words carried no surprise, but they jarred him nonetheless.
You, Tristan, are now heir to your father’s title and holdings. He wishes you to return to England immediately to assume your duties.
If Tristan had been healthy, he might have gloated at the irony. The son his father had dismissed as worthless now had value to him. But Tristan wasn’t well … Chances were good his father would outlive him, and Freddie would fall under the man’s influence. The thought chilled Tristan to the bone.
The duke could issue whatever orders he pleased, but Tristan wouldn’t snap mindlessly to attention. He had to protect his son. The duke had turned Andrew into a pampered poodle and Oscar into an alley cat. Tristan refused to be paraded like a pet, nor would he allow Freddie to be turned into Andrew or Oscar.
In the same breath, he recognized the profound responsibility of being a duke. He’d been born a third son, but he’d become a leader of men. By blood and British law, he had a duty to the people of Willoughby and wanted to fulfill his obligation with honor.
But he was also a father and he had to protect his son. Tristan was the only defense between Freddie and the duke. He refused to allow his son to be used and manipulated. Dora would suffer, too. His daughter would be valued solely for her worth as a future wife, not for the charming little girl she was. As long as Tristan and his father were both alive, he had time to come up with a strategy. There was no need to rush back to England, at least not yet.
Weary to the bone, he left Pennwright’s letter on the desk and headed to his room. After supper he’d speak to Jon about ways to protect Freddie. Tristan was a good strategist, but Jon had a more creative mind. First, though, he needed quinine.
He entered his suite and shut the door with a click. He took the dose of medicine, then washed his hands and changed into attire befitting a meal with the new governess and her sister. The women would talk throughout supper and so would his children. Jon would be charming, and Tristan would be stoic. With a bittersweet longing to be well again, he headed for the dining room, wearing the stiff upper lip he was so very tired of maintaining.
Chapter Six
Caroline had never had a better-tasting meal in her life … or a more awkward one. She was sitting to the right of Major Smith and across from Bessie. Jon was next to her sister, and Freddie was next to Jon. Little Dora sat in a child’s chair to Caroline’s right.
The instant she sat, Caroline had been determined to bring an air of cheerfulness to the meal. Jon and Bessie had been willing participants in the banter, but the major ignored everything except the food on his plate. He could have been eating in separate quarters, which she suspected he’d have preferred to Jon’s joking and the laughter of his children. How could he not smile at Dora’s face as she tasted the raspberry tart Evaline had made for dessert? Did he know Freddie imitated his every mannerism? Someone needed to open his eyes to the love he was denying his children. She wouldn’t do it tonight. His skin had the pallor of exhaustion, and he’d eaten more lightly than she would have expected. She couldn’t help but worry about him.
Unexpectedly Noah appeared in the doorway to the dining room. “Sir?”
“Yes, Noah?”
“I apologize for interrupting, but a courier delivered this letter.” He handed the envelope to the major. “He won’t leave until you reply.”
“That’s odd,” Jon said for them all.
Attempting to be nonchalant, the major opened the letter and began to read. His eyes flicked to the bottom of the page, then back to the top. As he read, his face turned into stone. Caroline glanced at Jon for a hint of understanding and saw his mouth tighten with apprehension.
Freddie broke the silence. “What does it say, Father?”
“It doesn’t concern you.” He stood abruptly and headed for the door, the letter dangling from his fingers.
Dora called after him. “Daddy! What’s wrong?”
If he heard the child, he’d chosen to ignore her. And if he hadn’t, he should have. These children had lost their mother and lived in a fragile world, one that could be easily shattered by their father’s thoughtless behavior. Caroline put her napkin on the table and stood. She looked first at Dora. “I’m going to talk to your father, okay? I’ll find out what’s wrong.”
Dora nodded too quickly.
Caroline looked at Freddie and saw criticism but spoke anyway. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“You shouldn’t go,” the boy said coldly. “He won’t like it.”
Caroline ached for him. He was trying to earn his father’s love through rigid obedience. It wouldn’t work. The person who had to change wasn’t Freddie. It was the major, and she intended to confront him. No matter what the letter said, he should have given his children more consideration.
After a glance at Bessie and a nod from Jon, she went to the entry hall. She saw Noah and the major speaking to a man she didn’t recognize. No voices were raised, but she felt the tension as plainly as the sun on a hot day. Ducking into a room off the hall, she watched as the courier left. The major told Noah he needed air and went out the door. When Noah went back to the dining room, Caroline followed the major.
Tristan made a beeline for the carriage house. He needed to think about the contents of the letter still loose in his hand, and he wanted to be alone while he did it … or at least away from inquisitive women and little girls eating raspberry tarts, away from Jon who’d read his expression too easily and Freddie who’d forgotten how to laugh. Cairo was all the company he could stand in light of the news he’d just received. His father was in Cheyenne. He’d ordered Tristan to send two carriages—one for himself and his traveling companion and the other for his staff. He didn’t name his companion, and Tristan hadn’t quizzed the courier. It would be just like his father to travel with a mistress. Needing time to think, he had sent the courier back to the hotel with instructions to wait for a reply in the morning.