Page 87 of A Match Made in London
“Mayhap things are not as dour as you think,” Morley replied. “It is quite possible that, by putting our heads together, we may come up with a solution.”
“A solution to what?” Tristan snapped, spinning to face his friends. “Securing Rosalind’s hand when she has no wish to marry me? Making her look beyond her prejudices to see we will suit?”
Both men went utterly still. But as Morley frowned in confusion, Willbridge’s pale gray eyes changed with shock.
“Rosalind? Surely you don’t mean Miss Merriweather.”
“Of course I do,” Tristan snapped. But then an inkling of suspicion settled under his skin, chilling his fury. “Wait, do you mean to tell me you didn’t know a thing about Rosalind?”
The guilty looks on their faces told him the answer to that question.
“In our defense,” Morley said, “we did not know our line of questioning would work quite so well.”
“We had hoped it would, of course,” Willbridge chimed in, “but you can be remarkably close-mouthed when you’ve a mind to and so we warned our wives that we might fail spectacularly, might even make you retreat back to London without learning a thing.” He turned to Morley. “That did work better than I ever dreamed. Good idea of yours, old man.”
“Thank you. I had hoped. But you know Tristan.”
“Yes.”
Tristan sliced a hand through the air, cutting off their back-and-forth with a curse. “What was that about your wives talking to Daphne? That was all a ruse?”
Morley shrugged. “It was the only thing we could think of, the only way to get you to reveal what has you so out of sorts. By her closemouthed manner we knew she was in possession of information. Feigning that she revealed that information to Emily and Imogen was our best bet to trick you into disclosing it to us.”
As Tristan tried to wrap his head around this devious and convoluted way of thinking, Willbridge spoke.
“Daphne will flay us alive, I think, should she learn of this.”
Morley nodded morosely. “Emily did say she had never seen her sister so reticent in her life. She figured it must be dire indeed to keep her so uncommonly secretive. But even in all our imaginings we never thought it was about a woman.”
Tristan gaped at him. “What the devil did you think was wrong then?”
“Gambling?” Willbridge suggested.
“Ruin?” Morley supplied.
“You’ve taken to alcohol?”
“You are wanted for killing a man in a duel?”
“A secret life of crime?”
“You all think highly of me, I see,” Tristan said, narrowing his eyes on each friend in turn.
“Not at all,” Willbridge denied. “But you must remember it was not long ago when Morley and I were living the same lifestyle you currently are.”
“And you are a flighty fellow,” Morley chimed in. “There’s no secret in that. Look at your brief infatuation last summer with Daphne, after all.”
“Don’t remind me,” Willbridge growled, rising. He strode to the ornate cabinet in the corner, grabbing up a decanter of brandy and pouring out three snifters of alcohol. He brought them over and passed them out, one to each of them. “We had no wish to question you, man,” he explained. “It’s never been our way. We are all three of us silent support for the others. But Imogen and Emily got it in their heads that our way wasn’t the way to go about it this time. And, as usual, my brilliant wife and my sister are right. Perhaps this bit of liquid courage shall help us get through the conversation that must now be had.” He raised his glass, looking on Tristan and Morley in expectation.
Morley rose with alacrity, clinking his glass against Willbridge’s before turning to Tristan. “Come on, man,” he said, his voice gentler than Tristan had ever heard it. “You know we love you as a brother and only want what’s best for you. Open up to us.”
Tristan considered them cautiously. And as he looked on these two men who had been there for him unerringly since he was eleven years old and fresh from the betrayal of his father’s second marriage, he saw the concern in their eyes and knew they only spoke the truth. They truly were like brothers to him.
He let out a breath, his shoulders slumping, and brought his glass to theirs. “You’d best bring over that whole damn decanter then, Willbridge,” he said with a sad humor coating his words. “For we shall need it.”
• • •
At the end of an hour Tristan fell silent. He felt eviscerated, laid raw. There was nothing else in him to give. He raised his glass, which had sat untouched for the whole of his speech, bringing it to his mouth with trembling fingers, letting the smooth taste of the brandy slide over his thick tongue and down his parched throat.
