Something about that thought made him blink, and then he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
Georgiana looked up at him with curiosity.
“What in the world just went through your mind? You look as if something just grotesquely displeased you.”
“I'm thinking. This is my thinking face. Georgiana, we're not all that far from Ashby, are we?”
Georgiana blinked. “No. less than half a day by horse if conditions are good. Why in the world would we want to go to Ashby?”
“Because I can think of one person who might be able to help us.”
“And they're at Ashby?”
Tristan laughed. “More to the point, Ashby belongs to them. Come on, I think we're going to need to get dressed for a good ride today.”
“Tristan, you do not get to simply order me around. What's going on?”
“I think we need to go see Morgan Chesterfield.”
For a moment, he had the pleasure of seeing Georgiana blink in confusion. “You mean... the Countess of Ashby? Why in the world would we want to talk with a notoriously unsociable old shut-in?”
“Because she has the influence in this part of the country that both you and I lack, and she owes me a favor.”
“Why—?”
“Georgiana, do you trust me?”
Georgiana's nod was gratifyingly swift and sure.
“Good. Because there are things that I really can't tell you about Lady Ashby, not without betraying a confidence that would make me out to be the worst kind of man. But I think she will help us.”
Georgiana nodded reluctantly. “I suppose I should be grateful your charm works well on old ladies with reputations for loneliness and solitude.”
Tristan grinned. “Glad I am good for something. Now we should go get dressed. We have some riding ahead of us.”
* * *
Chapter 20
Georgiana was never at her best after she’d had to ride. She was competent on a horse, but across the board, she genuinely preferred a carriage. When she arrived in Ashby, she felt slightly ill, wind-blown and out of sorts. Tristan looked in fantastic spirits.
It was quite unfair, she decided, for him to look as good as he did right now. It made her feel every bit of the road grime on her body.
Ashby Hall appeared tall in the distance before they were even close. To her surprise, it was something of a medieval throwback, a tall tower rather than a country manor or a low and rambling hall of the previous century. When they finally pulled into Ashby's main yard, Tristan looked every inch a dashing duke. Things got even worse when Lady Ashby came out to greet them.
The Chesterfields were a notoriously insular family, and for people whose wealth and influence went back to the Crusades, they had never been tempted by the thrilling lights and bright whirl of London. It had been years since a marquess or marchioness of Ashby had appeared at any event of note, and despite herself, Georgiana was curious to see what had become of the ancient title.
She was expecting some grand dame in the fashion of the previous century, or perhaps a crabbed woman who met the expectation of a West Country witch. However, Lady Ashby was neither of those things.
She was instead a tall woman, taller than Georgiana and nearly as tall as Tristan. Her long hair, bound up in a simple coronet of braids around her head, gleamed as black as a raven's wing, and her pale blue eyes were as striking as the North Star. Georgiana, whose beauty was of an entirely different type, was nearly struck dumb by the other woman's looks, but it was not until Tristan stepped forward to greet her that the first inkling of jealousy started to spiral up into her heart.
When Lady Ashby spoke, her voice was like low and smoky music, and she bowed slightly to Tristan in an archaic fashion.
“My Lord Duke.”
“Really, Morgan? Are you quite serious?”
Morgan looked up with a slight smile on her face, and Georgiana decided that if she were not careful, she would quickly come to hate this beautiful woman. “Why shouldn't I be when a duke comes to call?”
“Because I know you better than that, and I assume you are laughing your head off the idea of me as a duke.”
“I'm sure you do just fine as the Duke of Parrington, but it does not really jibe with my memory of you trying to steal a cow, no.”
Tristan flinched a little at that. “Let's put off the embarrassing childhood stories for a while, shall we? But Morgan, this is Lady Georgiana Martin. Georgiana, this is Lady Morgan Chesterfield.”
Georgiana acutely felt every stain and dust spot on her person as she stepped up to take Morgan's hand.
“Lady Ashby, a pleasure.”
“Please, call me Morgan. What brings you both to Ashby? You are lucky you caught me, usually at this point, I am in the field.”
Field?
“We've got a problem we'd like your help with, Morgan. I was wondering if we could come in and talk with you.”
“Of course. Rude of me, trying to talk in the yard. Come inside. I'll have lunch put on while you two wash up from the road.”
Georgiana was struck by Tristan's comfort with Morgan. She had never seen him so at his ease with anyone. She wasn't even sure if he had been so very easy with her when they were younger. Seeing him call this woman by her Christian name, seeing him almost relax as he entered Ashby Hall, she wondered all over again what secrets Tristan might guard. She had known that he guarded hers, but it had never occurred to her that there might be others he tended as well.
The stab of pain that went through her was so vivid that it nearly made her stagger, and she shook her head.I am a fool. Just because I did so very poorly after all that is no reason to think that he did.
A young maid led Georgiana to a small but elegantly appointed room where she could wash some of the dust off and order herself a little. In the mirror hung on the wall, she thought she had a rather haunted look on her face. Experimentally, Georgiana tried a smile. It was, as ever, a perfect Society smile, but it was too easy to see how very empty it was. Now she had a sinking suspicion that Tristan would see how empty it was, too, and her spirits plunged.
She shook herself. It didn't matter what tomorrow would bring. Today, she was still Georgiana Martin, the most desired woman in London and a gleaming star in the world of the ton. However, as a footman appeared to guide her to the luncheon that Morgan had promised, she realized she was not in London anymore and how very little any of that meant.
* * *
Georgiana was silent as Tristan explained the matter to Morgan over what proved to be an excellent meal. She found herself impressed by how very discreet it was. Listening as Morgan did, all he talked about was a man who had documents that Tristan wanted back, who had passed those documents on to Mr. Hensbury. As it turned out, Morgan disliked Mr. Hensbury as much as Georgiana and Tristan did, and she had no qualms about distracting him while Georgiana and Tristan tried to find the documents.
“He's always been a hideous old man, and I would not trust his discretion any more than I would trust a fox with a new clutch of chicks. Of course, I will help you.”
Tristan smiled. “I knew you would, Morgan. I can't thank you enough.”
“It's the least I can do. Your family's always been very good to me.”
“We wouldn't ask if it wasn't very important.”
“I know. That's why I like you.”
Georgiana saw the looks that Morgan shot at her from time to time, but they were not what she expected. She thought she might see jealousy or irritation, but instead, there was only a calm curiosity, as if she wondered what Georgiana was all about, but that that knowledge would either come or it wouldn't. It was, she decided, a little like being a specimen under the eye of a gentle scientist.
Surprisingly early in the evening, not all that long after sundown, Morgan started to yawn and shook her head.
“I'm rather afraid I must cut this short. I think we all have a good idea of what we are doing tomorrow, or at least, if we don't, we're in greater trouble th
an we should be. I'm up past my bedtime, but I promise you I'll be alert when we head over to the curate's cottage tomorrow. The two of you have the freedom of the house, so please, entertain yourselves. The servants can help you with whatever you need.”
After she was gone, Georgiana shot a quizzical glance at Tristan. “This is early even for country hours, isn't it? And it isn't as if she is poor and needs to conserve the oil she uses at night.”
“Morgan's something of an astronomer. She has a setup on the roof where she can observe the stars. When I knew her well, she did it every night, and I can't imagine she has changed her ways in the meantime. She is the same woman I remember. She mostly sleeps during the day, and at night, she's up at all hours, in nearly all weather, on the roof.”
“You sound like you know her quite well.”
A troubled look came over Tristan's face. “I'm sorry, I can't betray her confidence any more than I would care to betray yours.”
Georgiana felt the spark of jealousy that her heart had been kindling all night quietly explode into a bonfire. It was only her years of experience in every sort of social situation that kept her face so still.
“Oh. Well, that is very good of you.”
* * *
Chapter 21
Though he tried to stay calm, Tristan was aware of a throbbing beat of worry that was present under everything he did. That night, he slept extraordinarily poorly, and long after he should have been asleep, he made his way up to the roof, where Morgan fussed endlessly with her system of lenses while wrapped in an ancient fur coat.
“Mind if I sit for a while?”
“Of course not. You’re always welcome.”
One thing that was at once attractive and off-putting about Morgan was that she could be silent for hours, even days. It was soothing to sit with her as the glorious night sky rotated over them, and even if his mind kept on rabbiting about the day to come, he could at least breathe a little easier.
Morgan surprised him by speaking first. “So, you are in love again. Or perhaps you never fell out of it.”
Tristan glared at her. Morgan spoke as if there was no doubt in her voice. She didn't even look up from her notes.
“You are speaking of something you know nothing about.”
“Falling in love with the wrong person? Risking everything to be with them and then finding out that it was all wrong? I think I know something about that, Tristan.”
Tristan looked down, feeling a slight hint of guilt wash across his soul.
“You do. I'm sorry.”
“But we're not talking about Chesterfield ancient history right now. And I am right, aren't I?”
Tristan scrubbed both hands over his face. “Don't make me say it, Morgan.”
Her voice gentled even if she didn't look up from her work. “All right, then, I won't. But you know it is true, don't you?”
“Yes. I think I've always known, and then I forgot. Or I let myself forget. Or I made myself forget. But yes.”
Morgan sighed, glancing up slightly. “If only we were as well-ordered as the stars.”
At some point, Tristan fell asleep on Morgan's rooftop perch, only waking when she prodded him lightly with a slippered toe. He was lightly covered in dew, and the very first streaks of dawn were beginning to light the sky.
“Come on. Up you get. We have business today, and if you are going to eschew my fine guest rooms for my only sanctuary, you are at least going to help me put my equipment away.”
Tristan had stashed the equipment in the closet in the attic that Morgan kept expressly for that purpose, and he was making his way back to his room to wash when he ran into Georgiana, or rather, came upon her pacing in one of the drawing rooms. She looked as if she had been up for hours, dressed and nervous as an agitated cat.
She turned to him as he opened the door to see who was pacing, and her eyes widened as she took in his disheveled appearance.
“What in the world happened to you?”
“I couldn't sleep, so I ended up on the roof with Morgan. She's not one for company, but she suffered me to sleep on the roof as she did her work.”
“I see.”
There was a volume to be read in Georgiana's dry voice, but Tristan was too tired and sore from his restless night to pick it up. He shrugged, and then stiffened as she came closer. Why did he feel so damn guilty? It wasn't like anything had happened, and even if something had, there would be no need for him to feel badly, except, of course, he knew he would.
She reached up to pluck at his hair, and then she flicked something aside.
“You're covered in cobwebs. You ought to go have a wash.”
Tristan nodded and headed toward his room, strangely angry with himself and with Georgiana.
* * *
The curate Mr. Hensbury lived two hours away by horse, but it would take Morgan almost three hours to reach it by carriage. She emerged from her own rooms dressed in a plain dress of stark charcoal gray, a veil tugged down over her hat. She looked, even to Tristan's inexperienced eye, a great deal like a foreboding vision come to life.
“Well, that should be dramatic enough for a repentant woman come back to the fold. Are you two quite ready?”
Georgiana nodded. “We are. We'll be in place by the time you arrive.”
“Good. Good luck to both of you. I hope my acting skills will be up to the task.”
Tristan and Georgiana set off together and, after the first hour passed in silence, Tristan came up alongside her.
“You know... Morgan and I have been friends since we were young.”
“Fancy that, Carrows making friends.”
Tristan refused to be nettled. “Ned's actually wonderful at making friends. It's usually me who has the problem. But what I'm saying is that Morgan and I... we have a certain kind of history. And that history goes back to my father and hers, and...”
“Tristan, I do not care. We have something rather difficult and frightening in front of us, and if we fail, it really is all over for me. Can we concentrate on that instead?”
“Oh. That makes sense, of course.”
Tristan felt a pang of guilt for how painfully straight Georgiana sat on her gelding, for the hard set of her shoulders and firm line of her mouth. He had gotten to spend time with an old friend, and she had had no relief from her troubles at all. They rode on in silence, and he resolved to be better than he had been.
Mr. Hensbury's cottage was a surprisingly low and pleasant-looking place in a clearing at the end of a winding dirt road. Tristan and Georgiana tethered their horses deeper in the woods and approached on foot, staying as quiet as they could. They found a place in the brush to sit and wait, and Tristan was slightly amused when Georgiana fall into an exhausted sleep against him even as they waited. He would have teased her about it when she woke up, but he soon followed her.
They both woke up with a start when they heard Morgan's carriage coming down the lane, and they shot each other mutually guilty looks before they turned to watch Morgan step down. Tristan had to admit, for all that he knew Morgan was something of a shut-in who craved nothing as much as the night sky, she was every inch the tragic noblewoman as she approached the curate's door.
She rapped on the door with a seemingly trembling fist, and then after an interminable wait, she did it again. Tristan was just beginning to fear that they had planned and plotted for nothing when the door opened to reveal the curate, confused but already dressed in the neat and severe black he affected.
“What in the world—?”
“Thank goodness that I have found you at home, Mr. Hensbury. I was so afraid I might miss you and must spend another night in fear of my immortal soul!”
It was, Tristan decidedly, terribly overdone, especially for anyone who knew how reserved Morgan really was, but apparently, Mr. Hensbury did not know her at all. To his credit, however, he tried to stroke her shoulders comfortingly, even as she clung to him.
“There, there, miss, there is certainly no need to
carry on as if all the demons of hell are after you...”
“Oh, sir, but what if they are?”
“That's foolishness, miss, er... who are you again?”
Morgan drew herself up to her full height, looking for all the world like a theater witch. “I am Lady Morgan Chesterfield, daughter of doomed Lord Hector Chesterfield.”
Georgiana stirred next to Tristan, her voice a hushed whisper. “My goodness, she really is committed to this, isn't she?”
“It's a fact of being Morgan, really. If she says she will do a thing, she will certainly do a thing.”
Even from where they sat, they could see the curate's face working. The Chesterfields were known for isolation and a certain kind of disdain of the world in their region. Tristan could almost see the old man calculating how much it would raise his standing in the world to bring a Chesterfield into the fold, let alone the Marchioness of Ashby.
“Now, dear, there's nothing to worry about. The Good Lord forgives and smites those who deserve it. Won't you come in, and—”
Morgan shook her head, lurching back as if she had a particular terror of doors and houses. “No, sir, please. My dreams have been so very dark that I crave light. Come riding with me, and I shall explain all.”
It was, frankly, a ridiculous request, but the curate's greed for adding a particularly rich lamb to his flock overcame it. He fetched his hat and together he and Morgan got into her carriage. As it rumbled down the road, Tristan quietly counted to a hundred to make sure that it did not turn around, and he nodded to Georgiana.
“Ready to go rob a curate?”
“In a heartbeat.”
* * *
Chapter 22
Georgiana finally managed to put aside her unease and her frank jealousy over Morgan when they approached the curate's cottage. There was a lock on the door, but the man had left so eager to bring Morgan into the flock that he had never turned it. The door hung open for them, and they entered together.
The Duke's Hellion (Hart and Arrow) (A Regency Romance Book) Page 11