Suddenly, Napoleon seized the opportunity to let out a demanding yowl. He then launched himself expertly from the floor, landing in Lord Marlow’s lap. That must have been a heavy landing, but the old man merely released a delighted chuckle.
Soon, her grandfather’s eyes changed from the perceptive ones that were focused on her. Now, Napoleon had taken over, and gone were the baron’s clarity and his rare moment of wisdom.
“Oh, Napoleon,” he crooned. He scratched the cat on its head and behind its ears. “Have you seen my tobacco? I fear French spies have hidden it somewhere close, but it is difficult to find.”
Chapter 26
“Is he here?” Cathy demanded. “You know that you can stop looking like a stone gargoyle with me, Henderson. I need to know where my husband is.”
Cathy had rushed home to Baxter Hall after a sleepless night at Marlow’s when thoughts she never thought would plague her came descended upon her.
She did not mean for her voice to sound quite so sharp, but she was desperate to find some answers. Her gloved hands gripped her reticule tightly so that she could feel her fingernails through the fabric digging into her palm.
I was so unfair to him.
The night before, she was kept awake by the realization that she had been cold and unforgiving. That she had pushed away the man she loved just to protect herself like she always did. Once she saw the threat, she expected the worst. That was what she did with Tristan. She had trusted Anne more than she did him and pushed him away.
If he turned out to be guilty of the supposed crime, then at least she needed to hear the story from his very lips, instead of taking Miss Longrove’s account as the absolute truth.
“His Grace is not home, Your Grace,” Henderson replied, remaining unflappable. “He has just departed not long ago.”
“Where to?” she demanded, thinking back to whether she had seen his carriage along the way. Her mind had been too preoccupied to notice anything else, though. “Is he tending to business so early in the morning?”
Cathy was rightfully irritated. She was sleepless and tired, and the thorn scratches on her arms still stung. She was afraid to inspect them, as they still showed angry red and purple welts.
“Your Grace, I believe that His Grace may have gone to Lord Farstone’s estate. He had a... determined look on his face, if I may add,” the butler finally revealed.
“Thank you, Henderson. I need the carriage once more.”
The butler gave her a bow, and soon, the carriage she used was once more ready to bring her to her next destination. She had never been to the Viscount of Farstone’s estate, but the driver knew of the location. The ride was a blur as she battled her pain and exhaustion.
What could be so important that Tristan would head for Lord Farstone’s place looking determined?
Other thoughts continued to disturb her.
I believed a scorned woman who did not hesitate to shove me into rose thorns over the man who traveled north to find my father. The man who, despite everything, accepted me as I am, thorns and all.
The irony was not lost on her. She had been a fool many times over, and she was afraid that this was yet another of her follies. She had chosen distance and the cold certainty of numbers on her ledgers over trusting her heart.
But she needed to know for certain. Who was the father of this child?
When the carriage reached the Farstone estate, Cathy was out of the carriage as soon as it lurched to a halt. She flew out the door and up the steps, her mind in a whirl. Many possibilities were screaming inside her head, and she wondered if she had made a mistake.
“Good day,” she greeted Lord Farstone’s butler as soon as the door opened. “Is the Duke of Baxter here? I am his wife, and I need to speak to my husband at once.”
Cathy knew she risked being seen as a possessive wife, but she needed to talk to Tristan as soon as possible.
“His Grace is... here, Your Grace. Please wait in the foyer,” the butler replied, his eyes widening when he saw her.
Cathy immediately brushed past him, her anxiety unable to keep her still. She intended to follow the proper decorum and wait to be admitted to other parts of the house, but she heard the sounds of an argument, or at least something that sounded like it.
“You cannot mean that you will not do anything about this, Brandon!” a familiar female voice cried. “You cannot!”
Cathy froze as it was clear who was having a heated conversation. It was not Tristan and Brandon, nor was it Tristan and Anne. She had been wrong about whatever combinationsshe might have expected.
The door where the two were arguing was slightly ajar, which made it easy for Cathy to hear what they were talking—or screaming—about. She held her breath, not wanting to reveal her presence.
“Lower your voice, Anne!” Brandon hissed. Yes, it was Lord Farstone, after all. Tristan’s closest friend. “You do not want the servants to hear you.”