“I believe the man might have been asking about yourtactics, Grandpapa!” Cathy shouted, trying her best to be heard by the old baron.
“Mathematics? Child, no, not everyone likes mathematics as you do. I am positive he asked about aspics. I am not sure they served any tonight, though,” Lord Marlow said, waving his hand. “His Grace should know about the battle. He was there.”
“I was not yet born then, Lord Marlow,” Tristan shouted. “You may be referring to my grandfather, Lord Iger.”
“A tiger? Yes, you fought like a tiger!” Norman bellowed, chuckling with unbridled glee.
Cathy’s eyes met Tristan’s at that moment when Lord Marlow was still at the peak of his hilarity. For that one heartbeat, the mask slipped, and the distance they always returned to vanished. He saw how exhausted she was. How trapped. He suddenly felt an irrational urge to stand up and take her out of the room to comfort her.
After all, he felt the same exhaustion. They were both prisoners of their names. Both of them had realized that they were trapped in a continuous performance to please the people around them, and these people did not truly care about whether they bled or died as long as they did not cause a scandal in the process.
After dinner, Tristan walked around, trying to catch a glimpse of a high-collared gray dress. He needed to speak to Miss Quinten. He was not quite certain why he needed to. The woman threw him out of the room. Still, he could not help but want to resolve the tension from early this morning. He did not want to get married the next day, with a physical ache weighing on his chest. Of course, he reminded himself that the need to see her had something to do with hushing her.
“Pray Miss Quinten does not utter a word about this, or else we are all finished.”
When he turned a corner, it was not Cathy he found but Lord Marlow. The old man was squinting at a painting. Tristan leaned forward to see that it was a well-executed one of a stag hunt.
For a nearly deaf old man, Lord Marlow quickly sensed Tristan’s presence. He turned around and gave him a big smile, and exclaimed, “There he is, the Roaring Tiger who saved us all.”
He did have his ear trumpet directed at Tristan.
“Lord Marlow,” Tristan said, giving a slight bow. “I was wondering if you have seen…” He paused, knowing that he could not possibly ask for Cathy. The old man would wonder what he needed his granddaughter for. Looking for Kathleen Quintenat this hour was as good as any confession. “Have you seen Brandon? Lord Seffield?”
“Are you looking for the girl?”
What girl?
“No. I am looking for Lord Seffield,” Tristan repeated into the device.
“Lord Seffield?” the old baron asked, his eyes brightening. “Yes, I believe he told me to tell you that he would wait for you in the library.”
“That is strange; no offense, Lord Marlow,” Tristan commented, frowning. “Brandon has no interest in reading. He struggles just lifting a newspaper page.”
“He must be trying to improve himself!” the baron insisted, nodding for emphasis. “Off with you, then. Do not keep your friend waiting in a room he hates.”
Why would Brandon wait for him in the library? But it seemed that Lord Marlow was not at his clearest, so he might not have heard it right. Perhaps his friend wanted to apologize, or perhaps he remembered something from last night. Even though it was not his intention to look for Brandon at this hour, it looked like he had no choice. Lord Marlow helped him, and his curiosity had already been sparked.
So, he thanked the old man and made his way toward the back of the house, where the library would be. The corridors were dimmer there, but the silence was a reprieve from the chatter in the drawing room. Still, he could not help but breathe harder as the air became colder, and dread started to set in. Portraits seemed to be watching with judgmental eyes. It was his fault fortrusting a deaf and possibly senile old man.
When he reached the library, he flung the door open. Brandon did not deserve a knock after what he had done in the morning. The room at least had some light, though the fire was nearly out. It cast long shadows across the floor, but one particular shadow stood out.
“Brandon?” he called.
Chapter 5
“Grandmama, please. Papa can barely find his own feet. Dragging him upstairs is an impossibility!”
Cathy was a very tall woman, only two inches shy of six feet, but she was slender, while her father was tall and sturdy, with a bit of a belly. Her shoulder ached from taking the bulk of that weight.
The hallway felt a mile long, and every step felt like an insult to her dignity. Her mother had been a noblewoman. Her father was the sinking sand she fell into. Now, she had to deal with that same weight. She had to adjust her grip from time to time so that he would not fall to his death.
Harleigh Quinten felt like a dead weight drenched in the cloying scent of port. He had also started snoring. The wet rasp was what was left in the silence of the corridor. This was not how Cathy wanted to spend her night.
On his other side, her grandmother helped by merely prodding his arm with the silver head of her cane. The baroness did not look like she wanted to touch her son-in-law at all. Her lips were pressed thin together with aristocratic revulsion.
“Useless,” she hissed. “Your father is especially useless. I still cannot believe why I gave my daughter consent to marry this man. He cannot even maintain his dignity at dinner. Alas, she would not listen to reason!”
They did manage to reach Harleigh’s chambers. This time, with joint effort, they performed a coordinated heave and deposited him onto his bed. He groaned and rolled onto his side, but did not wake up. Something that looked like drool trickled down his cheek, and Cathy had to stop herself from shuddering. His boots dangled off the edge of the bed. She hoped that he would be fully awake for the wedding the following day.