Fredrick lifted his gaze, noting the concerned expressions of Greydon, Viscount of Rushcliffe, and Mr. Tristan Westcott. “I am fine,” he said, forcing a smile to his lips. It was the same evasive response he had grown accustomed to offering.
“You don’t look fine,” Tristan stated. “Quite frankly, you look rather troubled.”
Not wanting to continue down this line of questioning, Fredrick knew the one thing to ask to shift Tristan’s focus away from him. “How is your lovely wife, Lizette?”
Tristan seemed to radiate happiness at the mere mention of his wife. “Lizette is well,” he said. “She is increasing.”
“How wonderful,” Greydon expressed. “I have no doubt that Enid will be overjoyed at the news.”
Fredrick would have found his friends’ marital bliss to be rather vexing if he weren’t so happy for them. It seemed like everyone was falling prey to the parson’s mousetrap, but not him. He had no intention of taking a wife.
Turning towards Greydon, Tristan asked, “Is it me or was Fredrick trying to distract me by asking about Lizette?”
“He most definitely was trying to distract you,” Greydon replied. “But the question is why.”
Fredrick tightened his hold on his teacup. Perhaps he had attempted that diversion far too often and his friends had finally caught on. “Surely there is something else we could discuss other than me?” he asked.
“Nothing else is as interesting,” Tristan remarked. “You could always tell us about the war. You have been rather tight-lipped on the matter.”
“That is because there is nothing to say about it,” Fredrick asserted.
Greydon studied him for a moment before asking, “Dare I ask about your mother?”
“She is still alive, for now,” Fredrick replied. His mother was withering away right before his eyes and he was struggling with the fact that she didn’t remember him anymore. To her, he was just a stranger.
Tristan’s eyes held compassion. “You have our deepest sympathies,” he acknowledged.
Fredrick didn’t want their sympathy or their pity, but that’s what it felt like- pity more than anything else. He was just trying to keep one foot in front of the other. Life had gotten far too complicated for him, and he didn’t see a way out of the hole he found himself in.
Tristan rose and pushed in his seat. “It is time I return home to my lovely wife.”
“Tell Lizette we said hello,” Fredrick remarked.
After Tristan walked off, Greydon glanced over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “I am concerned about you, as we all are. You have seemed rather despondent since you returned from the war, and we want to help you…”
Fredrick put his hand up, stilling his friend’s words. “I am fine. Just fine. Now, can we end this line of questioning?” There was that elusive response again. It rather suited his emotions.
“I know what it is like to grieve the loss of someone close to you and—” Greydon began.
Fredrick cut him off. “No one can understand what I have gone through. I appreciate what you are trying to do, but it won’t help me. Nothing will.”
He knew that he couldn’t simply wish away his problems as if waving a magic wand. Life didn’t work that way. There were some things that were irrevocably broken, and he felt like one of those things.
“I should go,” Fredrick said, shoving back his chair.
Greydon looked at his nearly full teacup. “But you haven’t finished your tea,” he attempted. “Stay, just for a moment longer, and I promise I won’t question you further.”
Before Fredrick responded, his brother, Lord Roswell, approached the table with a smile on his lips, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “We have a problem,” he informed them as he sat down.
“Which is?” Greydon asked.
The smile left Roswell’s lips, and he dropped all pretenses as he revealed, “Caleb appears to be missing.”
“Missing?” Fredrick repeated. “How is that even possible? We just saw him at Octavia’s wedding not too long ago.”
“Anette’s mother came to visit and informed us that Caleb hasn’t been home in three days,” Roswell responded.
Greydon grew solemn. “That is unlike Caleb.”