“I do not wish to marry!”
“—lending me your expertise.” In the midst of handing Tristan a glass, Griffin blinked. “Marry? Do you presume I asked you here for the benefit of one of my sisters? Perish the thought!”
Tristan breathed deep of the brandy as he wavered between relief and annoyance. Never mind that he had no desire to wed any of Griffin’s sisters—or anyone else, for that matter—he couldn’t help feeling stung by the frank dismissal. “Why did you summon me, then?”
“I need your help. I’ve heard you’ve worked miracles with Hawkridge’s vineyard.”
“I had a hand in reviving it, I suppose. We’ve had two good harvests—last year’s wine is particularly excellent. Or so I’m told.” Tristan shrugged. He was more of a brandy man. “You’re in need of wine?”
Griffin lifted his own brandy and took a sip that was nearly a gulp. “Charles,” he said, referring to his late older brother, “planted grapevines some three years ago—”
“Charles wanted to make wine?”
“It’s the latest thing, apparently. With prices soaring during the war against France, I suspect he thought to make a killing.” With affectionate satire, he added, “Charles always was a swell of the first stare.”
“Yes, he was.” Tristan sipped. He remembered the elder Chase son as a tall, dark man with an impressive air and impeccable taste. “Go on, then.”
“I’ve been told not to expect a yield suited for production for another year at the least. But the vines should be bearing fruit by now, shouldn’t they? They’re not producing anything.”
“Three years with nothing at all? Not even the odd bloom?”
“Nothing beyond leaves. I fear they may be dying. And I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do. I was trained for war, not managing land and livestock,” he said plaintively.
“Not to mention winemaking, which is another venture entirely.”
“You do sound as if you know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bother concealing your astonishment,” Tristan said dryly. He finished his drink and placed the glass on the table. “But do enlighten me on one point. With an estate the size of yours, you cannot survive the loss of the vineyard? This is your emergency?”
Griffin colored. “I apologize if my letter made it sound dire. But…this was Charles’s principal project. He invested quite a measure of our fortune in the vineyard, and I’d hate to see it fail.” He hesitated. “I’d hate to think I failed where my brother would have succeeded.” Finally, he met Tristan’s eyes. “To be perfectly candid, I’m not at all confident that I’m ready for this role. I’ve never sought it, never wanted it. But I mean to make the best of it.”
Griffin leaned back against the chair and downed the rest of his drink. Military men didn’t make a habit of baring their souls, Tristan supposed. He appreciated his friend’s honesty.
“I understand,” he said aloud. “I wasn’t raised to be a marquess, either.” Quite the contrary, he’d been born the son of a second son, a mere mister who’d attended the right schools only on the largesse of his uncle. “You’ve only been doing the job a couple of months. You’ll settle into it. I did, eventually.”
Griffin nodded, looking uneasy.
“Shall I have a look at your vineyard?” Tristan began to rise.
“It will have to wait until tomorrow.” Waving him back down, Griffin refilled their glasses. “It’s a good hour each way by horseback, and I’m expecting another caller shortly. A very acceptable suitor for Alexandra’s hand.”
Alexandra. Tristan had always had a soft spot for the eldest Chase sister. He pictured long dark curls and round, thoughtful eyes. She would be seventeen now, no longer a schoolgirl. He wondered how she’d look all grown up.
“We’ll ride over in the morning,” Griffin added. “You’ll stay, won’t you? At least long enough to evaluate the situation?”
“I’ll stay as long as I’m needed.” Though Griffin’s crisis wasn’t as pressing as Tristan had imagined, he wouldn’t turn his back on a friend.
Especially as he didn’t have many to spare.
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