“You have no idea.” They stepped inside. “I have three sisters to marry off, and that’s only the beginning—”
“They cannot already be old enough to wed!”
Griffin’s laugh boomed through the three-story-high entrance hall, all the way up to its stone-vaulted ceiling. “You expect we aged while time stood still for them?” He led Tristan up the carved stone staircase. “Corinna—the baby—is nearly twenty. Plenty old enough to find a husband.”
Tristan frowned. “And Juliana and Alexandra?” he asked, deliberately mentioning her last.
Maybe she would seem less important that way.
“Twenty-one and twenty-two.” They turned on the landing and went up a second level to the family’s private apartments. “Four deaths in the family have kept them from the marriage mart, but I mean to see them all settled now—and soon.”
Griffin ushered Tristan into a dark wood study. Waving him into a leather wing chair, he went to open a cabinet.
Tristan sat warily. “Look, old man, I sympathize with your problem, but your letter indicated you were in dire straits and needed my expertise—”
“Yes.” Rather than sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, Griffin chose the chair beside Tristan’s. “I appreciate your response.” He set two crystal glasses on the small table between them, unstoppered a matching decanter, and began pouring. “Regardless of the fact that you’ve hidden yourself away in the countryside all these years, you are known far and wide—”
“I’m not in search of a wife!”
“—for your advances in scientific agriculture and land management.” In the midst of handing Tristan a glass, Griffin blinked. “Wife? Do you imagine I asked you here to marry 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 interest in wedding any of Griffin’s sisters—or anyone else, for that matter—he wasn’t sure he appreciated having his unsuitability thrown directly into his face. “Why did you summon me, then?”
“I need your help. I’ve heard you’ve worked miracles with Hawkridge’s vineyard.”
“I’ve managed to revive it, yes. We’ve had two excellent harvests—the wine from last year’s is particularly good.” Relaxing back, Tristan took a bracing sip of the fine spirits. “You’re in need of wine?”
Griffin’s sip was more like a gulp. “Charles,” he said, referring to his late older brother, “had taken up growing grapes, with an eye to making wine. He planted vines some three years ago—”
“Charles wanted to make wine?”
“It’s the latest thing; haven’t you heard? What with the prices soaring during the war against France, I suspect he thought to make a killing. But regardless, Charles always was a swell of the first stare.”
“Yes,” Tristan said dryly. “He was.” He well remembered Charles, a tall, dark man with an air of superiority and an eye to owning the best. “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.” Griffin’s fingers tightened on his glass. “I’m trained to lead men into battle, not manage land and livestock.”
“Not to mention make wine, which is another enterprise entirely.” Tristan sipped thoughtfully. “With more than thirteen thousand acres, a good percentage of that productive, you cannot stand to lose the vineyard? This is your emergency?”
Griffin colored. “I apologize if my letter made it sound dire. But…this was Charles’s pet project. He invested a fair amount of funds, and I wish to make a success of it.” After hesitating a moment, he met Tristan’s eyes. “I hate to think I might fail where my brother would have succeeded. I’m not comfortable with these responsibilities—they were meant to be his, and I wasn’t raised to the task. But I mean to make the best of it.”
The admission sounded pained, but Tristan could sympathize. He didn’t imagine that military officers sat around at night baring their souls. And as for himself, it had been a long time since he’d had anyone to confide in.
“I understand,” he said. He hadn’t been raised with expectations of inheriting a title, 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. “I’m trying to make the best of my life, too.”
Griffin nodded, looking uneasy.
These days, most everyone was uneasy around Tristan.
“Shall I have a look at your vineyard?” He drained his glass, set it down, and 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 pictured long dark curls and innocent young eyes. He wondered how she’d look all grown up.
He wondered if she’d have the same effect on him she used to.
“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 problem wasn’t as pressing as Tristan had imagined, it had been a long time since he’d felt needed.
And a long time since he’d seen Lady Alexandra Chase.
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BOOKS BY LAUREN ROYAL
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Chase Family Series: The Jewels
Chase Family Series: The Flowers
Chase Family Series: The Regency
Chase Family Series: The Renaissance
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