The look on Griffin's face showed plain disbelief that his brother could have done wrong. "I've never heard of irrigating vineyards."
"Established ones, no. It's commonly held that some water stress is optimal for producing fine wine. Irrigation affects both the size and the quantity of the fruit, but wine grapes shouldn't be allowed to grow as large as table grapes—the sugar concentration is more important than overall yield."
"Well, then…"
"That has nothing to do with cultivating young vines. The soil surrounding new roots should be kept damp until they're deep and established. My best guess is Charles neglected to do that here."
"Is it too late to do something to save them?"
Tristan considered. "Perhaps," he decided. "But maybe not. Deep watering may cure the shallow roots even now. The vines are still young—it's worth an attempt." He scanned the landscape, focusing on a glistening ribbon in the distance. "We can pipe water from the River Caine."
Griffin shook his head. "The river is lower than this hill. Even I know that water runs down. Logistically—short of carting it by hand—there's no way to get it up here."
"Have faith, my friend." Tristan grinned. "You've summoned the right fellow."
"Come again?"
"I've just built a hydraulic pump to supply my new gasworks direct from the Thames. A water ram pump. You've heard of them, I presume?"
"Of course. We often talked of mechanical pumps while on campaign."
Already deep in thought, Tristan ignored the good-natured sarcasm. "We'll need a drop," he mused, embracing the challenge. "If there's no waterfall nearby—a few feet is all that's required—we'll have to situate the pump in a pit and pipe the river water down to it."
"And the pump will force the water back up?"
"An amazing distance—thirty feet or more in height. It's a brilliant design; wish I'd thought of it myself."
"Will the force be sufficient to propel the water this far overland?"
He gauged the span to the river. Half a mile or so, no more. "That won't be a problem. You'll want to water very heavily, an entire day so the flow penetrates the soil to a goodly depth. Then repeat when the ground begins to dry. A week between sessions," he decided, his brain racing as he formulated the plan. "We'll run a pipeline along the top of the slope with caps every few feet. You—or your people," he amended, watching Griffin's face, "will cap and uncap different sections every day, so by the end of the week the entire vineyard has been deeply watered. Then begin again where you started."
"For how long?"
"I'm not sure. A few months, if you're asking me to guess. You'll have to keep checking. When the taproots have reached three feet or so, you'll shut off the pump." Pleased with the plan, he nodded to himself. "I'll stay until it's all in place."
"That won't be necessary," Griffin rushed to assure him. "If you explain how to build the pump—"
"I don't believe I can. It looks like a simple enough design, but the parts must be adjusted perfectly. The first pump I built was a colossal headache. I've thought of a better design since then, so I believe this one will be easier, but for someone unfamiliar with the basic concept—"
"How long will it take to set this up?" Griffin didn't sound happy. "Run the pipeline? Build the pump?"
Tristan hesitated, knowing Griffin's real question was the one left unstated: How long will you be here torturing my sister?
Old friends or not, Griffin didn't really want him to stay.
But Tristan wanted to help—this was the sort of challenge that excited him. He wanted Griffin to have the satisfaction of making a success of his brother's failure. And he wanted to prove he was a good enough friend—a strong enough man—to avoid temptation where it wasn't appropriate.
"It depends," he answered slowly. "Have you a foundry nearby to cast the pump's parts from my drawings?"
"Yes."
"A cooperative foundry, willing to drop everything at your request to take on this project?"
"I'm the marquess," Griffin said dryly.
"There is that." Tristan had learned he had power as a marquess as well, regardless of his state of disgrace. "Will you hire a goodly sized crew to construct the pipeline?"
"Of course," Griffin snapped.
"A week, then. We can have this in place in a week."
"I suspect it will take longer, but even a week isn't insubstantial." Griffin measured him a moment. "You'd take a week out of your life to build a pump and run pipeline that will be used a scant few months? Knowing it may not even achieve the desired results?"
"You want to save your brother's grapevines or not?"
Griffin hesitated only a beat. "I want to save them."
"Then we'll do what needs to be done." Tristan knelt to reseat the vine and pat the soil into place around the roots. "I'll draw up the pump design today, then return here tomorrow to take measurements." He climbed back up on his black horse, holding the reins with muddy fingers. "And choose a spot to site the pump."
"Thank you," Griffin said.
Although he hadn't felt this needed—this wanted—in a long time, Tristan gave a casual shrug. "This is what friends are for."
NINE
"LADY ST. Quentin," Alexandra said that afternoon in the drawing room, adding the name to their guest list in her careful, tutored script. "We cannot forget her."
"I'd like to forget her." Corinna stood and stretched and, leaving her easel, wandered over to where Alexandra sat at their mother's pretty rosewood writing desk. "She's a busybody."
Seated on one of the blue sofas, Juliana looked up from the menu she was creating. "Do you think we should serve beef or lamb?"
"Both." Corinna peered over Alexandra's shoulder. "Holy Hannah, how did this list get so long? I was unaware we even knew so many people."
"How many?" Juliana asked.
Alexandra pulled out a third sheet of vellum. "A hundred and thirty-eight, so far."
Juliana's eyes widened. "Griffin was away for seven years, and he's hardly had
