"How long if they saved them?"
"Depends more on their schedule than mine. But given the correct parts, I can build and adjust the thing in a day, two at the outside. I know this design inside out now. How fast can your men construct another pipeline?"
"Depends on how much I pay them," Griffin said with a pragmatic smirk. "If you think the pump can be ready and installed by Thursday, I will see that the pipeline is finished then as well."
"The ball is Friday?" At Griffin's nod, Tristan stood and began to leave. "Sounds like there's no time to waste. Let's go look at the site and have a word with the foundry," he said, opening the study's door.
Three startled faces were on the other side. The sight of one of them—Alexandra's, to be precise—robbed his breath like a punch to the gut.
Not a proper reaction to a friend.
Griffin snorted at his sisters. "You can hear better if you put an empty glass to the door."
"We weren't listening," Corinna protested in entirely too innocent a tone. "We were just…on our way to change our dresses."
"Yes," Juliana said. "We're wearing morning dresses, and we need our walking dresses now."
Tristan couldn't help but notice Alexandra wasn't saying anything. With her mouth, at least. Her eyes, focused on him, spoke volumes. Clearly she found his unexpected visit unsettling.
Hell, so did he.
"Where are you planning to walk?" Griffin asked.
"To the village," Corinna said.
"We baked lemon cakes earlier this morning," Juliana added, "planning to make some calls."
"Go on, then." Griffin waved a hand. "As I expect you heard, Tristan and I are likely to be gone for the next few hours."
Tristan watched Alexandra accompany her sisters through the high gallery, her skirts swaying gracefully to match her gait. When she disappeared into the corridor that led to their bedrooms, he released a silent sigh.
Or maybe it hadn't been silent. "What?" Griffin asked, looking at him sharply.
"Nothing." He shouldn't have come back here. "What the devil is the difference between a morning dress and a walking dress?"
"Damned if I know." Griffin started down the stairs. "You think I understand anything to do with women?"
FOURTEEN
SMALL LEMON CAKES
Take half a pint of milk and heat to boiling then pour over a like amount of bread crumbs and leave until heat has abated. Melt 8 spoons of butter and to this add grated rind of lemons, a fair measure of sugar and three eggs well beaten. Mix all together and pour into buttered cake-cups and bake until browned.
Medicine for the heart. These cakes will brighten the most melancholy of days.
—Belinda, Marchioness of Cainewood, 1811
TRISTAN'S assessment of the drainage problem had proved in concert with Griffin's, and they were both relieved to find the foundry had saved the molds. If all went to plan, the pump would be installed by Thursday, and Tristan would be well gone before the first guests arrived for Friday evening's ball.
Riding home beneath gray skies, they congratulated each other. For once, everything seemed to be going right.
But no sooner had they passed under the barbican than Cainewood's big double doors opened and Boniface stepped out. He hurried down the steps and toward them across the quadrangle. "You've a caller, my lord. Lady Rachael Chase."
Griffin swung down from his mount. "She must have come to see my sisters. Have they not returned yet?"
"No, my lord, they've not. But she asked to see you. Something about an unanswered letter?" The stern frown didn't sit quite right on the butler's pretty face. "She's been waiting for well over an hour."
As Boniface returned to his post, Griffin swore under his breath. Tristan dismounted and followed him toward the doors. "You must have received Lady Rachael's letter a week ago or more. Did you never reply?"
"I wanted to make certain my solution would work before I explained it."
Tristan had to take the steps two at a time in order to keep up. "So you simply ignored her?"
"Her brother, the owner of the affected land, is currently away in Lon—" Griffin stopped short as they stepped inside. "Good afternoon, my lady."
"Lord Cainewood?" Perched on one of the entrance hall's heavy walnut chairs, Lady Rachael rose slowly to her feet, gazing slack-jawed at Griffin, as though he looked quite different from what she'd expected.
Or much better.
Tristan supposed his friend had filled out and gained a few inches in height over the last decade. Not to mention honed some muscles in the military. But then, Lady Rachael didn't look much like Tristan remembered her, either. Although she wasn't his type—he preferred a subtler sort of beauty—he did have eyes in his head, and he could see that she had grown into a stunning example of the fair sex.
At last she closed her mouth, then opened it again. "I trust you received my letter?"
"I did, indeed." Griffin blinked at her, looking rather entranced himself. "Did Boniface not fetch you refreshment?" he asked, neatly sidestepping the topic at hand. He released an elaborate sigh, as though his servant's lack of hospitality far outweighed his own neglect. "It's so difficult to get good help these days. Don't you agree, Tristan?"
"Mr. Nesbitt," Lady Rachael acknowledged graciously while still staring at Griffin. In fact, it looked as though the two had locked gazes permanently. She licked her lips. "It's a pleasure to see you again after all these years."
Amused, Tristan executed a small bow. "The pleasure is mine, my lady."
"Mr. Nesbitt is Lord Hawkridge now," Griffin informed her. "The Marquess of Hawkridge."
"Of course." She finally turned to Tristan, her expression an odd mixture of apology and curiosity.
