THIRTY-NINE
TRISTAN ARRIVED home that evening eager to see Alexandra. It wasn't raining. The problem at the gasworks was finally solved. And he was starving.
After poking his head into the most likely ground-floor rooms and failing to find his wife, he took the stairs two at a time, anxious to see how she was faring after this morning's mishap.
If it had been a mishap.
But right this moment he didn't want to think about that. He wanted to kiss Alexandra and hear about her day and share the success of his. Preferably over dinner.
Vincent appeared, as he often did, to meet him outside his bedroom door. "Your lady is sleeping," he said quietly.
Concern—and guilt—slammed into him. "Is she not doing well?"
"Peggy says she's well, my lord, only weary. Shall I arrange for a tray in your room? She may not wish to dress for dinner."
As usual, Vincent knew instinctively what was right.
"An excellent idea." Tristan paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Do you know if she went visiting today?"
"She did. She took the carriage."
That was a relief. If she'd been well enough to carry out her plans to meet the villagers, she couldn't be feeling too poorly. But he wondered how her visits had gone. While the villagers were dependent on him and therefore didn't snub him outright, his relationship with them was rather strained. They didn't like having their lord steeped in scandal.
Then again, Alexandra had his servants eating out of her hand—literally—already. Perhaps she could bring the villagers around, too.
"Did Peggy go along with her?" he asked.
"And Ernest as well, my lord. And John Coachman, of course. I mean Charlie," Vincent corrected himself. They shared a smile. "Your lady is making a lot of changes around here, isn't she?"
"Positive ones, I believe." Tristan was very happy to hear Alexandra had followed his directions. He didn't know if he could handle any more excitement today. Now that her damned investigation was over, he just wanted to see if they could settle into something resembling a marriage.
He turned and twisted the knob.
"She's not questioning anyone, either," Vincent added. "I know you were concerned about that, so you'll be pleased to hear that Peggy is doing it instead."
Tristan turned back. "Doing what?"
"Questioning the staff. Peggy came to me an hour ago, asking if I recalled anyone who might have worked here four years ago but has since left. She's compiling a list for your lady."
"Is she?"
"Yes. Isn't it clever of your wife to widen the search?"
"Quite." No one had ever accused Alexandra of being dullwitted. To the contrary, it seemed she was too bright for her own good. "She's not going to find anything, though. My uncle died in his sleep. Of a broken heart."
"Of course he did. But I find it endearing that your lady wishes so much to prove otherwise."
Endearing, Tristan thought as he cracked open the door and slipped inside. That wasn't the word he would have chosen. Exasperating was more like it.
Why couldn't she understand that he wanted her to stop poking around where she didn't belong?
She slumbered, huddled on her side beneath the covers, a small lump in his big bed. It occurred to him that now was his chance to dump her onto the floor. But he couldn't do it. Upset as he was to learn she was still pursuing her damned investigation, after nearly losing her this morning he couldn't summon the anger he'd felt last night.
But dread of what she might find…that he could summon well enough.
The room was dim but not yet dark. He walked over and stood by the bed. Her even features were outlined against the white sheets like the profile portrait she'd made of him so long ago.
"Alexandra," he called softly, half expecting her to sleep on like she had earlier. A hint of that panic came back, the blind fear he'd felt when he couldn't awaken her.
This time, though, she opened her eyes and yawned. "Tris?" she said in a sleepy murmur.
She would never know how endearing he found it when she called him that. Endearing. He was so relieved to see the gas hadn't seriously harmed her.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Not really." She struggled to sit up against the pillows. "How did everything go at the gasworks?"
"Very well. The construction is back on track." He sat beside her on the mattress, his weight on the featherbed making her tilt toward him. "How was your day, then?"
"Disappointing." She sighed. "Mrs. Pawley recollected a scullery maid who'd left for Armstrong House to take a better position. I went—"
"You went to Armstrong House?" He blinked. "I thought you were going to the village."
"I was going to the village—I even made sugar cakes to take with me—until I learned about Beth." He thought he saw guilt cloud her features, but it was immediately replaced by other emotions he couldn't read. "Then, when I got to Armstrong House, Miss Armstrong wouldn't let me in the door. Peggy had to talk to Beth instead." She swallowed hard. "I must confess, I didn't like your Miss Armstrong much."
"I don't care for her much anymore, either," he assured her, noting her furrowed brow and haunted eyes. She was more upset by the rejection than she was letting on. It was on the tip of his tongue to soothe her by suggesting Leticia's attitude could have stemmed as much from his past history with her as from true outrage at his disgrace, but he decided there was no point.
This would happen over and over, and he wouldn't be able to shrug off the next incident as easily.
Though he'd known the isolation and disapproval would hurt her, seeing her suffer ripped him up inside. It was why
