.
By the time the summons came, Blythe had composed herself. She had long since refused the services of a maid, telling the housekeeper with all the earnestness she could manage that such a thing was only vanity and acquired helplessness. She could do up her gowns on her own, she insisted, and now she did so, trading her soiled gray gown for another in the same shade. Her closet was full of them.
Blythe cursed as she did up the row of tiny jet buttons along the front of the gown. Her hands were still shaking, and when she closed her eyes, she could still imagine Thomas staggering under Tristan's blow and the way he had rounded on her cousin.
Every instinct in her head—the ones that taught her to conceal her true self and her true nature from the world—told her to run. A proper young girl, especially one with aspirations toward missioning in far-off lands, abhorred violence and would faint if she saw so much as a punch thrown, let alone land.
For the first time in recent memory, however, her instincts failed, and instead, when she saw Tristan and Thomas squaring off, she nearly leaped into the fray herself. She was torn between a desire to protect Tristan, with whom she had grown up, and a similarly strong desire to defend Thomas... for some reason.
Then logic had asserted itself, and Blythe remembered that Tristan had always been able to look after himself, and from what she had seen of Thomas, so could he.
As she pinned her hair back up into its usually severe bun, she found herself still reeling from the revelation of Thomas’ identity. Of course, she had heard of Thomas Martin, Marquess of Amory. Most of London had. He was reputed to be a rake, a careless wild son with a fortune to spend and not much discretion over where he spent it or who he spent it with.
She supposed if she had to picture the Thomas Martin she had heard of, she would picture someone whose chin was held up by the stiff points of his overly-fashionable collar, someone spoiled and vain.
The Thomas Blythe she had met could be termed spoiled; she’d said herself that she wouldn't be surprised if he was the son of a peer. It would never have occurred to her to think that he was a Martin relation, let alone the Duke of Southerly's heir.
Blythe jumped when there was a gentle knock on the door. "Hello?"
"Miss Blythe, his grace, the duke, would like to speak with you. He's in the library."
"Of course. Please let him know that I will be there directly."
Blythe took a last look in the mirror. The girl who looked back at her had an appropriately solemn look on her face, completely strict and sober. It was an excellent mask, she decided as she stepped back. Now to hope that Tristan wouldn't see through it as easily as Thomas had seemed to.
When Blythe rapped gently on the library door, something rattled to the floor, followed by a muffled swear.
"Come in."
The library had once been the sanctuary of Gregory Carrow, the former Duke of Parrington, and Tristan and Ned's father. Tristan had taken it over as a matter of course, but it occurred to Blythe that her cousin didn't look so very comfortable with the library's dark-paneled walls and high thin windows.
"You sent for... Oh, Tristan, look at your face!"
She came over to pick up the small tin box of bandages and ointment he had dropped, gathering them up with quick, birdlike motions. When she looked up at him, she noticed with some discomfort that he was watching her carefully.
"You should be more careful," she said, her voice soft. "You're bleeding."
The scrape across his right cheek was still oozing a little blood, and Blythe focused on it rather than on Tristan's inquisitive look.
"Here, let me tend to that. You shouldn't just leave it open, it will get infected."
She reminded herself to play the part, to be simple Blythe who was too good for her own good. Despite the act, there was genuine care when she cleaned Tristan's scrape with some witch hazel water and dressed it with a greasy ointment. When she reached for the bandage, Tristan waved her away.
"Blythe, for God's sake, leave off. I'm not going to go about town bandaged up as if that Martin puppy seriously injured me."
Blythe shrugged, setting down the bandages and closing the box neatly. "It will heal better if you cover it."
Tristan shrugged impatiently. He wasn't a man who cared much about his looks, though Blythe supposed he was handsome enough. He had the black hair and nearly black eyes that seemed to show up so regularly through the Carrow line. Ned had it, too, and Blythe, a distant second cousin, received the far plainer coloration with brown. She’d had cause to envy her male cousins' good looks before, but overall, she found her own plain looks much more suitable for her own adventures.
"Blythe, are you all right?"
The question, so quiet and honest, surprised Blythe. It also made her wary. She loved her cousin Tristan like she would love a brother, but one reason why she had been able to get away with as much as she had was because he was predictable. Carrows tended to be. They were honorable and honest, but they also liked their order and routine. Once they decided a thing, it was done. Tristan's question made her uneasy, and she resolved to be careful.
"I am not the one who got punched."
"Believe me, if that rakehell of a Martin puppy had harmed you in any way, I would have had him brought in by constables after I beat the hell out of him."
"Tristan!"
"It's true. Blythe, you must remember that the Martins are... well, perhaps what I should say is that at the beginning and end of it, they are careless people. People always have something to say about the feud between us, but even if that wasn't there, we wouldn't get on with them. Their carelessness hurts the people around them, and the only reason that it doesn't hurt them is because they are rich enough to get away with it."
"Tristan, why are you speaking as if I'm going to have anything to do with the Martins? I didn't even know that... that man was one."
She barely stopped herself from saying Thomas’ name. She must be far more tired than she thought. She wondered grimly what Thomas had told her cousin about why they were together. She had her own story ready—that she had stayed the night at the house of a very proper lady of the ton after discussing charitable efforts in the stews—but she had no idea how well it would mesh with whatever Thomas had come up with.
"Because you have a terribly big heart, and it doesn't deserve to be more mangled than it already is. Amory told me that you came down when you heard him bellowing in confusion over where his hired hack had dropped him."
"Oh, that. Well, I suppose he sounded upset, and I wanted to help."
Tristan gave her a stern look. "The next time you hear idiot drunks in the back alley, please leave it to the house staff. You are far from equipped to deal with that sort of thing."
Not for the first time, Blythe wondered what kind of apoplexy Tristan would have if he knew half of the things she was doing in London. If she was lucky, however, he would never know, and she would be allowed to keep on doing what she liked.
"But that wasn't all I wanted to know," he continued. "I wanted to know if you were well, truly. Since my father died last year, I have not had the chance to talk much with you, and I think I mostly hear from Ned through your telling me about the letters you share. I have been working hard to be a diligent duke, but it has hardly left me with the time to be a good cousin and guardian to you."
Blythe wanted to scream, just a little. Tristan took everything so very seriously, and that included the guardianship over her that he had inherited just like he had inherited the lands and titles associated with the Parrington estate.
Instead of screaming, she endeavored to look suitably dutiful as she sat with her hands folded on the chair across from the desk.
"It has been hard since your father has died, and of course, I miss you as well." That, at least was not a lie. "But I comfort myself with my prayer book and my good works. I fill my days, you know."
A flicker of something she couldn't quite read crossed Tristan's face. Blythe managed to keep her face still from long-practice. She had quite fooled his father, but she’d long suspected that Tristan was far more clever and perceptive than his father had been.
"Yes, and I am glad that you are comforted. But I also want to speak to you about your future."
A faint alarm went off in her mind. "My future?"
"Yes. I have long felt that it was… inappropriate to have you simply living here with no recourse or resources of your own."
"Tristan, I am very content with what God has provided for—"
The old duke might have listened to her talk about the will of the Lord and then dismissed her in bemusement. Tristan, far more direct, cut her off. "Well, this is less about God, I'm afraid, than practicalities. Blythe, you are twenty-two years old, and by all rights, you should be married."
"Tristan, please. When my parents died, they only left a little bit of money for my upkeep. Clearly, that was God's way of setting me on a different path, one bound for service and for—"
"I beg your pardon, Blythe, but that was a matter of your family eking out what livelihood they could from that farm up north. Listen to me. I feel as if my father did you a disservice. You deserve better than simply staying in this house as a poor relation. I don't need a lady's companion and neither Ned nor I want you to have to work as a companion or as a governess."
"Well, the missionary work—"
"Out of the question," Tristan said, shaking his head. "Not without a husband, at the very least."
Blythe could feel her temper start to fray, and she grabbed on to it with both hands. Carrows might be known for their honor and their honesty, but they could also be famous for their damned stubbornness.
"Tristan..."
"I'm settling some money on you. An appropriate amount, I think, and well enough for you to find a husband, even have a modest season if you wish."
"Tristan, I do not want a season!"
"I thought you might not. There are several acquaintances I have in mind, perhaps introductions can be made. They are fine men, and I know you will make someone a good wife."
Blythe deliberately relaxed her jaw, because otherwise, Tristan would certainly hear the way she ground her teeth. She supposed that, at this point, a pious little missionary would decide to accede to the rule of the head of her family, perhaps even be grateful to be plucked from penury and assured of a comfortable life with a husband and children.
All that Blythe knew was that the idea of a conventional life, bound to home and hearth, sounded like poison, and that her plans for escaping just such a life were vanishing before her eyes.
"Tristan," she said, endeavoring to keep her voice soft and pliant. "That is not what I want. I have a plan. That is, I know that God's plan for me involves going abroad, ministering to the sick and the hopeless in other lands."
"There are plenty of sick and hopeless in London if you want to minister to others, Blythe. Believe me. This will be for the best. I think a husband and your own household to run will settle you admirably. In a few years, you'll forget about this missioning nonsense."
For a moment, Blythe fought against a picture of climbing over Tristan's desk, grabbing his hair, and shouting in his face until he understood her. She could feel her dreams of India, China, and the South Seas crumbling to ashes through her fingers.
"It's not nonsense—"
Before she could go further, however, there was a brisk knock on the door.
Tristan looked up with irritation. "What is it?"
"Your Grace, it is Mr. Sederick, your solicitor. He says it is urgent."
Blythe blinked. It wasn't even breakfast time yet.
Tristan seemed to have the same thought. "We will finish this later," he said to Blythe. "Send him in, please, Benton."
Blythe knew that by conventional courtesy, she was meant to leave when Tristan's solicitor appeared to speak with him about business. However, years of teaching herself to be mousy and small and unnoticed had lent her a certain kind of very valuable parlor camouflage. If she sat very still and stayed very quiet, there was always a good chance that the people in the room would forget that she was there at all. It was useful for all sorts of things, and something rang in her head, telling her to use it now.
Mr. Sederick was a plump and kind-faced man with a jaw thick with unfashionable whiskers. The sweetness of his face belied one of the cleverest minds in London, so when he appeared looking as flustered as a baby duck, Blythe could tell that something was afoot.
"Sederick, what brings you here so early?"
"Good morning, your grace. I am here very early because I was roused even earlier, just a little past dawn, by a solicitor from a firm in Glasgow. It turns out that your father owned property in Scotland that no one at my firm ever knew about."
Tristan frowned. "Unknown property in Scotland? Some grazing land or perhaps some tenant farms?"
Mr. Sederick smiled a little wildly. "An entire manor with a great deal of working land. The property is called Gallowglass, and it provides an income somewhere in the neighborhood of nine thousand pounds a year."
Even as skilled as she was in the art of being unobserved, Blythe gasped. An estate that valuable was enough to put the owner on level standing with some of the richest peers in the land. Why in the world had the former duke kept it hidden?
Tristan looked hard at Mr. Sederick. "For some reason, you're not telling me this as if it were good news."
"Not so much bad news, your grace, as strange news. The firm in Scotland has only recently been apprised of the fact that your father passed on. When they did, they sent a communication to me that only arrived this morning. Gallowglass is not an entailed property. It belonged solely to your father, and by law, he was allowed to dispose of it as he wished." He cleared his throat. "The former duke bequeathed the property to Miss Blythe Carrow Dennings, to be held in trust by you until she marries."
Blythe felt as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room. Tristan turned to her in shock, and despite all the time she had spent learning to school her own expressions, she simply stared back at him.
"Well, not so much a poor relation now, are you?" he asked.
In the span of one morning, she had gone from being the Duke of Parrington's humble little charity case to being one of the richest heiresses in London.
Blythe could feel her life spinning out of control, and she knew that her own plans were quickly slipping from her grasp.