Free Kindred Hearts by Rowan Speedwell Page A

lunched with his wife, with whom he was on cordial if not warm terms. Then he left the house, for his club, or Jackson’s Saloon, or to ride in the park, returning in the early evening in time for supper or to escort his wife to a scheduled social event.
     
    On their return, however, after his wife had retired for the evening, Mr. Northwood would settle in his library. At two a.m., per his precise orders, two sturdy footmen would “assist” him to bed, leaving his long-suffering valet to attempt to get him disrobed and comfortably in bed. Then he would rise again at seven or eight to start the whole cycle over again.
     
    Franklin and Reston, the valet, were longtime friends, and what Franklin did not witness with his own eyes he heard from Reston. What he heard did not reassure him or the valet. “It’s like he’s not all there, Franklin,” Reston said. “He’s here, but there’s nothing inside him. He’s walking through his life, not living it.”
     
    Tristan Northwood was no different from many another gentleman of means in London. The difficulty for both of his two old retainers was that for most of his life, Tristan Northwood had been different. Wild, true, but never cruel in his jokes; he had dozens of friends, too many lovers; he was a wit, a bon vivant, a charming rogue. A smiler.
     
    Franklin thought regretfully, He never laughs anymore . A perfunctory smile where there had once been a broad grin; a businesslike attitude where there had once been cheerful carelessness. It was as if his interest in the financial security of his family had taken the joy out of his life. And yet Franklin was willing to swear that Tristan adored his little boy. What was it about being a father that had changed him so, taken the life out of him? Franklin sometimes got the impression that there was a caged animal looking out of Tristan’s cloud-colored eyes, one desperate to escape. But from what?
     
    A thought struck him and he studied his employer surreptitiously as he put his papers away. No—he didn’t look ill: a little thinner than a year ago, but by less than a stone if Franklin were any judge. His eyes were tired, true, but averaging five hours of sleep a night, plus too much brandy, would do that to a person. “Will that be all, then, sir?”
     
    “If you’ve no further business.” Tristan gave him a brief smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I have another appointment, as usual.”
     

     

     
    His appointment was waiting anxiously when he came into the nursery, and all the stress of business and the ache of his morning hangover vanished at the sight of that beloved face. “Papa!” Jamie cried, and shook the wooden frame of his cot. “Papa-papa-papa!”
     
    Tristan crossed the room in a rush and lifted him into his arms with a loud smacking kiss that set the toddler chortling. Tristan glanced at the nursery maid, who bobbed a curtsey.
     
    “If you please, sir, he’s been fed and his nappy’s been changed and he’s just woke up from a nap,” she said in her usual rush. “I’ll be right next door should he need me.”
     
    “He won’t,” Tristan said to the little boy in his arms, “will he, my little man?”
     
    The baby gurgled at him happily. Then he squirmed to be let down and when he was, toddled over to pick up a stuffed dog with well-chewed ears. He brought the toy back to Tristan. “Papa,” he said decisively, holding it up to him.
     
    “Thank you,” Tristan said seriously, then grinned and scooped the little boy up, tossing him into the air. The baby squealed delightedly, and Tristan pretended to drop him, setting him off into giggles, before settling them both on the floor to play with his blocks. While he did, he studied Jamie, amazed all over again at the little miracle that was his son. Wide, dark eyes like Charlotte’s; dark, curling hair like his own; and a personality and a temperament that was all Jamie—quick to laugh, rarely fussy, and even at eighteen months