All In with the Duke

by Ava March

  The sounds of his short, pulling breaths filled his ears. His nose stung, his throat was damned near clogged. His hands curled into fists.

  A noise broke from his throat. Max shoved at the papers and ledgers covering his desk.

  It was as if the outburst drained all the energy from him. Shoulders slumped, he hung his head. Those once short, pulling breaths now long and slow.

  Eventually, he marshaled his muscles, willed his limbs to cooperate enough for him to stand. He’d told Tristan he would summon the carriage. Ensuring his safe return to London was the least Max could do for him.

  He snagged the first servant he came across in the corridor. “Tell Morgan to have the traveling carriage readied. And I need to see him.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He returned to the study, shut the door behind him. Letters and documents and ledgers and reports and contracts were scattered near everywhere. The floor around his desk was covered by papers. An open ledger was balanced precariously on the edge of one of the chair’s cushions. The silver pen holder by the desk’s leg, the accompanying glass bottle on its side, midnight-black ink ruining the ledger beneath it. Shards of cream-colored porcelain from his teacup littered the area around the right side of his desk, the surrounding papers stained from the contents of that cup.

  But the mess paled in comparison to the mess he had made of his relationship with Tristan. And just like with Tristan, it was all his own doing.

  Dropping to his knees, he began to gather the papers, to put them to rights, to hide the blatant show of his tangled emotions.

  He picked up the nearest piece of paper, passed his eyes over it. Page two of his Plymouth shipping office manager’s short and concise September report containing just enough details to keep Max appraised of any major issues. Pages one and three should be nearby. He shifted through the mess, located the pages, put them in order and then, leaning forward, set them on the edge of the desk. And he continued on. Page by page, he focused on putting his desk back to rights, tried to keep his mind on the task to keep himself from the utter embarrassment of being reduced to tears.

  “Your Grace?”

  Max looked up from his prone position. When had Morgan entered the study?

  “Shall I call for a maid?”

  Max shook his head. As if he hadn’t made a complete mess of his study, he got to his feet and turned his attention to his driver. “Mr. Walsh has need of the traveling carriage. He is returning to London.”

  Clad in a long dark greatcoat that made him appear even taller and broader than he was, Morgan nodded. “The grooms are readying it at the moment.”

  Desperation grabbed hold of Max. “They needn’t expend the effort to hurry with the task.”

  A pause, and he received another nod from Morgan.

  “You are to make yourself available to Mr. Walsh. He will provide direction as to his exact destination. When you arrive there, send me a note with a footman posthaste and then remain at Mr. Walsh’s disposal, ensure his safety, until you hear otherwise from me.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” If the request seemed odd to Morgan, the man did not show it. He remained, as always, calm and composed. Completely unflappable. “Will that be all?”

  Don’t take him away from me.

  “Yes, Morgan, that will be all.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tristan pushed open the plain wooden door. A bell tinkled lightly overhead, announcing his arrival.

  Resist. You don’t need another waistcoat.

  The urge to give in, to have a spark to light up his day—and oh, how he desperately needed that spark—nearly overpowered practicality.

  After paying for his new lodgings, and the bit here and there he’d spent visiting the village in Hampshire, he had 401 pounds to his name. If he was frugal, the money could last a decent long while. Years, even, if he was extremely frugal. But the stark, bare truth was that it would not last forever. Thus, he needed to resist.

  Tristan pointedly turned his attention from the lemon-yellow silk waistcoat in the display window and made his way toward the counter.

  He’d been halfway to London yesterday when the idea that brought him to this shop popped into his head. And he had immediately latched on to it, if for no other reason than to distract him from the knowledge that each rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves was taking him farther from Max. The distraction proved fruitless once the sun had set though, and it did not help in the slightest to make his bed feel less empty, but acting on the idea would at least fill his morning. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his coming days as well.

  Tristan stopped at the counter and waited. He had deliberately chosen a time of day when most shops were not bustling with activity, and therefore was not put off at finding the place void of customers. Certainly the proprietor had heard the bell and would be out shortly.

  As if on command, a stout older man pushed through the navy curtain hanging behind the counter. If Tristan’s memory served correctly, the man was the Mr. Foster of the Gentleman’s Attire by Mr. Gregory Foster on the sign outside the shop.

  “Good morning, sir. What can I help you with today?”

  Short, rather rounder than he was tall, and with his curly gray hair in disarray, Mr. Foster did not resemble any tailor Tristan had visited on St. James Street. Likely why the man’s shop was situated off Cheapside but a street from the modiste the girls at Rubicon’s had favored. Mr. Foster knew his way around fabric though, and Tristan hoped a shop in this part of Town would be more agreeable to his suggestion.

  Pulling his spine straight, Tristan gave the man a smile he hoped hid the nerves gripping his stomach. “Good morning, Mr. Foster. I am Tristan Walsh. A few years back, I purchased a coat and a few waistcoats and trousers from you. Was very impressed with the workmanship. I’m newly returned to Town and am looking for a position.”

  Mr. Foster shook his head. “I’ve already got a boy to run to the warehouses for me.”

  “Actually, I am hoping to one day become a tailor myself. And I was wondering if...” Mr. Foster’s shaggy gray brows had drawn together. But Tristan could not allow the heavy threat of a refusal to deter him. “I was wondering if you would be willing to take on an apprentice. I’m not without skill—I am handy with a needle. I can mend and resize garments. And I’m willing to work hard. But I’ve never constructed a coat before. I have never worked for a tailor, so I understand if you have doubts. But I would just really like the opportunity to learn from someone who is a master of their trade.” A bit of flattery never hurt, and it wasn’t a lie. “I’ll work for free, for a short bit, if you’d like. In a couple of months, if I can earn my keep, we can reevaluate my position. If you don’t wish me to stay on, I won’t. Until then, you could have someone to lend you a hand about the shop and to do whatever tasks you’d prefer to give to another.”

  Breath held, Tristan waited for Mr. Foster’s response.

  The older man passed his gaze over Tristan. Hopefully the man recognized his own hand in the coat Tristan had chosen to wear today. A single-breasted olive-green superfine. One of Tristan’s favorites, as it had been the first new coat he had ever owned, purchased with the money he’d earned along those darkened walks in Vauxhall Gardens.

  “I believe I remember you. Patterned maroon waistcoat. Though if you really wanted the yes out of me, you should have worn it with the coat.”

  Thank heaven Mr. Foster remembered him. “Just arrived back in Town yesterday. It’s still buried in one of my trunks, else I would have.”

  The man let out a harrumph, but his lips quirked, indicating he wasn’t entirely put off by the idea of taking Tristan on as an apprentice.

  “Please, I would be indebted to you if you would take me on.” He did his best to keep the desperation from leaching into his voice. “If you could just give me a day, I believe you�
��ll see I would not be any trouble at all. I’ll stay in the back, if you’d like. Spend the day cutting fabric, whatever tasks you set to me. I’m diligent, reliable, a hard worker.”

  It took a bit of doing. Some pleading and cajoling with subtle flattery thrown in for good measure, but eventually he earned a grudging acceptance from Mr. Foster to allow him to come to work, without pay, at the shop tomorrow. If all went well, the old man would consider an apprenticeship.

  A weight lifted from Tristan’s shoulders as he stepped out of the shop. An honest position was potentially in his grasp. Something he could look upon and feel a sense of self-respect. Something that could become his profession. And once he arrived back at his rooms, he’d search through his trunks, find that maroon waistcoat to wear on the morrow.

  As he made his way down the street, the hairs on the back of his nape pricked. A growl rumbled his throat. He didn’t bother glancing behind him nor did he quicken his pace. He merely continued on his way.

  Yet when he reached the stone steps that led to the boardinghouse where he’d taken lodgings, he stopped, turned around. Swept his gaze along the walkway.

  He knew exactly what, or who, he would find.

  Hell, the man was massive. If Tristan didn’t know his identity, he would have been more than intimidated. As it was, all he felt was annoyance. A lot of it.

  As Tristan approached, Max’s driver pushed from a shop front and clasped his hands behind his back. Ever the diligent servant.

  Tristan lowered his voice. “My refusal of His Grace’s carriage when I departed this morning was not a thinly veiled request for an escort about Town.”

  Morgan at least had the good grace not to appear shocked Tristan had figured him out. A man that large couldn’t go about unnoticed, after all. “His Grace requested I put myself at your disposal.”

  “And you believe you are accomplishing that by following me about?”

  “He also requested I ensure your safety.”

  What felt like jagged steel wire scraped down Tristan’s spine. “I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

  Morgan tipped his head. “Yes, Mr. Walsh.”

  “You aren’t going to stop, are you?”

  “No, Mr. Walsh.”

  Tristan gritted his teeth. “How long do you plan to be my shadow?”

  “Until His Grace instructs me otherwise.”

  There was no use at all in railing at Morgan. He was only following his employer’s instructions. An employer who had allowed Tristan to walk out his front door without the barest of efforts to get Tristan to stay. A man who had offered his own traveling carriage to aid Tristan in leaving him.

  A fresh lance of pain pierced his heart.

  Goddamn you, Max!

  What did Max care about his safety anyway? He’d let Tristan leave. They were over. Done. Their arrangement ended.

  He didn’t want Morgan following him. Didn’t want that reminder of Max every time he walked out his door. Yet there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  Yes, there was.

  Tristan turned on his heel. The arrogant, top-lofty Duke of Pelham would be hearing from him.

  * * *

  The heavy thud of a fist against wood jolted Tristan awake. Rolling onto his side, he put his pillow over his ear. Bloody neighbors. He didn’t remember them being so noisy last time he’d rented rooms there. If whoever was causing the racket didn’t stop soon, he would have to tell them to stop. He was due at Mr. Foster’s at nine and was planning to arrive early. He couldn’t risk oversleeping because his neighbors had kept him up all night.

  Another heavy thud echoed through his bedchamber.

  “Tristan!”

  He bolted upright, the pillow falling to the mattress.

  There could be others in the building with the same name, yet he highly doubted it. And that bellow sounded like it came from a very familiar voice.

  Damnation, the post was quick.

  He snagged his trousers from the floor. Tugged them on. Did up the buttons as he left the small bedchamber and crossed through the equally small parlor. He paused long enough to light the candle on the console table and glance to the clock on the mantel. Half-past three? He turned the lock.

  And opened the door to Max, a bottle in one hand and the other raised, poised to pound on the door again, a crumpled note peeking out of his fist.

  Max blinked. Then blinked again. He snapped his jaw shut. Lowered his arm. Swayed slightly on his feet. “Good evening, Tristan,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been pounding and bellowing.

  Oh dear Lord in heaven. Max was foxed.

  “It’s officially morning, Max.”

  Max let out a grunt. He swayed forward again, and then with a slow, purposeful blink, righted himself. His dark hair was a complete mess, his cravat askew. The scent of gin poured off him. Tristan studied his waistcoat. It wasn’t the amber silk that drew his attention, but the misaligned buttons. Max had clearly dressed himself and done a very poor job of it.

  Likely because the man was extremely foxed. As drunk as a goddamn wheelbarrow. He’d seen Max intoxicated once before, but nothing that approached this.

  He’d expected his blunt letter to get some sort of response from Max. In all honestly, he had anticipated the response to come through Morgan. A declaration His Grace was holding firm in his stance or some other condescending nonsense. But this? He definitely had not predicted a drunken Max on his doorstep.

  Max’s brow furrowed. “I need to speak to you.”

  Hell, he couldn’t leave Max in the corridor. The man would surely make a spectacle of himself, and wake all the neighbors...if he hadn’t already.

  Tristan opened the door fully and motioned inside. “Please, do come in.” He didn’t even try to hide the sarcasm.

  With a mumbled “Thank you,” Max staggered into the parlor.

  After closing the door, Tristan crossed his arms over his bare chest and waited for him to speak.

  If Max objected to the contents of Tristan’s letter, so be it. Tristan would not back down. He could look after himself, had done it for years—

  Max was already in London? Tristan hadn’t dropped off the letter at the post office until after noon. Arrington Park was a good ten hours away by carriage. Less by horseback, but still, hours away. And the post did not arrive until mornings.

  No possible way Max could have received the letter yet, let alone made it to London already. His note could not have brought Max to his front door.

  So why was he there?

  With extreme effort, Tristan fought back the surge of hope.

  Max shifted his weight. Swayed yet again. Finally, he spoke. Or rather, grumbled, “I hate sleeping alone. I want you back.”

  Tristan’s heart clenched. Yet he lifted his chin. “You might be a duke, but you can’t always have everything you want.”

  He scowled, coming very close to resembling a petulant child. “I know that.” Max glanced about the shabby little parlor. But it was Tristan’s shabby little parlor, and he would not apologize for it. “I also know I have no right to come calling at your door in the middle of the night.”

  “You are correct. You don’t have that right.” It hadn’t stopped Max, though. “You’re foxed.”

  A splash of liquid sloshed at the bottom of the bottle as Max lifted it and studied the contents. “Yes.”

  “Was that bottle full when you started drinking tonight?”

  “Believe so. Was going to wait. Send a note ’round in the morning. Ask if you’d see me. But...” His shoulders slumped. “I miss you.” He shifted his weight again. Swayed. Turned his attention to the scratched floorboards beneath his feet. Then his dark eyes briefly met Tristan’s before darting back to the floorboards. “Do...do you miss me?”

  T
hat brief instant when his gaze met Tristan’s had been more than enough for Tristan to see the misery, the stark vulnerability, the cutting pain.

  But Tristan didn’t push Max for answers, didn’t ask him why he let Tristan leave the country. Max was beyond foxed, and it would be cruel to take advantage of him by pressing him with questions now.

  “We can discuss it in the morning.”

  Utter confusion twisted Max’s features. “Thought you said it was already morning?”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “We will discuss it after the sun rises.” Stepping forward, he took the near-empty gin bottle from Max. “Is your carriage waiting for you?”

  “Took a hackney.”

  Of course. Max had put himself out of a driver. “How did you get to London?”

  “Rutger brought me,” Max said, referring to his massive black stallion.

  “Come along.” With a hand on Max’s lower back, he guided him to the drab brown couch. “Sit.”

  The wooden frame creaked as Max dropped heavily onto the couch.

  “Let’s get you comfortable.” Tristan dropped to his haunches. Max wasn’t a bit of help, but at least he didn’t resist when Tristan pulled off his shoes and removed his cravat. Getting his coat off him... Should have thought to see to the garment while Max had been standing. “Could you at least lean forward?”

  With a grunt, Max complied. One hand braced on Max’s chest to keep him from toppling over, Tristan tugged and pulled on the coat until he was able to work a sleeve free of Max’s wrist. The other sleeve...

  “Max, you need to let go of that note.”

  Max jerked back, hand tightening around the crumpled paper. “No. I need it.”

  Had his letter actually made it to Max already? No, no. Could not have possibly. Enough hours had not passed. So why was that paper so important to Max? “But I can’t get your coat off. The cuff won’t fit over your fist.”