Lords of Honor-The Collection

by Christi Caldwell

  “The Earl of Maxwell. He sought my services, my lord.”

  The Earl of Maxwell. The rightful heir. Who appeared all too eager to exact his revenge, after all. In fairness, the gentleman was entitled to any hatred and rage he might carry.

  Sanders cleared his throat. “I believe you’ll be fine, my lord. You’re very resourceful.”

  Tristan gave him a droll look. “Thank you for your faith in my abilities. You may go.” He’d not even finished speaking and his former man-of-affairs was already on his feet, with an agility better suited a man forty years his junior. Stacking his notes into two piles, Sanders returned one to his leather bag and the other he pushed across the table.

  Tristan drew the file open and scanned the pages. “What is this?” he asked incredulously, passing a questioning look between the papers and Sanders.

  “That contains the items you must liquidate in order to pay the debt you incurred while…while…Lord Maxwell was missing.”

  Missing. So that was the more polite explanation they would go with. “Items I must liquidate?” All his earlier attempts at drollness snapped. “Debt I incurred?” he barked. “I left the man a damned fortune. One far greater than he would have otherwise known.”

  The other patrons glanced over.

  Red-faced, Sanders adjusted his already immaculate cravat. “Yes. Yes. That may be true.”

  “It is true.”

  “But you still borrowed against ventures, and so there is interest that had to be calculated for those loans you took.”

  “Loans. I. Took,” he clipped. By God, this mercenary tactic had Sanders all over it. And what had once been a source of admiration for his brilliant acumen, now marked the remainder of his demise. “Get out, Sanders,” he warned on a steely whisper.

  Sanders jumped. “Yes. Yes. I-I w-will,” the man stammered, grabbing his back. He lifted a finger. “If I might suggest, before I go, that we work out a timeframe of when you’ll pay b—”

  “Get out,” he thundered, and whispers went up around the staff and patrons.

  “I’ll send a general timeline along then.” This time, his man-of-affairs had the wherewithal to hightail it to the exit.

  After he’d gone, Tristan sat there motionless, his life falling apart yet again. There was little left to give, and yet, more the Earl of Maxwell intended to take. Tristan reached for one of those scraps of tobacco he so despised.

  What in God’s name was he to do? With fingers that shook, he attempted to light the lone cheroot that had sat untouched upon his table. To no avail.

  A flint-and-steel striker appeared under his nose. “You look as though you require help.”

  He stiffened.

  A small flame appeared, and Poppy touched it to the edge of his cheroot. Poised directly at his table with an enormous basket in hand, she put him in mind of the Belgian village girls who’d wandered the fields proffering drinks to soldiers after battle. “You shouldn’t be here, Poppy,” he said tiredly. Reasons that moments ago would have had everything to do with the fact that he’d nearly taken her in the very bed her sister had given him free use of. But now, had only to do with the fact that after Sanders’ revelation, Tristan wasn’t fit for company.

  “And whyever not?”

  “It’s not respectable.” He paused to glower at the three strangers watching them. The men immediately dropped their eyes. “Furthermore, people will talk.”

  Poppy snorted. “When did you ever care about people talking?” Setting her basket down on the floor, she settled into the seat across from him, picked up his cheroot and smoked it with far greater ease than he’d managed these past days. Exhaling a perfectly formed round ring, Poppy puffed it toward him.

  “Poppy,” he said warningly. Leaning across the table, he made to pluck the cheroot from her fingers, but she shifted it out of his reach, and he was left grappling with the air. “We aren’t in Kent. You’re not a child,” he spoke in hushed tones, mindful of the other patrons. “Things are…”

  “Different?” she supplied.

  He nodded. “Different.” Different when it shouldn’t be. Different when he didn’t wish it to be.

  Tristan had managed the impossible—he’d silenced her.

  Poppy sat there contemplatively puffing on his cheroot.

  Tristan swatted at the little cloud. “I trust your family is aware of your habits.”

  “Actually they’re not. But even if they were?” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I wouldn’t care, Tristan.” He’d have to be deaf to fail to hear the pointed criticism.

  “I don’t have that luxury anymore, Poppy,” he said quietly. “Not since my reputation was destroyed and I’ve been left trying to rebuild it.” His gaze fell to the damning pages before him.

  Poppy stretched the cheroot across the table, and he took that offering. Raising the small scrap to his lips, he inhaled deep. The pungent smoke filled his lungs, and exhaling a small plume, he grimaced. It was a habit that hadn’t gotten any more pleasurable. But it did prove briefly distracting. “Since when have you begun taking up in The Gentleman’s Smoke Room, anyway?”

  Poppy pointed to that oddly shaped basket. Brushes jutted out from a crack in the top.

  “You’re painting this room, too.” Of course she was. There would be no sanctuary in even this area reserved for gentleman.

  “You needn’t sound so pleased about it,” she muttered. “Goodness, and here I thought you appreciated the work I’d done in your rooms.”

  Did he imagine the lady’s faintly hurt expression? “I do.” That mural of his dogs had alternately filled him with an ache of loneliness and a light happiness at the memory of them. He noted the twinkle in her eyes. “You’re teasing.”

  “I was,” she confided on a whisper. “My sister and brother-in-law have entrusted the interior decorating of the hotel over to my care.”

  He sat upright. “Poppy,” he exclaimed. “That is wonderful.” And it was. He found something calming in knowing that something had at least gone right for her.

  A pretty blush filled her cheeks, that deep crimson color the same she’d worn when he’d had her in his bed, trapped under his body. “Yes, well, your words to Ryker and Penny played a part in their decision and for that, I’m grateful.”

  “I want you to sign this one, Poppy.”

  Her brow creased.

  “When you complete this one, leave your name upon it, so everyone will now for all time that you were its creator.”

  She dropped an elbow on the table and leaned forward. “Why is it so important for you that my work is recognized as mine?”

  “Why is it so important to you that it’s not?” he countered. Tristan rested a hand on hers. “Leave your mark, Poppy, and do it without apology.”

  Poppy turned her palm up, so theirs met.

  His gaze, of its own volition, slid lower to where they touched.

  He went absolutely motionless. It was the most innocent of touches, and yet, it scorched and seared and whispered of an intimacy far more perilous than mere lust.

  “Tristan,” she whispered, her fingers curving slightly, so that their fingers locked.

  He should pull away. Touching her was wrong in every way. Doing so where strangers might see them was the height of folly that would see him leveled at dawn. And yet, God help him…he couldn’t. Their palms joined together felt oddly…right. And he could not, even for the remainder of his monies and lands, draw away.

  Beyond her shoulder, his gaze snagged on another pair of gentlemen just entering the smoke room.

  A very familiar pair.

  Tristan yanked his hands back. “Bloody hell.”

  “Tristan?” Poppy ventured.

  This day had gone from dire to he-was-better-off-on-another-Continent bad. St. Cyr and Blackthorne. Their friendship had been formed when they’d been boys and then forged through the hells of warfare but there were certain things no gent would tolerate—Tristan’s newly formed relationship with Poppy being one of th
em. “You have to go,” he said with greater urgency, when she made no attempt to rise. Due to the Duke of Blackthorne’s limp, the pair moved along slowly. “Now.”

  “What is the matter with you?” she muttered, climbing to her feet. She followed his gaze. “Oh,” she said happily. “It is Christian.”

  “You should go now,” he said, not moving his lips as he spoke.

  She scoffed. “Never tell me you’re worried about what Christian would say about us being together?”

  “I am.” Among other things.

  “You and I have been together before countless times.”

  His jaw worked. Yes, that much was true. But that had also been before The Kiss.

  The lady dug her heels in, waiting until her brother-in-law and Blackthorne, Tristan’s other only friend in the world, arrived.

  “Poppy!” St Cyr greeted warmly when he reached their side.

  She went up on tiptoe and kissed St. Cyr on the cheek. “Christian. I trust you’ve come to spy on me and provide a report to Prudence?”

  The marquess’ eyes twinkled. “Alas, you’re not the subject of my spying today.”

  As one, brother-in-law and sister-in-law looked to Tristan. “Oh, stuff it,” he muttered.

  “Don’t mind him. He’s in a foul mood.” Turning, Poppy greeted Blackthorne. “Hello, Your Grace.” She flashed the duke a blinding smile. With half of his face burned in battle, and sporting a patch where an eye had once been, nearly everyone averted their gazes to avoid looking at the once great soldier. Poppy proved to have more strength and character than most of Polite Society combined. And Tristan’s appreciation came at a time when the last thing he could afford where the lady was concerned was that esteem, or any other sentiment of admiration.

  “A pleasure as always,” Blackthorne returned in his graveled voice.

  “Dare I ask what you’re doing in a smoking room, Poppy?” St. Cyr folded his arms at his chest.

  “You should know the answer to that by now, Christian.” She winked.

  Winging his lone eyebrow up, Blackthorne shifted his weight over the head of his cane. “May we join you? Or are we…interrupting?”

  St. Cyr puzzled his brow. “Interrupting what?”

  Oh, bloody hell.

  Poppy laughed. “Of course you may join him,” she answered for Tristan. “Even if he isn’t appreciative of company today,” she tacked on. Blackthorne sharpened a gaze on Tristan, who in a bid to act casual under that scrutiny gathered another cheroot and that flint Poppy had previously used. “Now, I’ll leave you gentlemen to one another’s company.” Touching a hand to St. Cyr’s shoulder, she leaned in. “Have a care with that one,” she said in a loud whisper. “He’s not fit for company today.”

  St. Cyr’s eyes twinkled. “Duly noted. We’ll proceed with care.”

  With a curtsy and a wave, Poppy hurried off.

  “What was that about?” St. Cyr mused, taking a seat.

  “Do not ask,” he muttered. All the while silently pleading with a God that hopefully existed that his friend didn’t.

  “Since when did you take up smoking?” St. Cyr asked.

  In answer to that, Tristan inhaled deep of the pungent scrap. “It is a newly discovered habit,” he muttered. And cheaper than brandy; the last of his bottles of which sat in his rent-free rooms. Tristan took another long pull.

  St. Cyr and Blackthorne shared a less than subtle look with one another.

  “We’re worried about you,” St. Cyr said quietly.

  And who in hell would have figured that Tristan’s dire circumstances should prove a welcome discussion. All previous thoughts of Poppy Tidemore fled. At least his friends would not dance about it.

  “I am fine,” Tristan clipped out.

  A servant came forward with a bottle of brandy and three glasses.

  When the young man had gone, Blackthorne poured drinks. “What do you require?” he pushed a glass over to Tristan.

  My reputation back. My honor and title and wealth restored.

  Alas, all that remained was his pride and he could not shred that, too. Not even to his friends. For all they’d shared. For all they’d endured together…he could not speak to them about this. “I thank you for your offer of support, but there is nothing I require.” Even if he accepted the funds they’d likely give, those monies would soon be gone and then he’d be precisely where he was now—lost.

  “I don’t believe that,” Blackthorne said with his usual bluntness.

  And with good reason; Tristan lied through his damned teeth.

  St. Cyr gave their friend another look. “What Blackthorne intended to say—”

  “No, I said precisely what I intended.”

  “Is that we are here to help as you need. Or simply listen. That is…” As St. Cyr continued on, Tristan’s gaze wandered back to the solitary person whom he’d found himself able to speak to.

  You’ve shared freely with Poppy.

  Poppy applied another stroke to the mural. At some point, Penelope had joined her. Whatever she said to her younger sister earned a laugh; bright and clear, it rang like bells and emanated pure light. Hers wasn’t the practiced husky expressions of restrained mirth adopted by the women he’d always kept company with. Poppy’s was as unfettered and bold as the lady herself, and sucked under her spell, he found himself briefly closing his eyes, allowing that joy to wash over him. It was a laugh that could drag a man from darkness. Help him find himself…

  You need to find yourself…

  He sat up slowly.

  “What is it?” St. Cyr asked.

  And despite the immediate rejection of his friends’ offer of help, there was…one possibility he’d not considered.

  Until now.

  “There is something I would ask your assistance with?”

  “Anything,” Blackthorne said gruffly.

  “I’m in need of funds.” Even as a lifetime of friendship with the men before him allowed him to make that humbling announcement, shame still stung like vinegar on an open wound.

  “Name the amount,” St. Cyr said unflinchingly, in a testament to that friendship.

  And mayhap if Tristan were another man he would have taken that offer. But that had been before his father and mother had done away with the rightful Maxwell heir and laid command to that fortune. “No…not funds, per se. Employment.”

  St. Cyr’s mouth moved but no words come out.

  “I’ve lost the ability to request favors,” Tristan explained. “I’d ask whether either of you might speak to someone in the Home Office, regarding employment.”

  It was what made sense. How had he failed to see it now? The military had been the one aspect of his life where he’d been skilled. And the one area of his life where he might earn a salary and work at restoring his honor.

  “You want to reenlist in the military,” Blackthorne said flatly; a haunted glint lit the duke’s lone eye, a tortured gaze that remained firmly entrenched in the past.

  “I’d…inquire as to whether it is a possibility.”

  “I’ll of course make inquiries,” St. Cyr said quietly. “If that is what you wish?”

  There was a question there. “It is.”

  St. Cyr took a drink, and then pushed the barely touched snifter away. “If you’ll excuse me? Despite my assurances to the contrary earlier, I promised my wife before I’d return, I’d collect a report on Poppy.” He waved both men off when they made to rise.

  Neither Tristan nor Blackthorne spoke as St. Cyr made his way through the restaurant; winding his way between tables of guests. He stopped beside Poppy and Penelope, and said something in greeting that earned another one of Poppy’s laughs.

  Tristan let the lightness that sound always elicited, wash over him.

  “Poplar?”

  He glanced over at his other friend. Blackthorne gave a nearly imperceptible tip of his head in Poppy’s direction. “Careful there.”

  Another damned guilty flush splotched Tristan’s cheeks. “I’ve
neither said, nor done anything.” Liar. He’d crossed all manner of lines.

  Blackthorne eyed him for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Be sure you keep it that way.” He paused, winging an eyebrow up. “Unless your intentions are…honorable?”

  Intentions? Nay, his friend spoke more specifically of honorable intentions.

  Toward a lady? Not just any lady.

  Poppy?

  Not only was she, well, Poppy. But even if he had honorable intentions to the lady, which he decidedly did not, he had nothing to offer her. Tristan shot his palms up. “You’ve entirely misread…” The situation. Tristan cut himself off from saying as much. To refer to it as a “situation” only implied there was one between Tristan and his friend’s sister-in-law.

  Just then, another of Poppy’s fulsome laughs went up, filtering over, and compelled Tristan’s gaze toward her.

  Leaning around her brother-in-law’s shoulder, Poppy looked in Tristan’s direction and gave a roll of her eyes. Despite the room of patrons, Tristan found himself grinning back.

  “Have I misread the situation?” Blackthorne drawled. “I may have lost one eye but I’m not entirely blind.”

  Tristan shot a frantic glance around at the other patrons. Even largely isolated as Tristan and Blackthorne were from those tables, when he again spoke, he did so in a quieter voice. “You have my word, nothing untoward has happened. We’re merely friendly toward one another.”

  Just as they’d always been. Nothing had changed. They still teased one another. Baited the other. The only difference being, with his rogue’s eye, he’d at last noted that with her rounded hips and generous buttocks, the lady had grown up along the way.

  Quite normal stuff, that.

  Blackthorne pressed his palms on the tabletop and leaned forward. “If you value your friendship with St. Cyr, I suggest you keep your distance from the lady.”

  It was an easy directive. Or it should be.

  And yet, long after his friends had gone, Tristan sat there drinking that bottle of brandy, trying to make himself believe the lie he’d given to Blackthorne.

  Chapter 11

  Lying in her bed, her palms resting on her stomach, Poppy drummed her fingertips…and waited for the commotion outside her rooms to fade.