How could he not know that Lord Fernall was dead?
Chapter 3
“Have no fear,” Matthew Chandler said slapping Tristan playfully on the back. “You’ll find no desperate debutantes here. There’s no need to scurry behind potted ferns in a bid to hide from matchmaking matrons. Trust me. Any virgin seen stepping through my door is sure to find their reputation in tatters come the morning.”
Tristan smiled as he let the decadent atmosphere soothe his anxious spirit. “There are some who would frown at the mere mention of me attending a masquerade so soon after Andrew’s death.”
He glanced around the ballroom, at the array of vibrant and somewhat indecent costumes, feeling rather more cheerful than he had of late. A few entertaining hours spent in Chandler’s townhouse was just what he needed. And his black domino afforded a certain anonymity.
“Propriety is not something my guests are overly concerned with.” Chandler’s green eyes shone with amusement. “You should make the most of the relaxed modes of decorum. Indulging one’s desires is a sure way to ease a troubled mind, my friend.”
Tristan had no intention of conducting an illicit liaison. He was simply grateful not to have Miss Smythe hanging from his coattails. “I was expected to attend Lady Padmore’s soiree, but I would prefer to stick pins in my eyes than endure another evening of fake smiles and mindless drivel.”
“I still don’t understand why you came home.” Chandler sighed. “Why give up your happiness just so an heir, which you have yet to produce I might add, can enjoy a life of wealth and prosperity long after you are dead. Spend it all now. That’s what I say. Live every day as though it could be your last.”
Tristan snorted. He admired Chandler’s honesty and relaxed attitude, but their circumstances were entirely different. “Your brother is still very much alive, possess good business acumen, is sensible enough to ensure your mother and sister never need go without. Your uncle dotes on you, pays your tailor’s bills and the repairs to your carriage. If you were forced to take your brother’s place, would you still host your exclusive parties then?”
Chandler shook his head. “Good Lord. You have been spending far too much time with your mother. Worrying is not good for the constitution. You’ll be grey and wrinkled before you reach thirty.” He draped his arm around Tristan’s shoulder and stared out over the crowded room. “You see all these people dancing, drinking and making merry. Everyone in here, bar you, has paid for the privilege.” Chandler chuckled. “Since Lord Delmont decided to retire from hosting his scandalous balls, I have been inundated with requests for membership. This is an exclusive club of sorts. Uncle Herbert hasn’t had to put his hand in his pocket for months.”
Tristan envied any man who had the courage and the wherewithal to live as he pleased. “Then I commend your efforts. But let me ask you a question. What will you do when you meet a woman you admire, one who disapproves of what you do here? Would you turn your back on a life of decadence and debauchery? Would you give it all up for love?”
“Love?” he scoffed. “I imagine love to be akin to madness, and I have no desire to spend my days in Bedlam.” Chandler brushed his mop of black hair from his brow. “Thankfully, I’m a man incapable of expressing sentiment. However, should such an unlikely occasion arise, I shall just have to hope she’s an heiress willing to trade money for aristocratic lineage.”
Tristan laughed. It was refreshing to spend time with someone with such loose morals.
“Come.” Chandler continued. “I’ll not leave you alone to wilt like a wallflower in the corner. If we cannot find a woman to spark your interest, we will drown your sorrows in a bottle of brandy.”
Tristan was about to surrender to his friend’s profligate suggestion when he noticed Chandler’s footman waving at them from the stairs. “It appears your footman wishes you to acknowledge him. Either that or he is so happy in his employment he wants the whole world to know.”
“Do I detect a hint of humour?” Chandler gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs. “See. You are beginning to sound more like your old self by the minute.”
After witnessing an exchange of nods and odd hand gestures, Tristan watched the footman return to his post. “I assume you could make sense of his ticks and twitches.”
Chandler nodded. “Of course. We have an interloper at the door. A lady seeking admittance. My footmen know not to turn away such a ravishing beauty for something as trivial as lacking an invitation.”
“How do you know she’s a ravishing beauty?” Tristan asked somewhat baffled.
“It is simple,” Chandler informed. “When Dodson touches his finger to his cheek, that means she is beautiful. When he pats his chest, that means she has the assets required to tempt a man to sin.”
“Good Lord.” Despite the licentious nature of the conversation, Tristan found it far more interesting than talk of ribbons and pins. “So have you given Dodson permission to let her in?”
“You should know I would never want a lady to leave here dissatisfied.” Chandler raised an arrogant brow. “It would be disastrous for my reputation. Now, don’t tear your gaze away from the stairs. Our beauty is about to make her entrance. Perhaps it might be my lady love, my heiress come to save me from a life as a dissolute rake.”
Tristan did not envy anyone forced to make a late appearance. To descend a flight of stairs whilst a hundred pairs of eyes searched for every flaw or
imperfection required a certain amount of courage.
He stood next to Chandler and watched with interest. The blood pumped through his veins at far too rapid a rate. The hairs at his nape jumped to attention. He felt excited, alive.
It felt so damn good.
As the mysterious beauty came through the double doors at the top of the stairs, Tristan sucked in a breath. Dressed in a close-fitting black silk gown, her face obscured by a black jewelled mask, the lady was utterly captivating.
“Most people believe black to be a morbid colour,” Chandler said, his eyes fixed on the lady before them. “Some would say it is rather dull and uninspiring. But I say it creates an air of wickedness, an element of intrigue that speaks to the hearts of men.”
Tristan stared. “Hearts? Are you certain that is the word you wished to use?”
“Watch how she scans the crowd,” Chandler said, his rich tone conveying the fact he found the sight highly stimulating. “Watch how she holds her neck defiantly, a warning to those who dare to question her right to be here.”