The Scholar's Heart (Chronicles of Tournai Book 3) Page 6

  Griffen laughed, and Tristan smiled, despite his drawn together brows. “All right, then,” Griffen said. “I’ll see you soon?”

  “Of course. Good night, Griffen, Tristan.” Etan left some coins on the table to cover his share of the meal, and with their farewells trailing behind him, he made for the door. He wouldn’t look back. He refused to look back. He didn’t want to see what they were doing. But they couldn’t be doing anything—they were in public, in a respectable eating house. It wasn’t as if Griffen and Tristan could throw each other down on the table—but he still didn’t want to see.

  Perversely he stopped as he was about to leave the room and glanced back. No, they weren’t kissing or holding hands or anything, but Griffen and Tristan had gone back to leaning closer, focusing only on each other.

  He shouldn’t have looked.

  Disgusted with himself, he turned and left the eating house as quickly as he could without appearing to be running away from something. He didn’t need someone spotting him and gossiping about the prince’s cousin making a spectacle of himself. Out on the street, he took a deep breath of the night air, hoping the slight chill might numb him or slap some sense into him. When no magical cure for his ridiculous feelings occurred, he shook his head and turned his steps back toward the palace.

  He shouldn’t be feeling this way, had no right to this hurt.

  TRISTAN HAD not expected to be blindsided on a trip to the theater, and it wasn’t even a good surprise, not the way his unforeseen encounter with Etan and Griffen a few weeks ago and the pleasant evening that followed had been. With the way his mother had been acting, he should have realized the theater excursion wouldn’t be an innocent outing. But that was only clear in hindsight, and he’d blindly gone when his mother asked him to accompany her, his sister, and one of his brothers to the outdoor theater in the park. The evenings were warm enough that the theater had resumed performances at dusk, lit by lanterns. The lanterns were antiques, made of exquisitely crafted colored glass that had been spelled to glow or sparkle depending on the lantern. The effect was like nothing else and made the plays even more popular. The plays were usually comedies, the atmosphere one of carefree frivolity. He’d always enjoyed the performances, from the time he first attended as a boy through the times he and Amory used dimly lit corners to snatch kisses during intermissions, and he still enjoyed them today.

  And he could use some frivolity.

  He’d been so focused on how much he was looking forward to the evening—even without the promise of stolen kisses—he hadn’t even thought of his mother’s machinations, and so he was hit with no warning when they arrived at the theater to be joined by an old friend of his father’s, his son, and his daughter—his young, pretty, quite marriageable daughter. Whom Mother and the girl’s father threw together with him at every opportunity, despite professing that she was a good friend of Selene’s and wouldn’t the girls have such fun together tonight?

  Tristan shot his brother a betrayal-laden look at the first opportunity, gaining only a sheepish shrug in return until a few moments later when Maxen was able to sidle up to Tristan’s side.

  “I didn’t know they were joining us until just before we left, or I would have warned you,” Maxen whispered. “You know I wouldn’t have let her surprise you if I’d known.”

  He did know. His brother wasn’t as supportive of their mother’s plan to push Tristan into another marriage as she would like to think. Maxen had told him when Mother first started her campaign that he personally believed she should leave Tristan alone and let him decide what he wanted to do in his own time. Not that Mother was going to listen to Maxen, certainly not if she wasn’t listening to Tristan. Maxen was a younger son; Tristan was now the head of the family, and their mother, who was so traditional, should have abided by his decisions. Which was why it was so contradictory that she wouldn’t listen to Tristan at all in this.

  He managed a nod of understanding in his brother’s direction before he was pulled into a conversation as they settled into their seats, his own maneuvered to be next to the young lady who was clearly meant for him. He kept up his social obligations, conversing with her and Selene, seated on her other side, and was pathetically grateful when the play began and the stilted conversation could end.

  But it didn’t provide him much of a respite. His mother’s gaze rested on him more than it did the stage. He could feel her staring, as if to impart some message to him. Though he wasn’t certain what. She couldn’t expect him to talk to the girl during the play, could she? Obviously, she could, proven when Mother tried to strike up a conversation between them in whispers about some action in the play. The conversation fizzled not long after, and yes, it was probably his fault, but he wanted to enjoy the play, and he couldn’t see the girl being any different. She held up her side of it gamely enough, but didn’t seem disappointed when they stopped talking and turned their attention back to the play. Until the next interruption by Mother or Selene.

  He made it through two acts before his patience snapped. Trying to keep his annoyance from showing, he made his excuses and left. But leaving in the middle of the play when his family obviously had guests couldn’t seem anything but rude. It never would have been something he would have considered doing before… before everything.

  Each step away from the theater and its inhabitants—his mother—brought a lessening of the tension in his muscles. By the time he left the park behind, he was at the point where he didn’t feel like screaming and kicking things, but he was a long way from calm. He couldn’t go home yet, not feeling like this. He wouldn’t sleep a wink. He’d be climbing the walls, or kicking them. The frustration, the disgust, would boil up again—he needed to relax far from his mother and his family’s expectations.

  Instead of walking home, he turned his steps toward Tide Street, a long street that twisted and turned its way through Jumelle, beginning in a square not too far from the park and ending down near the Harbor Gate in the walls, and changed character a number of times as it did. He made for a tavern he liked in the middle of an area that housed many theaters, eating houses, and taverns. A drink would be welcome, but what he really wanted was company. There were brothels on a few lanes that twisted away from Tide Street, but he’d never liked the idea of paying to be with someone. He could usually find the company he sought at the Hidden Cat Tavern, though.

  When he arrived, the Hidden Cat was already crowded, the patrons a mix of nobles and well-off commoners like Tristan. Musicians played in one corner and serving girls circulated among the tables. He found a table for himself along the wall, outside the crowd but not in the shadows, since he was trying to look for company, not hide from it. He ordered a drink from a girl who came by the table, smiling politely at her but no more warmly than that. Harassing the servers in this establishment—even flirting with the servers—was strictly prohibited. Not that he was interested in this or any girl.

  When his drink arrived, he settled back to try to relax, listening to the music and chatting with friends and acquaintances who stopped at his table. He politely put off invitations to join one or more of them at their tables. Perhaps later, if he didn’t find anyone who interested him. He received a knowing look or two—he wasn’t the only one who looked for congenial company on occasion, or more often than that in the case of some of these men. One or two of them had been congenial company for him in the past.

  Halfway through Tristan’s second drink, Leo came by the table to chat, sliding into the chair next to Tristan’s. Leo was a casual friend from his university days, one he’d known to socialize and talk with, but hadn’t spent much time with outside school. They hadn’t gone to bed until after they both left school, and it had only been a couple of times—Leo wanted nothing more than to pass the rare evening just as Tristan did. They didn’t always end up leaving together when they saw each other, but it looked as if they would tonight.

  By the time Tristan finished his drink, light conversation had turned to flirting,
and when the serving girl brought him a third drink, Leo was nearly in his lap, his hand resting high on Tristan’s thigh, fingers curved around and squeezing lightly. Tristan relished the heat that zipped through him at the touch. Yes, this was just what he needed to banish his anxieties and his mother’s machinations, for tonight at least.

  Leo leaned over and nipped at his earlobe, then whispered, “Do you want to leave? Find somewhere more private?”

  Tristan took a shuddering breath. “Yes, let’s go.”

  “Good.” Leo pulled away far enough to toss back the last of his drink and stood, holding a hand out for Tristan’s.

  Tristan swallowed the last of his own drink and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Leo kept a grip on his hand, using it to tow Tristan toward the door. He laughed. “Impatient?”

  “Yes. Walk faster.”

  He laughed harder at Leo’s demand, but faster wasn’t really an option in the crowded tavern. They moved as quickly as they could, weaving around tables and people. Tristan was still grinning when he met Etan’s eyes.

  Etan sat at a table with a group of men and one woman, none of whom Tristan recognized from his visits to the palace. The group was laughing and talking, the air at the table plainly celebratory, but Etan wasn’t smiling. He stared at Tristan, his gaze cold, angry. Tristan had never seen an expression like that on Etan’s face. Etan was usually so good-natured, so easy-going, that the cold fury was shocking.

  The tug on his arm shocked him, and Tristan realized he’d stopped moving, caught by the look in Etan’s eyes. That look couldn’t be directed at him, could it? But who else? Etan stared at him while surrounded by smiling, laughing people. Leo tugged on him again, and he forced himself to break away from the pull Etan’s gaze exerted on him. Leo had a quizzical look in his eye.

  “Everything all right?”

  Tristan shook himself out of his stupor. “Yes, of course.”

  “Are we still going?”

  “Definitely.”

  Leo grinned and started walking again with Tristan following. He resolutely did not look back at Etan, but he could feel that cold, angry gaze burning into him until the tavern door closed behind him, cutting him off from Etan and his puzzling anger.

  Chapter 4

  WHEN TRISTAN let himself into his house a few hours later, he was pleasantly tired and far more relaxed than he’d been leaving the theater earlier. But he was far less satisfied than he’d thought he would be when he decided to look for company for the evening. He blamed Etan for that feeling. Tristan couldn’t stop thinking about how angry Etan had looked, couldn’t keep himself from believing that Etan’s anger was directed at him. Though he couldn’t for the life of him understand why Etan would be so furious with him. He hardly saw Etan anymore—certainly didn’t see him as often as he once did. What had he done to anger Etan so?

  He found no answers despite his best efforts on the solitary walk home from Leo’s rooms. He only succeeded in getting himself irritated with Etan, in blaming him for ruining a night of relaxation Tristan had needed. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to lose himself in mindless pleasure until he hadn’t quite been able to manage it, not as much as he’d hoped to after his mother’s ambush that night.

  Now his irritation turned on his mother. She just wouldn’t give up. It was one thing when she was nagging and lecturing him. He could pay no attention to her when she was just talking to him, but when she started ambushing him with women she thought would make him a suitable wife, she became far more difficult to ignore. But he didn’t know what to do—he’d told her he didn’t feel the need to marry again, but his assertions didn’t satisfy her. She wanted him to have a wife, and she thought Bria needed a mother. He was beginning to become insulted that she thought he couldn’t raise his daughter without being married to a woman.

  He sighed, glad there was no one there to see him. There were few servants who lived at the house, and he insisted none of them wait up for him, though Bria’s nursemaid was more than likely awake. His daughter did not sleep through the night yet. A single branch of candles burned on a table in the foyer, something the servants always left for him if he was out when they retired for the night.

  Normally the candles were the only light on the first floor. But light streamed through the half-open door to the parlor. He approached cautiously, despite not really believing someone had broken into his home. There were protections in place for that, magic that would have alerted everyone in the house if someone tried to break in. They were strong—stronger even since Bria had arrived. He was taking no chances with his daughter.

  But the servants were well enough trained never to leave lights burning in an empty room.

  He pushed the door open and found Maxen sprawled in a chair near the cold hearth, a glass of what had to be plaire, a distinctive gold-colored liquor unique to Tournai, dangling from his fingers and a book open in his lap. But he looked to be dozing more than reading.

  “If you fall asleep and drop that glass on the carpet, my housekeeper will not be pleased with you.”

  Maxen jumped, eyes flying open as he sat straight in the chair. The plaire sloshed in the glass—part of a delicately made set that had been a gift from Amory—but didn’t spill. Which was a good thing. Tristan wasn’t lying about his housekeeper’s feelings on the matter of spills on expensive carpets. And though he was her employer, he did not feel the need to provoke her ire on this matter.

  “Tristan, there you are.”

  “And there you are,” he said, walking farther into the room. “What are you doing there?”

  “I came here after the play. I needed to speak with you.”

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I-I went out for a while.” He leaned on the back of the couch. “You could have left a note for me. I would have come to see you in the morning.”

  Maxen shook his head, an echo of the stubborn gesture Tristan had seen so often in their childhood. But the stubbornness had mellowed over the years and seldom made an appearance anymore. “I wanted to talk with you tonight.”

  “Is everything all right?” He straightened, worried now, but what could have happened to his brother in so short a time since he had last seen him? “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me—or any of us. We’re all fine. If something bad had happened, I would have been out searching for you.”

  He rounded the couch and sagged into the cushions. As much as he could—the couch was more formal than comfortable. One of Dariela’s choices, or one of their mothers’—he couldn’t remember which. “Don’t scare me like that.”

  Maxen had the grace to look abashed. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “And it couldn’t wait until a reasonable hour of the morning?”

  “No, it couldn’t. Not after what happened tonight.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?” Hadn’t Maxen just said everything was all right?

  Maxen’s expression filled with incredulity. “You know what happened. You were there.” Tristan must have continued to look blank because Maxen huffed. “What Mother did. Ambushing you with that girl.”

  Oh. That. Amazing that he hadn’t thought of it right off, with the way it had affected him. Was it possible his mother’s machinations were becoming ordinary to him? Something he barely remarked upon after he escaped their current incarnation? No, that couldn’t be right. Couldn’t be good, not at all. “Of course. What did you want to talk about?”

  Incredulity again, but this time with a healthy dose of thinking Tristan was an idiot. Tristan had to admire his brother’s ability to express so much without speaking a word. “What do you think I want to talk about, Tristan? She can’t keep doing this to you.”

  He sighed, suddenly so very weary of the whole matter despite his earlier frustration and disgust. “What does it matter?”

  “What does it matter?” Maxen repeated at a near shout, but then subsided, lowering his voice when Tristan glanced
toward the ceiling and the sleeping baby upstairs and leveled a look of rebuke at his brother. “It matters, Tristan. It matters to you. She schemes not just to put you in the path of eligible women but to push you toward marriage. She isn’t stopping. She isn’t going to stop until she has you wed again and providing her with grandsons.”

  “I’ve spoken with her. I’ve told her to stop.”

  “As have I. She isn’t listening to either of us.”

  Tristan spread his hands. “Then what would you have me do? What more can I do?”

  “You have to make her stop, or she’s just going to keep doing this to you and to those poor girls. Some of them are as uninterested as you are, but some aren’t. Some actually like you and might want to marry you. If you do what you did tonight to one of them, it could be embarrassing or upsetting for her.”

  He hated that he’d left the theater so abruptly. It was rude and not at all the way he had been brought up to act. But if he hadn’t left when he did, he might have acted even worse. “I shouldn’t have left that way.”

  Maxen waved away his statement. “It doesn’t matter. This girl wasn’t embarrassed—she had no desire to be there with you either. Mother was furious of course, and the girl’s father might have been a little disappointed. I think he liked the idea of a connection between our families, but I also doubt he would have forced her to marry if she didn’t want to. A little rudeness will be forgiven.”

  “Not by Mother.”

  “Yes, by Mother too, though not immediately. And forgiveness will be followed by another scheme and another girl.” Maxen fixed him with a hard stare. It reminded Tristan of a knack their father had for the same thing, for practically holding someone in place with just a look. He wondered how Maxen had inherited it but Tristan hadn’t. “You have to make her understand.”

  “Understand what? I’ve told her to leave it alone.”