Fortune's fools by Julia Parks Page A

with a martial stare. "What about you, Tris? What have you to say for yourself?"
    The words were slurred. His father was well past it.

    All he had to do was fob him off with some tale, but that was not Tristram's way. Honesty was forever his downfall.
    "Me, sir? I have nothing to report. I cannot tell you when or where I shall have something to report. I find this entire discussion reprehensible."
    "Here now," said his father.
    "No, let the boy speak," said the marquess, skewering Tristram with his beady eyes. "Tell us, my boy, what is so reprehensible about what your brother is doing? What any other gentleman or lady is doing here in London for the Little Season? Are you so far above all the rest of them?"
    Tristram turned scarlet and rose. "Not above them, my lord, but I will not be trotted out like a horse at Tattersall's. I will take my time and make my choice because it is what I want, not simply to please the likes of... Society."
    He turned on his heel and stalked away, but not before hearing Max say quietly, "I should follow him. Good evening, gentlemen. Thank you for your hospitality, my lord."
    "See what you can do to straighten up that young cawker," the marquess snapped, his voice rising so that Tristram could hear him. "Otherwise, I'll not be responsible for the consequences."
    Max soon caught up with Tristram as he trotted down the front steps.
    He ignored Max's calls until, finally, he whirled and said through gritted teeth, "Just leave me alone, Max. You go on back to those two ..."
    "Whatever is the matter with you, Tris? You are usually more coolheaded than this. Don't let Cravenwell rattle you. He's nothing but a greedy old good-for-nothing, you know that. And we both know what Papa is,

    and what is behind his wanting us to both marry well. You should not let them ruin our fun."
    Tristram looked his older brother in the eye and then shook his head. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his brother that he could not have Philippa Beauchamp, that Tristram wanted the beauty for himself. On the tip of his tongue, but it could go no farther. Max had laid his claim first.
    "You do not understand, Max, and I cannot explain it to you. Not now. Just leave me to work things out for myself, won't you? Until then, I will be better off on my own."
    To salve his brother's concern, Tristram offered his hand. After a moment, Max took it, gave it a firm shake, and held it.
    "You're sure?"
    Tris nodded, and Max released him, pausing another moment before turning back to White's with its leather cushions and clouds of smoke. Tristram watched him go, answering Max's final wave with a little nod before his brother entered the building and was gone from view.
    Turning, Tristram began the short walk home. How could he have let things go so far? Not that anything had happened—except that brief kiss. Tristram closed his eyes, remembering the sweet taste of her lips on his.
    Who would have thought that he would fall head over heels for a chit barely out of the schoolroom? One who was so shy she could barely muster two sentences in a row. One who was so securely under the thumb of that frightful mother!
    Philippa needed rescuing, and Max was the one to do the job. He was, after all, the brother who never shrank from daring deeds. How could he ever hope to compare

    with Max in that area? Not to mention that he would never stand in Max's way. Max had claimed her first, and honor forbade him from interfering.
    No, Max was the right one to rescue Philippa. When the time came, he would face down the dragon-mother like a knight of old. Sweet, innocent Philippa would be much better off with a hero like Max.
    Tristram entered the house and went straight to the sideboard to pour himself a large brandy.
    "Oh, I am sorry, sir. I did not hear you come in. Would you like something to eat, something to go along with that?" asked Barton, looking from the full glass to his youngest charge.
    "No, this is all I need. You can go to bed, Barton,"