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house from time to time.”
    She stared at him. “I only ever do what I believe is best for you, Moreland. Despite your claim that you are well and done with the blade—”
    â€œI am well and done with it.”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œYes. I am.”
    She observed him for a long moment, her dark eyes flitting toward his coat pocket. “Are you still carrying your razor case? Be honest.”
    He glanced away and shifted his jaw, knowing his razor case was in fact in his coat pocket. Not because he used it—hell, he hadn’t used it in almosta year—but because it gave him a sense of…comfort. It also challenged him to try to rise above his baser needs. “I don’t use it.”
    She sighed. “You will always mar yourself. That is a sad fact I have had to accept. Who is to say it will not lead to more should you end up involving yourself with the wrong woman? I suggest you avoid this neighbor of yours until I find out more about her. Give me a week. My footman will deliver you a detailed letter pertaining to all of my inquiries. You can make a decision then.”
    The trouble with her meddling was that she had a tendency to not only expose all of the grisly details to him, but to all of London. Then neither him or London would want anything more to do with the poor woman.
    He leaned in and pointed at her, barely missing her nose. “The devil you will. Leave it be. Leave her be. Your meddling will only expose her to gossip. I will call on her when I am ready.”
    She narrowed her gaze. “Remove your finger from my face, Moreland, and then remove yourself from my presence. I have had more than enough intimidation in my lifetime and I most certainly don’t need it from you.”
    Dropping his hand to his side, Tristan swung away and stalked toward the open door, agitated with herfor always choking him like this. “I’m leaving. Before I realize I don’t like you.”
    He grabbed at the brass handle and slammed the door hard behind himself, the tension in his body progressively rising. Pushing himself down the length of the corridor, the sudden need to escape not only that corridor, but his entire life, swelled.
    No matter how much distance he tried to set between himself and the past, no matter how quietly he went about leading a good, respectable life he could be proud of, his grandmother always managed to burrow herself in and point out how much further he had to go. He was well aware more needed to be done. For one, he needed to stop carrying his razor case.
    He glanced toward the long row of paintings and jerked to a halt, noting a new painting was hanging on the corridor wall. He turned and stared at a green field set against a low, setting sun. He swallowed, unable to push away the unsettling clench of his stomach.
    He hadn’t seen that painting in almost thirteen years. Mahogany-paneled walls flashed within his thoughts, and despite not wanting to see it, he did. He always did. His father’s lifeless body forever remained slumped over his writing desk, dark blood smearing the polished wood, tendrils of it spreading over estate ledgers. A bloodied shaving razor layangled upon the floor beside his father’s booted feet, having fallen from his large hand, whispering of the tragedy that had occurred. Tristan had never thought his own father capable of destroying himself. Especially after they had spent months battling to keep his mother from doing the very same thing.
    Noting the painting was crooked, he edged toward it and nudged each end of the carved frame until it was even. He stepped back and pushed out a breath, wishing he had it in him to rip that painting off the wall and smash it through a window. Of course, it wouldn’t change anything and would only make him feel like a petulant child.
    â€œI found it in the attic,” his grandmother offered cheerfully from down the corridor. “Rather lovely, isn’t it? It