It was a mistake.

“Which fishing families?” Zechariah said lightly.

Too lightly.

The cork was finally worked free over a cup. It sputtered, but mostly poured without a fight.

Tristan frowned and thought for a moment, wondering why it was relevant. "I have to admit I don't know them well." That was, the only time he had been in the yard was when he didn't have a maid yet and had to throw some stuff out. And even then, he had merely nodded at them and rushed back in. "I can ask for you, though? It seems they barely earn enough from the fishing, so you'd probably help them a great deal."

He poured Dr. Well’s glass, then set the bottle to sit.

“Not the redheads,” he said, flippantly.

Then downed half his glass in one go.

“Dangerous criminals, the Wards.”

Tristan's eyebrows traveled up in genuine surprise. Then back down quickly. "I... don't think I know them," he said. Seen a couple of redheaded fisherlasses though. "What did they do?"

He picked up his glass.

“Murder,” he answered, shortly.

Then he clinked his glass to Dr. Well’s before draining the rest of his own.

Tristan was so shocked that he did not move his glass to reach Mr. Meijer's and the other man had to reach all the way to his.

Then he woke up and lifted his glass too late. "Now that you mention it, I think I heard of a Whitby based murder case when I was working in Leeds." He then let out a low chuckle. "I'm sure it wasn't the red-headedness that drove the murderer..."

He took a sip of his champagne, watching the other man's empty glass over the edge of his own. That was a cause of concern.

‘Yes, it did,’ he thought immediately, but was sober enough not to say so.

“That was them,” he affirmed with a tight smile. “I took one of their girls in to keep her out of trouble. That hardly worked.”

He filled his glass and moved to top off Dr. Well’s, only to find he had barely drank any.

“More?” he asked pointlessly.

Tristan shook his head. "I'm a slow drinker, I'm afraid," he admitted, as if that was something to be ashamed of. And he was in that moment. He was against heavy drinking. Had seen plenty of problems, physical and psychological, caused by it. And yet in that moment, his temperance made him feel inferior. He quickly took another, larger drink.

"That was kind of you. I suppose, if she got married, you managed well enough, then?"

He thought of her marriage as more of an inconvenience than a pleasant outcome, but he supposed Dr. Well’s interpretation was a positive spin.

“Perhaps. She may have been the first to consummate after marriage.”

Tristan frowned. "How do you know?" he blurted out, before thinking better of it.