A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  Garrett’s lip curled. “Stay away from my wife, or I will kill you.” With that, he strode out the door, pausing to speak in a low tone to a boy posted just outside. Tristan studied his guard—young, clearly from the lower orders, wearing street clothes, nodding up at Garrett as if it were God himself instructing him.

  Tristan knew precisely how to control men like that.

  After Garrett had gone, he watched the clock and waited. An hour later, he scratched on the door. When the boy came to see what was amiss, Tristan said, “May I speak with you a moment, sir?” and began his work.

  Dust particles drifted in the beam of late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. Sophie had never slept in this long, narrow second-story room before last night. When she was married to Garrett, she slept with him in his bedchamber, and she’d had no desire to move when she lost him. Then Tristan had joined her there.

  Sophie had pushed aside the drab floral-print chintz curtain earlier to let in the light, but otherwise the room felt dank and oppressive, perhaps because of the low, sloped ceiling or perhaps due to its empty, disused atmosphere.

  All day she had paced like a caged animal.

  Last night, Garrett had left her and Tristan frustrated and confused, none of their questions answered. When Mr. Fisk had wisely suggested she and Tristan sleep apart, she couldn’t disagree with him. It seemed the logical thing to do, given the awkwardness of the circumstances.

  Beyond logic, however, she admitted to herself that she couldn’t face Tristan. Not after seeing Garrett alive stirred up such confusing emotions. Now, imprisoned in this unfamiliar room, she wondered if she’d made the right decision. Sophie despised nothing more than feeling impotent, and she had struggled against the sensation from the moment she awakened at dawn. She’d opened the door only to find a person she’d never seen looming at the threshold. The man, a dark, beady-eyed fellow, insisted none too politely that she remain inside the room. She demanded he let her pass, but he flatly refused to allow her to leave. When she attempted to push past him, he merely picked her up, deposited her on the bed, stepped back outside, and closed the door. Why, why, why? Why had Garrett come back? Why had he stayed away so long? Why had he made her and Tristan suffer? Above all, why did he make her a prisoner in her own house?

  The children, Tristan… and Garrett himself. Where were they all? Were they safe? Had Garrett seen his daughter? How many times Sophie had pictured that meeting in her mind, and now, trapped in this narrow prison, it was likely she’d missed it. Where was Tristan? Why hadn’t he come for her?

  She had called for him through the door. She called for Garrett, for her lady’s maid, Delia, for Connor and Mrs. Krum the housekeeper, for anyone, but nobody acknowledged her save a young chambermaid to bring her meals and help her dress in a serviceable day dress of white muslin with navy stripes. As the girl fastened the fabric-covered buttons up her back, Sophie had demanded information. Though the maid had been part of the ducal household for two years, her brown eyes had widened and she’d merely whispered, “I couldn’t say, ma’am.”

  She’d finished the buttoning with shaking fingers and fled, leaving a bemused Sophie to fix her own hair. Clearly someone had put the fear of God into the poor girl before sending her.

  Since she had no answers, Sophie spent the hours alternating between worrying for her family and inventing answers to her countless questions.

  For years, she’d dreamed of Garrett returning to her. In her wildest imaginings, it had never happened quite like this. Seeing him again, even as angry and frightening as he was, made all her old feelings for him well to the surface, only to mingle with her resident feelings for Tristan. Her husband.

  Good Lord, which of them was her husband? Garrett or Tristan?

  Which one did she want to be her husband? She didn’t know. The realization twisted her insides into a million knots.

  Her chest constricting, Sophie strode to the window, yanked it up, and leaned out, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. As always, London smelled of coal smoke and refuse, but the sweet fresh smell of spring tinged each breath she gulped in, soothing her tight chest. She closed her eyes. Last night, she had fought not to throw herself into Garrett’s arms. In the past, she had always felt so safe when he held her. Would it be the same now? Would there be peace in his embrace?

  As much peace as she found in Tristan’s embrace?

  She feared she wouldn’t find safety in Garrett’s arms anymore. Even more, she feared she would—a disconcerting thought, considering his intolerable behavior. But last night Tristan was there, watching every move she made, his eyes dark with anguish. He was still her husband. She couldn’t fall into another man’s arms with him looking on. It would destroy him. It would destroy her.

  She clutched the sleek wood of the windowsill and gazed across the mews toward the busy street where the people of Mayfair carried on their business as usual. Behind the row of trees bordering the property, carriages rattled by, horseshoes clomped rhythmically on the pavement, and even from this distance, indistinguishable voices of pedestrians carried to the window as they strolled by, flashes of color beyond the drab browns and blacks and emerging greens of early spring.

  Tristan was everything to her.

  If Garrett tried to keep them separated… No. She would die before she hurt Tristan, or allowed him to be hurt.

  She fisted her hands on the windowsill. How could Garrett behave like such an arrogant ass? He was the one who’d burst in upon them. He was the one who’d been gone for so long. He was the one who’d abandoned them all. After all that, how dare he expect her to fall back into his arms?

  She had suffered, and Tristan had suffered, and her daughter had never known a father. Garrett had allowed all that to happen. The man she remembered, the noble, honest, loving man whose soul was twined with hers—that man would never have countenanced any of it. What had happened to him to change him into someone who could desert his family?

  Was it the horror of war? She’d heard some men had gone mad from it. Could that have happened to Garrett?

  Gooseflesh erupted over her skin, and she shut the window. The sounds of the outside faded away, cloaking her in stifling silence once again. Chafing her hands over her arms, she lowered herself on an old relic of an armchair with faded flower-patterned upholstery and frayed seams. The anger, the excitement and joy, the confusion, the worry for Garrett’s sanity, the fear for her marriage to Tristan. All the emotions swirled in her mind, leaving her so overwhelmed there was nothing to do but be numb.

  Taking a deep breath, she shook off the swarming confusion. If she let herself overthink the matter, it would only drive her to distraction. No, she had to escape from this room, talk to her husband—her husbands—to understand what Garrett wanted, what had happened to him, why he had come back.

  And to form a plan for what they would all do next.

  The door swung open, jolting her out of her reverie.

  “Tristan!” She leaped out of the chair and flung herself at him. Tristan enfolded her in his arms, stroking her back, his hands strong and comforting. “Are you all right, Soph?”

  “Yes.” She drew back a little to look at him, and flinched. His face was swollen, covered on one side by a mottled, colorful bruise. She reached a tentative finger to his skin. His jaw was rough and unshaven, an unheard-of state for her sleek and well-put-together husband.

  “You should have this looked at.”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  “Arnica would help. I shall ask Mrs. Krum to prepare you a poultice.”

  His dark eyes met hers. “A bruised face is the least of our worries.”

  Sophie’s throat went dry, and the questions flowed from her. “Where is he? Have you spoken to him? What’s happened? Where have you been all day? Are the children safe?”

  “I don’t think the children have crossed paths with Garrett, if that’s what you mean.”

  Tristan ran his fingers lightly up her back. “I don
’t even know whether he’s aware they’re here.” He glanced back at the open door. The beady-eyed stranger glared at them from the threshold.

  The expression on Tristan’s face as he turned back to her caused a frisson of unease to run down Sophie’s spine. “Garrett has gone, for now, but he’ll return. He went to see Ansley.”

  This came as no surprise—Ansley was their solicitor. Nonetheless, a queasy feeling settled in her stomach, and she sent a quick prayer that his visit to Ansley had nothing to do with her. “Perhaps to settle the matter of his title and lands, though one would think the two of you should take care of the matter jointly.” She looked at Tristan sharply. “You weren’t thinking of challenging him for any of it, were you?”

  “Of course not, Soph.”

  Of course not. Tristan had never craved Garrett’s title or lands. Dread twisted at the knot in her stomach. “What is it?”

  “He’s hired a small army of men. They’re armed and blocking every exit. One of them informed me their orders are to shoot to kill if anyone sets foot out of the house.”

  Sophie’s jaw went slack with surprise, then she ground her teeth. This was her domain, and she managed it impeccably. To have Garrett storm in as if on a military engagement and allow strange, violent men to swarm her house made her blood boil. Tristan lowered his voice. “It took me the better part of the day to convince the boy posted at my door to allow me to leave.”

  She wanted to ask him how he’d accomplished that, but the man posted at her own door was listening to their conversation. No doubt Tristan had used his endless charm on the poor boy. Or maybe he had simply ended up bribing him.

  She slipped her arms around her husband’s waist. “He’s changed, Tristan.”

  It pained her to admit it, but Garrett was different. She’d seen the difference last night. Not him pulling Tristan off her and attempting to beat him to a pulp—that was something she would have expected from the old Garrett. Once she’d moved beyond the shock of seeing him again, she’d known exactly how to manage his anger. It was his aloof behavior afterward, his cruel words, and the blank expression on his face before he left the drawing room that scared her more. He had seemed calculating. Cruel and impenetrable. Truly dangerous.

  Tristan nodded. “Yes. He’s grown… cold.”

  Sophie closed her eyes. Perhaps Waterloo—and time itself—had indeed changed Garrett’s soul. She must face the very real possibility that he wasn’t the same man she had tearfully watched sail away so many years ago.

  Tristan’s arms tightened around her, and he bent his head to brush his lips against her ear. He angled their bodies so his back effectively hid her from the doorway, and his hands slid to her buttocks and tugged her more tightly against him.

  Using his palms, he tilted her head up and touched his mouth to hers, brushing over her lips until she parted them. He scraped his teeth along her lower lip, then sucked it gently. He never kissed her before the servants, and Sophie knew Garrett’s sour-looking guard watched them. But after all that had happened, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her mind was a muddle, but her body knew what it wanted—what it needed—right now. The comfort and security of her husband’s arms.

  There was an edge to Tristan today—a desperation in his touch she’d never sensed before. He nipped at the edge of her mouth, and when she parted for him, he plundered her thoroughly, hot and hard and hungry, as if he thirsted for her mouth like the only oasis in the Sahara. He held her as if he was afraid to let her go. He kissed her as if he feared he’d never kiss her again. His clean, spicy taste flowed into her, strengthening her, and her eyelids sank as she lost herself in his erotic embrace.

  “Ahem.”

  Sophie and Tristan jumped apart, then spun toward the doorway. Heat crawled over Sophie’s face as she saw Mr. Fisk standing there, smiling graciously, as if he hadn’t just seen what they were doing. She hoped that was the case. She had no doubt that if he had seen them kissing, he’d report that information to Garrett—a fact that made her insides squirm in discomfort.

  Mr. Fisk bowed. “Good afternoon, Your Graces. I trust you are both well.”

  A muscle twitched in Tristan’s jaw, but he held on to his famed composure, choosing strained politeness over venting his anger to Mr. Fisk. “A matter of opinion, I suppose. Considering we have been locked in our rooms.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Fisk said, “I didn’t know you had been confined. My apologies. Yet I see you have been given your freedom?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Very good.” Mr. Fisk glanced at the guard, then back to them. “I was hoping you would spare me a few moments of your time, Your Graces.”

  Tristan glanced at Sophie, who nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Shall we reconvene in a more appropriate place for conversation?”

  The guard coughed and spoke in a low voice to Mr. Fisk. “I’m not to allow the duchess to leave the room, sir.”

  A furrow appeared between Mr. Fisk’s eyebrows. “I see. Hm, well, I know this is most irregular, but would it be possible for us to speak here? Privately?”

  Sophie released a breath. After what Mr. Fisk had witnessed last night, surely it was ridiculous to consider propriety. “Of course, Mr. Fisk.” She motioned to the lone tattered armchair. “Please come in and sit down.”

  “Thank you, madam.” He bowed politely then nodded at the guard before closing the door. Tristan eyed him warily as he strode deeper into the room.

  He looked from the chair to the bed, then at Sophie. “I shall remain standing, if it is all right.”

  “Whatever you like, Mr. Fisk.”

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt your… discussion.”

  Sophie’s flush deepened. Perhaps he had seen the kiss after all.

  “However,” he continued, “I’ve just come from Regent Street. Cal was… ah… shopping, and asked me to come home to ascertain your welfare and comfort.”

  Tristan snorted. “I would have liked to witness him saying that. Please spare the embellishments, Fisk, and get to the point, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” An odd look passed over Mr. Fisk’s face, but he turned away before Sophie could decipher it. He clasped his hands behind his back, wandered to the window, and peered outside. “I just wanted to explain a bit more of Cal’s… predicament to you.”

  “Predicament?” Sophie echoed. But he’d piqued her attention. Finally—an explanation.

  “Predicament.” Tristan’s mouth twisted into a rare sneer. “He comes back after nigh on eight years, full of violence and rancor. What a predicament.”

  “But it is,” Mr. Fisk said calmly.

  “Hell,” Tristan spat. “We’ve been locked in our own house all day. Separated. Not knowing what’s become of each other or our children.”

  “Nobody has been harmed.” Mr. Fisk’s gaze flickered away from Tristan’s swollen face.

  “And then I learn he intends to tear apart my family, destroy all our lives. Goddamn it, I won’t let him—”

  Raising his hand, Mr. Fisk interrupted him. “When I found him in Belgium, the colonel had no recollection of his life before Waterloo.” He took a deep breath. “He didn’t have the first idea who he was or where he had come from.”

  “What?” Sophie gasped.

  Mr. Fisk nodded gravely. “Yes, madam. Cal was afflicted with amnesia. The worst, most insidious kind of amnesia, I believe. He suffered a grave head wound at Waterloo, and the doctors believe that was what caused the severity of the memory loss. Imagine, all those years…” His voice petered out, and he stared out the window once again, seemingly at a loss how to continue.

  Sophie stared at him, stunned. When Garrett said he’d forgotten her, amnesia hadn’t crossed her mind. But of course it was the most obvious answer—he would never have left her of his own accord. Relief swept through her, clear and sweet, like an ocean breeze. For years she had dreamed that he lived, that there was some good reason he’d been kept away from her. And now she knew it was tr
ue. He was alive, and he hadn’t abandoned her. Garrett had stayed away due to circumstances beyond his control. Tristan frowned at Mr. Fisk. “How did he regain his memories?”

  “Oh, he hasn’t regained all of them, sir. The doctor told us that may take some time. He may never remember everything. But many of his memories returned after I found him. I think he remembers more every day. Quite possibly every hour.”

  “Did this all begin when you first saw him in Belgium, Mr. Fisk?” Sophie asked in a breathless voice.

  Mr. Fisk nodded. “Yes. As soon as he laid eyes on me, he remembered me, though I was only a mere lieutenant in his regiment. I have helped him with the rest. Now he recalls most things on his own—just about everything he sees from his life before Waterloo sparks a fresh batch of memories. Some of them are twisted and confused. But others are as clear as day. Being here, in his old house—well, I believe he’s being bombarded by recollections.”

  “Goodness,” Sophie said softly.

  “That is why, I believe, he may seem… distant at times. It has been difficult for him to assimilate all the information after having lost it for so long.”

  “Of course,” Sophie murmured.

  Rubbing his forehead, Tristan lowered himself into the chair. “So you’re saying he didn’t deliberately abandon Sophie.”

  “Not at all,” Mr. Fisk confirmed.

  Tristan’s face went utterly blank. Sophie knew what it meant when this expressionless look came over him. He was squelching some strong emotion.

  In the muddled workings of her mind, she couldn’t fathom why Tristan should be distressed by this news. Knowing Garrett as they did, it made so much more sense. Mr. Fisk turned to Sophie. “Rest assured, madam, if he had recalled anything about you during all those years, he would have come home to you as quickly as he possibly could. As it was, the moment he remembered you, he flew into action. We traveled directly to Calais and took the very next ship bound for England.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fisk,” she whispered. “Thank you so much for telling us this. I—we—