A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

“Why can’t you sleep? Aren’t you comfortable? Perhaps I should call for some warm milk.”

  Becky waved her hand. “No, no. I’m very comfortable, thank you.” She smiled. “It’s just

  —well, there have been men hovering, and Aunt Bertrice, and we haven’t had time to chat.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s odd not to have Cousin Tristan here,” Becky said softly. “I miss him.”

  Sophie forcibly kept her expression relaxed. “As do I, Becks.”

  Becky leaned forward in her chair. “How did you do it, Sophie? How did you choose?”

  She reared back abruptly, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was too forward.”

  “No, dearest. You and I have always been friends,” Sophie said. “I have always been honest with you, and I wish you would include me in your confidences as well.”

  “Of course. Always.”

  Sophie could only hope the sincerity in Becky’s declaration would last through the Season, but she doubted the girl would end the summer as innocent and open as she began it. Especially as a member of the Duke of Calton’s household during this time of scandal and upheaval.

  “I didn’t choose between Garrett and Tristan, Becks. I couldn’t, because I care deeply for both of them, and I wouldn’t hurt either of them by choosing one over the other.”

  “But you are with Garrett now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Though…” Becky took a deep breath and gamely forged onward. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but notice the two of you sleep in separate bedchambers. You and Tristan always slept… well… together.”

  “Garrett has only recently returned. We are all adjusting.”

  “But where has Cousin Tristan gone? The last I heard before we left Calton House was that he was here, too.”

  “He had to leave. He has rented a townhome nearby. You see, the courts have decided that my marriage to him was a nullity. Since I married Garrett first, our marriage takes precedence over my marriage to Tristan.”

  “Oh, poor Tristan,” Becky murmured. “He loves you so.”

  Sophie couldn’t respond to that. She lowered her gaze to her lap. After a long silence, Becky said, “Garrett has changed, hasn’t he?” She wrapped her arms around her slender body. “That scar on his forehead… it’s so big.”

  “Yes, he’s changed a little. But at his core he is still the honorable man we all remember.”

  Sophie looked up at her sister-in-law. “You must promise me not to forget that, Becks. He has a harsh appearance and his behavior can be similarly harsh at times, but that is only his uncertainty coming through. He doesn’t remember everything, and seems to have the most difficult time with the smallest aspects of life, such as etiquette and managing the trivialities. But for the most part, he is still the same Garrett I fell in love with when I was

  —rather younger than you are…”

  Her voice dwindled as she remembered that summer. When she was hardly sixteen, Tristan had left Eton and Garrett had come home from Cambridge for the summer, and almost daily she had escaped from the window of her room at Loughton Manor to run wild with them. They’d recklessly passed the warm nights together, caught by no one. One night, Garrett had come alone. They’d kissed and touched each other all over, driving each other to a breathless distraction. Finally, they’d lain on their backs on the riverbank, dipping their toes into the cool water. He’d told her of his dreams of the military and his future with her by his side. She’d told him of her dream of raising his children at Calton House and in London. And then he’d asked her to marry him. Trembling with joy, she’d kissed every inch of his face. They agreed to hold the wedding when he returned home after Cambridge.

  Nearly two and a half long years passed before they’d finally married and consummated their love. To Sophie, those two years had felt like forever. Becky sighed wistfully, jolting her from the memory. “I wish I could fall in love with someone.”

  “You very well might. Think of all the gentlemen you are to meet this Season.”

  “Well… I’ve already met one gentleman,” Becky said shyly.

  “Do you mean Mr. Fisk?” Startled, Sophie straightened in the chair.

  “Yes.” Becky licked her lips in a no doubt unconscious gesture. “He is quite… handsome.”

  Sophie studied her sister-in-law. Surely the girl was too sensible to engage in an infatuation with a man like Mr. Fisk. Still, she’d have to watch them both, and she’d have to tread carefully. “He is somewhat handsome,” she agreed slowly.

  “He has such an engaging manner, and his physique—” Becky pressed the back of her hand to her reddening cheek. “Well, it is quite pleasing to the eye.”

  “Indeed.” Sophie leaned toward Becky. “But Becks, you do realize you must look much higher than Mr. Fisk?”

  Becky frowned. “Is Mr. Fisk a man of little fortune, Sophie?”

  “I believe so, dearest. And he has no title.”

  “Oh, I don’t care about such trivial things,” Becky said airily. Sophie infused the barest edge of a warning into her voice. “But when it comes time to choose a husband for you, your brother will care.”

  In truth, she didn’t think Garrett cared about such things either. Which meant it was completely up to her to make sure that Becky made a good choice. Well, her and Aunt Bertrice, who surely would make her opinion known in the matter. Becky shuddered. “Do you think he will choose someone awful for me, Sophie?”

  Sophie laughed. “Not at all.”

  “Because I’d rather marry a young, handsome commoner who loves me than an old, decrepit duke who cares for naught other than my ability to provide him with heirs.”

  “Becky!”

  Becky frowned mulishly. “I have heard about such things coming to fruition, Sophie. Some of my school friends have married the most awful men—”

  Sophie stood and knelt before the girl. She took her warm cheeks in her hands and made Becky face her. “Your aunt Bertrice, Garrett, and I wouldn’t let that happen, dearest. We care for nothing more than your happiness.”

  “Do you promise?”

  Sophie could see the fear and hope in Becky’s eyes. She was truly apprehensive of what was to come. “I promise,” she said firmly. “If we find nobody who satisfies you, Becks, I promise you won’t have to marry any of them. You’re only eighteen. There will be more Seasons for you.”

  Becky threw her arms around Sophie and squeezed tight. “Oh, thank you, Sophie. Thank you.”

  The door opened and both women jerked their heads up. Becky’s arms slid from her body, and Sophie’s heart skipped a beat when she saw it was Garrett in a handsome dishabille. His light blond hair stood up at endearingly odd angles, as if he had pushed his hand through it over and over.

  “Oh!” Becky exclaimed in surprise.

  Garrett’s mouth snapped shut, and he began to retreat. “I am so sorry to disturb you, ladies. Forgive me.”

  “Not at all,” Sophie murmured. But she couldn’t say more. A giant lump had lodged in her throat and refused to move.

  Garrett bowed stiffly. “I just wished to say goodnight. To both of you.”

  “Goodnight,” Becky murmured.

  Sophie just stared at him. He met her eyes, then pulled his gaze away.

  “Goodnight,” she said. But the door had already clicked shut. She was nervous, anxious, terrified, hopeful. Torn between letting him go in peace, and dismissing Becky and inviting him back into her room.

  For there could be only one reason he had come to see her at this hour. And from the way her heart had stuttered and her body flushed at his appearance, she wasn’t certain she would have turned him away this time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blackness surrounded him. Oppressive, stifling. He was in a casket, underground… He had to get free. He clawed at the earth, shouting for someone to dig him out. Garrett surged upward, coughing, his eyes flying open to utter darkness. His clammy fingers closed over silk, and logic t
old him it was a moonless night, the fire had gone cold, and he was merely in his own bed in his bedchamber. Having another goddamn nightmare. This one was different. No shooting, no blood. Just black nothingness. God, it was almost worse. His shoulders shook as a cold shudder rippled through him. He needed light. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he climbed down the step and fumbled to the side table, searching for a candle. Then a scuffing sound came from across the room. He jerked his head up.Only shadows. But the hair prickled on the back of his neck. Someone was in here. Garrett clenched his teeth and curled his fist. Little good that would do—fists were useless against the demons that haunted him.

  A shadow separated from the wall across from him and moved toward him. “Cal?”

  Garrett expelled a harsh breath, and his muscles went limp. “Fisk? Christ.” He pushed a hand through his matted hair.

  The shadow moved closer until it paused on the other side of the bed. “Sorry. I… I heard you shouting and came to make sure everything was all right.”

  “Didn’t think to bring a light with you?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Garrett stood still, facing the dark shadow that was Fisk in silence.

  “You all right then, Cal? Can I get you something?”

  Garrett’s lip curled. “A cure for these goddamn nightmares? Even better, why don’t you go fetch my memories for me? Can you do that, Fisk?”

  Fisk’s shadow shifted. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

  Garrett stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve met someone who might be able to help you regain your memories. Not sure about the nightmares—”

  “Who?” Garrett demanded.

  “He’s a doctor here in London. I’ve spoken to him at length about your affliction, and he thinks he can help you.”

  “For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me about him sooner?”

  “I wanted to be certain, before—”

  “Bring him to me. As soon as possible.”

  “Of course, Cal. I’ll fetch him in the morning.”

  ***

  Tristan leaned against the window in the small upstairs parlor of his rented rooms. The days had passed quickly as he’d continued to move forward with his appeal, meeting with the advocates and Griffiths every day to build his case against the decision made by the Consistory Court.

  Tristan gazed down at the busy street below. The sun shone brightly after an earlier rain, leaving the scene laid out before him sparkling and clean. Wagons rattled by, carriages, men on horseback. People strode with intent, skirting the edges of traffic. An urchin wearing a jaunty red beret dodged in the small space between two carts, miraculously appearing on the opposite side of the street unscathed, but the meaty driver of the trailing cart pulled his horses short, raised his fist, and cursed at the boy. Tristan had sent Gary to the park with the new governess and Jennings had come by to relay his most recent report. Jennings hadn’t yet pinpointed the origination of the scandalous rumors concerning Garrett. Apparently the printer had closed his shop just after distributing the pamphlet and had conveniently moved to Wales. Garrett and Fisk, Jennings reported, were going about their business as usual. Garrett seldom left the house, but Fisk visited Ansley daily, which Tristan supposed was normal, given they were still in the process of dividing the assets and transferring ownership back to Garrett.

  Fisk had also gone to Covent Garden theater twice more, the second time after just having come from the Bank of London. Jennings hadn’t learned the identity of the man who opened the theater door for him, though he did discover that Fisk always came to the theater just after the rehearsals for an upcoming performance of Henry VIII had concluded. Jennings surmised that Fisk was covertly meeting with one of the actresses inside the theater, and the man who opened the door for him aided them in their trysts. Most interestingly, Jennings stated that Fisk had taken a promenade through Hyde Park three days ago—the same day Tristan and Sophie had met there. Was Fisk following them? Perhaps Garrett had given Fisk watchdog duty over Sophie. If so, Garrett would already know about Tristan and Sophie’s encounter in the park. Would Garrett confine her to the house again?

  Tristan pressed his forehead against the window casing and ground his teeth, hating his inability to protect her even as he took comfort in the knowledge she was perfectly capable of protecting herself. God, he missed simply being with her. The contentment and comfort of sharing his day with her. The unfading thrill of having her stand by his side. The feel of her soft, warm body beside him as he lay in bed, her arms entwined about him…

  He pushed his hand flat against the diamond-shaped pane, allowing the coolness of the glass to seep into his heated blood.

  A movement below caught his eye, and he looked down to see Fisk and Ansley turn the corner, Fisk appearing stately and sleek beside the shorter, rotund solicitor who today was dressed in a most unappealing—yet fashionable— shade of puce. When they reached the front of his house, the two men stopped to face each other. The solicitor handed Fisk a small wrapped packet, which he tucked in his breast pocket, and they shook hands. Ansley turned to lumber back the way they had come, while Fisk turned to gaze at the façade of Tristan’s townhouse. For a long moment, he simply stared toward the entryway with a look on his face Tristan had never seen before. His eyes were narrow, his lips twisted, his face dark. It was an expression of open hatred.

  Tristan moved behind the curtain and studied the younger man. Each time Tristan had had dealings with Fisk, the man had been solicitous in the extreme. To see such a look on his face made an unsettled feeling swirl in Tristan’s gut.

  Fisk strode to the entryway, and Tristan turned away from the window, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for an intrusion. He lowered himself into his favorite of the three lumpy damask-covered armchairs, propped his feet on the fender, and snapped open The Times.

  A few moments later, Steadman entered. “Mr. Fisk is downstairs, my lord.”

  “Of course. Show him up.”

  Steadman nodded and closed the door. Tristan set the newspaper down and crossed to the mahogany sidebar to pour a brandy. He looked up when his visitor appeared. Of course Fisk had reestablished his usual friendly, placid expression.

  “Afternoon, Fisk. Brandy?”

  Fisk bowed and smiled pleasantly. “Good afternoon, my lord. No, nothing to drink, thank you.”

  Tristan realized he’d never seen Fisk take a drink. No after-dinner port or casual brandy. No wine with his meals. He’d never paid much attention, so concentrated had his focus been on Garrett and Sophie. He arched a questioning brow. “A teetotaler, are you?”

  The other man gave an unassuming shrug. “I do try to avoid spirits and intoxicants.”

  Tristan raised his glass, swirling the amber liquid. “Why is that?”

  Fisk looked him directly in the eye, unflinching. “My own father was a sot, and we—

  meaning my brother and I—found his behavior abhorrent. Particularly his behavior toward my mother.”

  “Ah.” Tristan set the glass down. “Sorry to hear that, Fisk.”

  Fisk shrugged, and his expression was, as always when he knew someone was studying his reaction, mild. “My sire died before I joined the army. In truth, I can hardly recall him. I only know I don’t wish to become like him.”

  “Of course. Completely understandable.” Tristan gestured to the arc of armchairs in the center of the room. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  Fisk obligingly lowered himself on one of the chairs and crossed his legs. Tristan left the brandy on the counter—clearly coaxing the man to drunkenness wasn’t an option—and walked around to sit on the opposing sofa. “Where does your family hail from, Fisk?”

  “Leeds, my lord.”

  “And your mother still resides there?”

  After a slight pause, Fisk responded. “No, sir. My mother perished of consumption several years ago.”

  Tristan nodded. “I see. And your brother?”

  This time t
he pause was long. Nearly palpable. Finally, Fisk answered, “He was a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Army. Died from a gunshot wound inflicted at Waterloo.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Well.” Tristan cleared his throat. “What brings you by on this fine day?”

  Beneath the wool of his dark coat Fisk’s shoulders lowered minutely. “Well, frankly, I was passing by on my way home—to the duke’s residence, that is—and I wished to see how you fared.”

  Tristan smiled politely. The younger man might excel at maintaining a neutral, pleasant demeanor, but Tristan could do it better. “I am well, thank you. I’m quite pleased today, actually, for I have just hired a most promising governess for my son.”

  “That’s wonderful news.” Fisk’s smile melted into earnestness. It would be easy to forget the man was twenty-six years old—at times he seemed much younger. “But I rather meant in your separation from the duchess. I know it has been… difficult.” He raised his hands in silent apology for asking so personal a question. “I merely wanted to see if there was anything I could do, my lord.”

  “I appreciate your concern.” Gritting his teeth, Tristan masked his bristling reaction to Fisk’s forwardness. No doubt the man felt entitled after all he’d witnessed between the three of them, but in Tristan’s mind, he’d always be an intruder, and an unwelcome one at that. His mind working rapidly, Tristan shrugged and offered a blatant lie. “I feel myself compelled to move onward. I have considered leaving Town.”

  Fisk’s dark brows crept toward his hairline. “Leave London while you’re preparing for your appeal?”

  “The appeal will take some time. And…” He affected a frown. “. . . my lawyers say the chances of the court’s decision being overturned are slim to none.”

  Fisk nodded. “That I believe, my lord. Forgive me, because you know I am Cal’s friend, but I certainly do see your perspective as well, and I am sorry.”

  “Thank you, Fisk.”

  After a thoughtful pause, Fisk said, “Then you intend to leave London while Parliament is in session?”