A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  Tristan believed in him. After all that had happened between them. For a long moment, Garrett fought to keep steady, to maintain his composure. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “Ah… when will you return from your… travels?”

  Tristan shook his head. “I’m not certain. I won’t be long, though. Early June, at the latest.”

  Sophie released a breath through pursed lips. Garrett glanced at her. “I don’t see why not,”

  she said softly. “Gary and Miranda complement each other—they draw out each other’s best qualities. I also think it will be beneficial for him to spend time with Becky and Aunt Bertrice. They are his family, after all.”

  Garrett turned to Rebecca. She merely sat with her head down, her hands clenched in her lap. She wouldn’t even look at him. Sighing, he focused on Aunt Bertrice. She gave a brisk nod. “There’s no harm in taking the child for a while, Garrett.”

  It was true—Garrett couldn’t see any harm in it. The boy was only five years old, after all, and couldn’t be a great threat.

  Gary was still family. Before Waterloo, Garrett would never have considered turning a family member away.

  “Very well. The boy may stay here while you are gone.”

  Tristan smiled. It was the first time Garrett had seen Tristan smile since he’d returned home. His lips spread wide, and his cheek dimpled, making him look much younger. It reminded Garrett of their boyhood together. Laughing as they played on the moor behind Calton House.

  On one of those occasions, Garrett had stumbled, and his head had struck a rock. He remembered the sharp, blinding pain, then opening his eyes to find a very young Tristan leaning over him, his pale face streaked with dirt, sobbing, “Oh, Garrett, you’re dead. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as if it had been his fault.

  “Oh, shut up,” Garrett mumbled. “I’m quite all right.” And he had felt fine except for a terrible ache in his temple.

  Through his tears, Tristan had given him the same smile he was now. But then he’d sobered and said, “You’ve got blood on your shirt. Uncle will beat you for it.”

  Garrett merely shrugged. “Ah, well, look at the bright side. At least I’m alive.”

  With a deep sigh of relief, Tristan had reached out and helped Garrett up, and they went home, where Garrett had smiled through his birching.

  At least I am alive.

  Garrett found his fingers tracing the hairline scar that ran through his eyebrow. Tristan’s smile faltered. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll bring Gary tomorrow. He’ll be ecstatic to see all of you.” He bowed at the ladies. “Good-bye.”

  The women rose. Garrett saw how tightly Sophie had clenched her hands at her sides. Her knuckles had whitened. The blood had drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale and wan.

  “Good-bye, Cousin Tristan.” Without a glance in Garrett’s direction, Rebecca rose and curtsied to him. “I am sorry we couldn’t spend more time together before you left.”

  “Me, too, Becky,” Tristan said gravely. He then went to embrace Aunt Bertrice. Finally, he bowed before Sophie, his body so tight, Garrett was surprised it didn’t snap in two. “Your Grace.”

  “My lord,” she murmured.

  Garrett watched every move they made. Both of them were the epitome of propriety, but they struggled for it, that much was clear. There was only so much a person could hide. Like the glow of unshed tears in Sophie’s eyes and the muscle twitching spasmodically in Tristan’s jaw.

  Tristan eyed her for a long moment, no doubt taking in the fact that she was paler than normal and that she had lost weight. And the lines of sadness etched into the edges of her pretty mouth.

  Tristan jerked around to face Garrett. “Thank you again, Your Grace.”

  Stiffly, Garrett moved aside to allow Tristan to walk past. Just outside, Tristan inclined his head at the man standing behind Garrett. “Fisk.”

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Fisk replied with a congenial smile. With a final nod, Tristan strode away, disappearing down the stairs. After a moment, Garrett followed him, leaving the uncomfortable silence of the drawing room for the solace of his study.

  ***

  Tristan stared down at the record in his hands. On a whim, he’d gone directly from Garrett’s house to the offices of the adjutant general in one final attempt to find information about Fisk.

  While the officer lists for Garrett’s disbanded regiment were still missing, the record of officers who’d perished in the battle of Waterloo hadn’t mysteriously disappeared. The secretary handed over the sheaf of papers, beaming, no doubt because he was finally able to prove that his recordkeeping was at least somewhat dependable. In a dim hall surrounded by shelves containing piles of military records and rows of clerks sitting at old desks busily scribbling away, Tristan sank into an uncomfortable wooden chair to sift through the papers. Moments later, his hands dropped into his lap. There it was, in plain view on the center of the page surrounded by names of other men who’d lost their lives that day.

  Warren Fisk, Lieutenant of the Fourth Coldstream Guards, of Kenilworth, age 18. It had to be Fisk’s brother—he was the only lieutenant listed from Garrett’s regiment who also shared Fisk’s surname.

  So Fisk was not from Leeds after all, but from Kenilworth, a town southeast of Birmingham. What luck Tristan had come this afternoon. If he hadn’t, he’d have been heading in the wrong direction tomorrow.

  Tristan narrowed his eyes at the document. Warren Fisk had died on the eighteenth of June 1815, at the age of eighteen. If he were living today, he’d be twenty-six. That made him exactly the same age as William.

  Twins? Or was Fisk impersonating another man? Tristan frowned… Garrett had never stated whether Fisk had given him his name or whether Garrett had remembered first. Either way, Tristan was determined to uncover the truth in Kenilworth. Sophie stood in front of her fireplace. The clock showed a little past midnight, and she was exhausted. Her heart felt cracked and brittle, heavy in her chest. She hated it that Tristan was gone. Even after he’d left the house, she’d taken comfort in the fact that he was close, that he’d be there for her should she need him. And although he’d only be gone for a week or two, it felt as if everything was coming to a head with Garrett, and an unfamiliar sensation of anxiety crawled in her chest.

  Once again, she opened the cryptic note Tristan had slipped into her hand in the drawing room on the day before he’d left. His bold hand slanted across the wrinkled sheet of stationery:

  MacA elusive, so have resolved to leave London seek information on F. Have employed a man to delve into MacA’s background. We will know more by the time I return. Trust no one, and be vigilant.

  Always, T.

  At the bottom of the note, he’d added a postscript that contained the name and address of a man to contact in the event of an emergency. Robert Jennings. Sophie carefully refolded the worn paper and slipped it into a drawer in her dressing cabinet.

  Every day, despite her protestations, Garrett grew more convinced madness was overtaking him. The doctor had prescribed a “treatment” to slow the process, but he persistently claimed insanity was inevitable, and Garrett— gullible man that he was—believed him. It didn’t help that he’d had another nightmare, followed by another episode of “madness,”

  just last night. And it didn’t help that she’d replaced Dr. MacAllister’s noxious tonic with a harmless one of her own… and it hadn’t made a whit of difference. Garrett’s episode had overtaken him swiftly and ruthlessly, much as it had at the Countess of Keene’s ball. Now, between missing Tristan and the constant battle to prove Garrett’s sanity while Garrett and everyone else viewed his outbursts as irrefutable evidence he was losing his mind, her nerves had begun to fray.

  Instead of breaking down, however, taking to her bed and weeping, or smashing everything breakable she could find against the wall, she began to fixate on Mr. Fisk. His uncanny presence at the most inopportune moments. His unflinchingly polite personality. The subtle ways he was seducing Becky.<
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  Since her conversation with Tristan at the theater, Sophie had allowed her latent distrust of Mr. Fisk to emerge. She watched him carefully and discovered that, as much as he tried to make his actions appear natural, every move he made, every word he uttered, was precise and deliberate.

  Mr. Fisk wasn’t the right man for her sister-in-law. The subtle flirting between him and Becky had to stop before it went too far.

  She intended to warn Garrett. Tonight, when there would be no risk of Mr. Fisk lurking about and overhearing their conversation.

  She strode to her wardrobe and found a light peach silk robe, for the evening wasn’t cold. She’d find him in one of his sanctuaries, either in the study or his bedchamber. She hoped it was his bedchamber—there was less chance of encountering Mr. Fisk there, even at this late hour.

  Just as she stepped toward the door, someone knocked on it.

  “Sophie?” Becky’s voice.

  She opened the door, and her heart sank. Becky stood there breathless, her cheeks pink and her hair askew.

  Sophie knew what this meant, knew it to her core. She reached out to grasp Becky’s hand and pull her inside. “Oh, Becks, has something happened? Come in and tell me why you’re so flushed.”

  “Something? Oh, yes.” Dreamily, Becky swept over to the armchair and drifted into it, as graceful as a leaf in a gentle autumn breeze.

  Sophie pulled the desk chair to sit across from her sister-in-law. “It appears it’s time for another of our midnight confidences.”

  “Do you promise you won’t tell a soul? Promise?”

  “Of course, Becks.”

  Becky clasped her pale hands together and held them before her chin. “It has happened, Sophie. I can scarcely believe it, but it has happened. I am well and truly in love.”

  Nooooo! Not Becky, not her bookish, intelligent, prudent sister-in-law! Surely not so soon after her arrival in London.

  Sophie gazed unflinchingly at her. “Truly?”

  “Yes.” Becky lifted shining blue eyes to Sophie. “It is true. I’ve never been happier.”

  It was Mr. Fisk. Sophie knew it had to be him. He had merely smiled at Becky, complimented her, perhaps stolen a touch or two, and—God forbid—a kiss, and now it was clear: His attentions had annihilated Becky’s sensible nature. Sophie took a deep, fortifying breath. “This is very exciting. Now you must confide in me. Who is the recipient of your affection?”

  Becky stared at Sophie for a long moment, then said in a whisper, “Do you truly promise, Sophie?”

  “I promise.”

  “It is Mr. Fisk.”

  Sophie tried to look surprised, but couldn’t seem to find the strength.

  “Did you know?” Aghast, Becky pressed a hand to her chest.

  Sophie tilted her lips in what she feared was a skeletal smile. “Alas, I did suspect it.”

  The younger woman’s eyes widened into deep blue pools. “Have I been so obvious?”

  “It’s—difficult for anyone to hide strong feeling for another.” Sophie nearly cringed, thinking of her own reaction before Tristan had left London. Becky bowed her head. “Oh, Lord. I have been a besotted fool, haven’t I? I tried to hide it from everyone, Sophie, most of all from myself. But now I know there is no sense in hiding it, for I love him. And,” she whispered, leaning closer, “he loves me, too.”

  Sophie bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. What a coup it would be for Mr. Fisk to win Garrett’s well-dowered, immensely beautiful sister. It would link him to their family forever.

  Sophie would fight this to her last breath. But how to convince this inexperienced dreamer of a girl to fall out of love with the vile, conniving man?

  “Has he touched you?”

  Becky’s flush deepened, and Sophie’s heart tapped frenetically against her breast. This was all her fault. She’d been too distracted by her own problems. She’d been too confident in Becky’s innate good sense, and she hadn’t protected her sister-in-law as she should have.

  “You can tell me, Becky.”

  Becky licked her lips. “He kissed me,” she breathed. “And… touched me.”

  Sophie’s eyelids sank like lead weights, but she pried them upward. “Oh, Becks. That was a foolish thing to do.”

  Becky’s lips tightened. “I love him, and I wanted him to touch me.” She gazed at Sophie as if that fact surprised her. “I wanted him to.”

  Sophie held out her hand, and the girl reached out and took it. They squeezed each other’s hands tightly for a few moments, then Sophie took a deep breath and forged ahead.

  “I understand what it’s like to want to be touched by a man, dearest.”

  “I know you do,” Becky whispered. “I remember when I was just a small girl, I saw my brother escape the house in the middle of the night so he could be with you. He wouldn’t have if you hadn’t desired it.”

  It was true. In anyone’s eyes, Sophie had behaved like a young fool. But Garrett hadn’t completely compromised her. He was too honorable to take advantage of her in such a way. They’d kissed, they’d touched, and they’d driven each other mad with wanting. But as much as they’d wished to consummate their love for each other, he insisted they wait until marriage. That was why he’d often brought Tristan with him to be their chaperone. Mr. Fisk wouldn’t be so honorable—Sophie knew it to her soul. But how could she convince Becky that Mr. Fisk wasn’t honorable, whereas Garrett was? Everything the girl had seen since her arrival in London proved otherwise. Becky was terrified of Garrett, and Mr. Fisk had been the one to provide her solace.

  Her only hope was honesty. She squeezed Becky’s hand tighter. “I don’t know much about Mr. Fisk, and I agree with you, he’s very charming indeed. But, Becky, he behaves like that toward everyone. None of us knows who the real Mr. Fisk is.”

  “He doesn’t kiss everyone.”

  “True,” Sophie said, “but dearest, you’re not unaware of your fortune. You know that men of lesser scruples would not hesitate to ruin you just for a chance at your inheritance.”

  “Mr. Fisk would never do that.” Smug confidence laced Becky’s voice. “He is the sincerest man I know. A man of principle.”

  Oh, Lord. Sophie inwardly rolled her eyes heavenward. “Can we be certain of that?”

  Becky gently pulled her hand away from Sophie’s. “I am. Truly, Sophie, when you feel for someone as deeply as I feel for Mr. Fisk, you simply know what’s inside his soul. And what I see in Mr. Fisk is a true gentleman. Kind, caring, handsome. What he desires above all is not my fortune, for he already possesses one of his own. All he wants is to make me the happiest woman in the world.”

  This had gone even farther than she’d thought. “Did he say that to you?”

  “Yes, he did. He even loves my interest in reading and philosophy. Do you know we’ve begun to read Plutarch together?”

  “You said he possesses a fortune?” Sophie asked, frowning. That didn’t sound right. She’d always imagined Mr. Fisk as one of those impoverished gentlemen who subsisted off the generosity of others.

  “Two thousand a year,” Becky said proudly. “With my three thousand, we shall have a tidy income.” She leaned forward. “In truth, Sophie, I require nothing of the grand living you and my brother enjoy. I only need the simplest of comforts—a roof over my head. A husband who cherishes me.”

  Two thousand a year? Could it be true? Would he descend so low as to lie to Becky about something like this? “Have you spoken with your brother?”

  “Oh, no! You know I wouldn’t approach Garrett.” She shuddered. “He frightens me so.”

  “And what about Mr. Fisk?”

  “He plans to ask for my hand in marriage soon. He’s hoping to do it before the duke fully descends into madness.”

  Sophie’s blood instantly heated to a boil. “I’ve explained this to you already, Becks. Garrett isn’t mad. Nor is he descending into madness. He’s perfectly sane, I assure you.”

  Becky sighed and gave her hands a sympathetic squeeze. �
��I do understand how you only want to think the best of him. It is natural, considering he is your husband. Nobody wants a husband who is insane, I’m sure. But you must face the fact, because it is true. All of London is aware of his condition. Everyone knows he’s on the road to lunacy.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have school friends in London, you know. And Mr. Fisk tells me everything.”

  Tamping down her frustration, Sophie leaned back in her chair, regarding the flushed beauty sitting before her. She changed the subject. “Tell me, Becky. Are you so very sure Mr. Fisk is the one you want?”

  “I’m absolutely sure.”

  “You’ve hardly given any other eligible gentlemen a chance. The Season has hardly begun.”

  “Oh, they won’t want me now,” Becky said matter-of-factly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Of course they won’t want me.” Becky spoke patiently, as if Sophie were a dimwitted child. “Due to my brother’s madness. Who wants to take a risk on the sister of the Mad Duke?”

  Sophie ground her teeth. “I assume this theory has come from Mr. Fisk?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the girl announced, her tone serene. “I don’t want any of them. I want only Mr. Fisk. He knows I am not mad.”

  Becky was so convinced of Mr. Fisk’s undying affection, she was sanctimonious about it. Sophie would have to take stronger steps. Keep Becky and Mr. Fisk separated at all times. Explain the situation to Aunt Bertrice. Warn Garrett of the impending disaster. She couldn’t allow this to continue. But there was no reasoning with Becky. The girl was hopelessly besotted.

  “Promise me one thing,” she said softly.

  “What’s that?” Becky asked.

  “Don’t give yourself to him. Becky, please wait until your wedding night.”

  Becky smiled and laughed softly. But she didn’t promise.

  Chapter Sixteen