“Mmm,” she responded. “I’m too dirty to waltz.”
“Later, then.”
“All right.” Her voice was hardly a whisper. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about Tristan and how he held her. How different it felt to be in his arms. How empty she felt knowing he was so far away.
Garrett’s grasp on her tightened. “I’ve come to tell you Fisk has formally asked me for Rebecca’s hand in marriage.”
She wrenched herself away and stepped back so she could see into his face. “What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.
“I gave him my approval.”
“Garrett, no!”
Suddenly, the ache she felt for Tristan intensified into a pulsing pain. Tristan would help her fix this problem. He’d listen to her concerns and work with her toward a solution. Garrett closed the distance between them. “Come, Sophie. I know you’re not overfond of Fisk, but you told me yourself that Rebecca is in love with him. And he assures me the feeling is mutual. What better way to bring Fisk into our family than for him to marry my sister?”
“I don’t want William Fisk in our family.” She sounded petulant. More childish than her own daughter.
“But why? He’s responsible for me having my life back. He’s responsible for me finding you again. It’s not possible to repay him enough.”
“No doubt he believes that as well.”
He frowned at her. “No, he doesn’t. In fact, besides Rebecca’s hand, he’s asked me for nothing.”
Of course he hadn’t asked Garrett for anything. He hadn’t needed to. He’d slithered his way into Garrett’s affections, and once he discovered the duke’s honorable, generous nature, had proceeded to take advantage of him. And now he held control of Garrett’s fortune and was about to marry his sister.
“You will learn to trust him in time.” Garrett’s face darkened, and the scar on his forehead flushed to a deep red. “You aren’t being fair to him, Sophie. You didn’t meet under the most auspicious circumstances. You can’t blame him for that.”
Sophie’s cheeks heated, but she didn’t break her gaze from Garrett’s. “I can’t,” she conceded. “And I don’t.” She clasped her hands in front of her to prevent them from flying up in frustration. She had nothing—no proof. Only her innate distrust… and Tristan’s. Garrett clasped her shoulders, pulled her forward, and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I have no wish for more dissension between us.”
“I don’t want that either,” she whispered, forcing her hands to drop to her sides.
“Rebecca is very young. She’ll need your continued love and support.”
“She will have it,” Sophie said.
He pulled back, and a ghost of a smile curved his lips. “There’s some business I need to attend, but we’ll be home by dinnertime. We can discuss the marriage further then. Fisk would like to apply for a special license as soon as possible.”
She exhaled, her breath coming out in a wisp of nerves. “Why the haste?”
“Why not? The young people are eager to get it done.”
“She’s a duke’s daughter, Garrett. This will take planning—months, perhaps. We must select the wedding party, and plan for the festivities…”
Please, oh, please, she prayed. Keep them from rushing into this…
“We’ll discuss it tonight, my love.” He smiled somberly. “My only concern is my own health. I should like to see my sister and friend marry before I—”
She quickly interrupted him. “Is Mr. Fisk going with you this afternoon?”
“Yes, he is.”
Sophie forced herself to smile and nod at him like the complacent, accepting wife she’d once been. “I’ll see you at dinner, then.”
He kissed her, just a brush of lips, and turned away. Sophie watched him as he rounded the corner of the house and disappeared.
Everyone had gone from the house. It was Connor and Delia’s day off. For the first time in weeks, she had a few hours completely to herself—a few hours to search for proof that William Fisk wasn’t the man he pretended to be.
Chapter Seventeen
It had rained intermittently every day, but Tristan doggedly rode onward, spurred by the information he’d unearthed in London. Arriving at dusk last night, he’d found the King’s Arms, an inn on the Warwick road near Kenil-worth Castle. He’d spent most of the night in the downstairs tavern, loosening the locals’ tongues with whiskey and ale. They were twins, after all. William and Warren Fisk. Apparently Warren died in battle, and the villagers all believed William had died of infection shortly thereafter. Restless with the information he’d learned, Tristan tossed and turned on the lumpy mattress for a few hours before awakening to a quick breakfast and a ride in the misty morning a few miles past the castle to the ramshackle manor of the Marquis of Debussey. According to the townsfolk, the marquis had always been reclusive, but since his marchioness died five years ago, he hadn’t left the house at all. In the Tudor style, the house was built of timber, with crossbeams of a dark gray over whitewashed walls. A single plume of smoke curled lazily from one of the three visible chimneys. No servants rushed out to greet Tristan as he dismounted and tethered his horse to a post in the overgrown lawn. Removing his hat, he approached the house. Unpolished brass lions stood on low pedestals flanking the entryway. Tristan mounted the marble steps and stopped at the door. He raised the heavy brass knocker and let it fall onto the dark wood planks. A clap of noise echoed inside.Nobody answered.
He banged the knocker against the door three more times, but still he was ignored. Sighing, he clapped his hat under his arm and stepped off the landing. A still, foul-smelling lake bordered one side of the estate, so Tristan rounded the opposite corner and took the overgrown path along the edge of the house. Within moments, his trousers were wet to the knees. He skirted mud puddles, passed windows covered by heavy draperies. When he’d gone about half the length of the building, he came across another door. This one was larger than the other and deep within an arched alcove. And it was open a crack.
For good measure, he knocked again, this time using his knuckles. Again, no one responded. After waiting a few moments, he pushed the door wide to a small, cheerless anteroom branching into a hall. He chose to take the path leading toward the muffled sounds of voices filtering from a room at the end of the stark corridor. As he approached, he smelled baking bread and realized he must be heading toward the kitchens. Perfect.
He paused for a moment outside, listening to the feminine chatter within. Then he opened the door.
One of the women squealed; another pressed her flour-covered hand to her mouth to stop a scream. A third, the eldest woman in the room, who sat on a chair in the corner mending a pair of trousers, just looked at him with uncannily familiar calm brown eyes. An older, feminine version of William Fisk. The “dead” mother.
“Sorry for the interruption,” he said mildly. “There was no response to my knock.”
The younger women looked toward the older one, clearly deferring to her. Carefully, she set the trousers aside, taking the time to fold them neatly over the arm of her chair. She finally rose. “We didn’t hear you, sir.”
He didn’t believe that.
“Regardless,” she continued, “Lord Debussey isn’t at home to visitors.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right, ma’am,” Tristan said smoothly. “I’m not here to see Lord Debussey. I’m here to see you.”
After an hour spent searching Garrett’s study, Sophie realized it was useless. If Fisk had engaged in nefarious behavior, he didn’t keep a record of it under Garrett’s nose. Every bill and receipt, and every note of correspondence appeared legitimate. The only place she hadn’t yet explored was the small locked drawer in Garrett’s desk, but she only had one guess about where he might keep the key. She pushed a chair over to the window, kicked off her half-boots and, teetering on the velvet cushion, ran her fingertips along the top of the wooden casing.
Her lips softened into a smile when her fing
ers brushed against metal. Tristan had kept the drawer unlocked, the key in a pouch inside. But this had been Garrett’s hiding place before he went to war so long ago.
Grasping the key, she jumped off the chair and hurried over to the desk without bothering to slip on her boots. The lock had been recently oiled and turned easily. She pulled the drawer open.
Its only contents were a sheaf of papers, and she took them out, closing the drawer and setting them on the desk. On the top were her and Garrett’s original marriage documents, signed by the clergyman who’d married them in the chapel near Calton House. Beneath that were the documents pertaining to the court’s decision of nullity regarding her marriage to Tristan. Her heart aching, she set those aside. The remaining papers were letters addressed to her. She withdrew them and flipped quickly through. She didn’t have time to read them now, but Garrett must’ve seen something he considered suspicious—probably just silly gossip or innuendo—to have kept them from her.
Carefully, she set the papers back in the drawer and turned the key in the lock. As she replaced the key on the window casing, she realized there was only one more place to look for condemning information on Fisk. His bedchamber. The mere thought of entering the man’s personal domain sent waves of dread coursing through her. After returning everything to its place in the study, she slipped out the door. The house was quiet—Mrs. Krum was in the kitchen going over the month’s menu. The footmen, free to dally when both Connor and the duke weren’t at home, were outside basking in the sun. Holding her half-boots in her hand so they wouldn’t tap against the wood floor, Sophie tiptoed up the stairs in stockinged feet. Fisk’s room was just across the corridor and down from the bedchamber she shared with Garrett. After taking a second to fortify herself, she pushed open the door.
She hadn’t entered this room since before Fisk and Garrett had arrived in London. Garrett’s ancestors had named it the Lavender Room, but in her memory it had never been decorated in purple and bore no traces of a lavender scent. In fact, it smelled faintly of alcohol. She found the source of the smell right away—an open crystal decanter of brandy sat burrowed between piles of documents on the top shelf of the escritoire. Odd, since she knew Fisk never drank the stuff.
She stepped inside and turned slowly, taking in the surroundings. She knew the room well and had decorated it with velvets and silks of deep burgundy just a year ago, but Fisk had placed his own stamp upon the place. It seemed he planned to stay indefinitely, for there was no sign of luggage to indicate he was a mere visitor. He’d re-covered the bed and replaced the draperies with a smart set of striped gray and brown damask with matching bolsters and pillows. There was even a small case full of books beside the escritoire. Moving into the closet, she saw that its shelves were brimming with clothing, most of it crisp and with the appearance of being brand new.
She turned back to the escritoire. Papers were jammed into each of the pigeonhole openings below the shelf. It would take hours of painstaking work to go through all of them and replace them exactly as she had found them. Why on earth did Fisk need so many documents to begin with? It struck her as excessive.
With a sigh, she lowered herself before the escritoire, which, like Garrett’s, possessed a locking drawer. Tugging on it, she discovered that it was, of course, locked. She kept one key in the drawer for the use of the room’s occupant. But Fisk didn’t know she kept a spare in her personal cabinet in Garrett’s room in the event this one was lost. She quietly slipped down the hall and fetched the key, returning to the room just as she heard a creak from the direction of the stairwell. Someone was coming up. Quickly, she shut Fisk’s door behind her and leaned against it, her heart pounding. It would be an embarrassment to be caught, even by one of the servants. After a few breathless moments, the footsteps, accompanied by a feminine hum, passed outside. Just one of the chambermaids going about her duties.
When the sounds receded, Sophie rushed to the escritoire. Her hand trembling, she thrust the key into the lock.
Well, Fisk hadn’t thought everything through. He hadn’t changed the lock. It turned, and she opened the drawer.
Inside was a large stack of bills and receipts. She carefully pulled them out, mindful of keeping them in the proper order. The receipts were for varying large sums and included notations of what they were for.
New doors for Calton House, the previous doors being rotted beyond repair. New windows for Calton House, the current casings being rotted beyond repair. Rotting doors and windows at Calton House? The receipts were dated last week. That didn’t make sense—Tristan had issued the funds to repair the aging doors and windows just last year.
Recompense to Dr. Labreque of Ligny, for his efforts in saving the life of the Duke of Calton.
The doctor’s sum was quite large, Sophie thought. A hundred times more than the amount she’d ever paid any doctor.
Gerard Lebeck for repayment of the debts incurred by Garrett James, Duke of Calton. Payment to Mr. George Dewitt, Gardener of Calton House, for the purchase of seed due to the extensive damage of grounds from winter storm striking on February 7. Investment in bank stock.
Payment to Joelle Martin.
Sophie’s fingers stilled as she gazed at the receipt. A huge sum to Joelle Martin. Sophie swallowed, remembering the night he’d thought she was Joelle. Why was Garrett paying her? For what? Her chest tight, she thrust it aside and read on. Some of these couldn’t be real. There were several other references to debts she was certain Tristan had already paid. So many receipts for so many things—they must add up to two or three thousand pounds.
Two thousand a year—Fisk’s income. Garrett said it came from an estate in Leeds, but what if it was all a lie, and he was embezzling the funds instead?
Sophie’s flesh felt cold, but beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. Trying to keep her hands from shaking, she reordered the receipts and stacked them back inside the drawer. The door creaked.
Sophie swung her head, and her gaze crashed into William Fisk’s cool brown eyes, surveying her with her hands in his private papers.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said politely.
When their meeting with Ansley concluded early, Garrett chose not to return home with Fisk in the carriage—instead he strode toward Hyde Park. Maybe there he’d see his daughter—she and Gary weren’t due to return home for another hour or so. He passed Apsley House, the residence of the Duke of Wellington, field marshal at Waterloo. He stared up at the colossal black statue marking the entrance to the park. Achilles holding his shield and looking heavenward after having just defeated Hector. Garrett didn’t remember a monument here, and looking closer, he saw why. It was dedicated to Wellington and “his companions in arms” and was made from metal melted from cannon used at various battles, including Waterloo.
Something coursed through him, some residue of pride for his country, for his own regiment that had fought so bravely on the Continent. After a long, silent moment, Garrett tore his eyes from the statue and entered through the gate to Hyde Park. Immediately, memories slammed into him. The daily walks with Sophie in the days before he left for Belgium. Forbidding her to travel with him to the Continent as so many other officers’ wives had. He’d commanded her to stay home, where he knew she’d be safe. He didn’t trust her not to run into danger at the least sign he was in any kind of trouble. He hadn’t needed the distraction.
She’d agreed to stay without argument, and he was glad for it even now. If she’d gone, the strain of Waterloo might have endangered their daughter.
Would she agree to his demands so docilely now?
Absolutely not. His wife had changed, matured, become more independent. More intractable.
She’d told him that after he’d gone missing in battle, Tristan had wanted her to stay in England while he went to the Continent to look for Garrett. She had agreed, but only until her lying-in was over. When Miranda was an infant, Sophie joined him to continue the search. It seemed unbelievable, but they’d never found a sig
n of him. All the while, he’d been right under their noses. It was almost as if someone had been deliberately trying to hide him.
He walked along the path bordering the Serpentine, using his cane like a true gentleman, though it still felt odd. If people recognized him, they didn’t approach him. It was likely they worried he might literally bite their heads off. Monster that he was. The paths were crowded this afternoon due to the fineness of the weather, and it looked as if they were preparing for a festival of some sort, or perhaps a swimming match, for there were buoys topped with flags placed at specific intervals in the water, and several official-looking boats scattered across the river. Seeing no sign of the children, he turned deeper into the park. The path wound, and he turned again, this time down a deserted narrow trail leading into a small copse of trees.
“Well, ain’t he a purty ’un?”
Garrett spun round to find two women standing just off the path, both dressed in garish orange and pink, their bosoms overflowing from their bodices. He wasn’t naïve. He knew what they were. He remembered their kind liked to dwell on the less frequently used walkways of Hyde Park, on the prowl for customers. Embarrassed heat rose through his cheeks, and he gave a short bow. “Good afternoon, ladies. I was just passing through. Excuse me.”
He turned to leave, but one of them grabbed his arm, her long, bony fingers curling over the sleeve of his coat. He looked down at his arm, and then at her, hoping he looked disdainfully aristocratic enough to scare her off.
No. He’d never be as good as Tristan at giving that look.
“Now, what’s that, guv? You ain’t seen whot we’ve got to offer, now have you?”
He sighed. “I’ve no interest in what you have to offer. I merely took a wrong turn.”
The other one, a plumper, shorter girl with ratty blonde hair, tittered behind her hand.
A Hint of Wicked Page 25
