A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  “He’s quite the handsome gent, ain’t he?” she murmured when she’d stopped laughing, and compassion seeped into her tone. “Where’d you get that awful scar, though, guv?”

  He looked at her sharply. The sound of her voice was like velvet, and it reminded him of Joelle. Her smooth words whispering in his ear, flowing through him like warm honey. His body responded instantly, his cock hardening in a blink of an eye. The whore brushed her hand over the front of his trousers. “Quite the big gent, he is, too,”

  she said saucily, batting her eyelashes at him.

  He yanked his arm from the unsuspecting woman’s grasp and smacked her hand away.

  “Leave me alone, goddamn it,” he growled.

  They scattered like frightened rabbits, and he took off his hat and ran a weary hand through his hair. He couldn’t blame them for being afraid. Hell, he shouldn’t have frightened them. They weren’t to blame.

  He had simply taken out his disgust with himself on them. God, he despised himself for thinking carnally of another woman when he and Sophie were finally happy together. Or, he amended, back on the road toward happiness. They weren’t there yet. Sophie didn’t love him as freely as she once had. She smiled and made love to him and tried to cover her sadness, but she still often had a distant, dreamy look in her eyes, and he knew she was far away from him, thinking of Tristan.

  A petty part of him wondered why he shouldn’t be allowed to fantasize about other women when he knew his own wife was thinking of another man. But that wasn’t fair. Tristan couldn’t be compared to a whore. Even Joelle, who had been a source of comfort on many of Garrett’s darkest nights, wasn’t as imprinted into his life as Tristan was in Sophie’s. But the question remained, and it disturbed him to his core. Why were thoughts of Joelle making him hard when he was married to Sophie?

  That had never happened before, when they were younger. Back then, she was the only one who could move him.

  He looked up at the sky, wishing he had a timepiece with him. It must be nearing dinnertime. Banishing all thoughts of other women from his mind, he relaxed, anticipating a pleasant, quiet evening at home with his family. And Fisk, of course, who would be family soon enough.

  Mrs. Fisk led Tristan into the abandoned service hall. The place was dusty from disuse, but she placidly informed him that since there were only four servants in Lord Debussey’s household, the chances of them being interrupted were slim to none. She motioned to a row of chairs lining the wall. “Please have a seat, sir.”

  He took the one closest to the window, ignoring the dust billowing around him as he sat. She sat primly on the edge of the chair across from him, and then she simply gazed at him, her expression unreadable.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Fisk. I am Tristan James, Viscount Westcliff.”

  She pursed her lips. “You know my name.”

  “Indeed, ma’am. You bear a strong resemblance to your son.”

  She didn’t move. Then she spoke, very slowly. “I look nothing like Reginald.”

  “Reginald? No ma’am. I was referring to William.”

  She stiffened even more. “William is deceased, my lord.”

  “Oh, but he isn’t,” Tristan said quietly. “His twin brother Warren perished at Waterloo, but William is still very much alive.”

  She just stared at him, unmoving, unblinking.

  “Does that come as a surprise to you, ma’am?”

  She blew out a breath through tight lips. “Sir, I beg you. I’ve only just recently come to terms with the death of my sons. Why are you doing this?”

  All right, then. He took a different tack. “When did you hear of William’s death?”

  She gave a slight shake of her head.

  “Please, ma’am. I believe your son is alive, and if that’s the case, I might be able to help you reunite with him.”

  She gazed down at the black-and-white checkered pattern of the floor tiles. “I received one letter from Willy after the conflict stating the circumstances of Warren’s death in very bitter terms. He mentioned the duke’s regiment being disbanded, and said he was coming home. Two months later, I received a letter from a doctor and a death certificate stating he died from a pestilence he contracted on the battlefield.”

  “Your son wanted you to think him dead. Now why might that be, Mrs. Fisk?”

  For the first time, her composure cracked. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I—I couldn’t say.”

  Because he was a social climber and didn’t want the world to know his mama was the housekeeper of a reclusive bucolic lord, perhaps?

  Mrs. Fisk had clearly taught her son well. Her bearing and language were such that she might under different circumstances easily be mistaken as a member of the aristocracy.

  “I don’t know why either, Mrs. Fisk.” He gave her a small smile and tried to cheer her. “I assure you he is well, and living in London.”

  Unfortunately, he was also probably breaking the law. But how? Embezzling money from Garrett somehow? And Dr. MacAllister—was he involved, too? Were the two men in collusion?

  The urge to leave this place, mount his horse, and ride straight back to London nearly overwhelmed him.

  “It is… so good to hear he’s alive.” But Mrs. Fisk looked distraught, appalled. As she well might. What kind of son allowed his mother to think he was dead for almost eight years?

  “Are you still in possession of that last letter he sent you, ma’am? And the doctor’s letter?”

  She gazed at him with confused dark eyes. “Why, yes, I am.”

  “I don’t mean to intrude, but might I see them?”

  “Of course.” She rose abruptly. “I’ll return shortly, my lord.”

  She withdrew, but paused in the corridor outside to speak to someone in low, urgent tones. After a moment, she threw her hands up and strode off, leaving a pale, slender young woman wearing the frilled cap of a chambermaid standing in the doorway.

  “Is it true?” she asked in a low voice. “Is Willy alive?”

  Tristan rose to greet the newcomer. “And you might be?”

  She curtsied awkwardly as if she were unused to the action. “I’m sorry, my lord. My name is Katherine Fisk. I’m Willy’s sister.”

  “I see.” He paused. “Yes, Katherine. Your brother lives.”

  She clapped her hand to her heaving chest, and what little color she had drained from her face. When her mother told her the news, she clearly hadn’t believed it, but when he had, the truth seemed to strike her like a lightning bolt.

  She swayed, and he reached out to steady her. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said breathlessly. “I suppose I would.”

  He guided her to a chair, and she lowered herself into it, then clenched her hands in her lap. “I can’t believe it. Willy’s alive.”

  Tristan studied her. “Are you older or younger than William, Katherine?”

  “Younger by five years, my lord.”

  “What do you remember of your brother?”

  “Everything, sir.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Well, he and Warren were inseparable. Two peas in a pod, they were.” She smiled fondly.

  “They were the stable boys here, back when there were horses. Nobody could tell them apart. They even tricked Mama sometimes.”

  “And where’s your papa?”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “Well, he abandoned our mama when we were very small. That’s why she was ever so grateful to Lord Debussey for taking us all in. Most employers wouldn’t care for three little children, you know. But Lord Debussey, he didn’t mind us so much. I think because his own wife was barren. And now we all have Reginald—”

  Seeming to comprehend that she’d said too much, Katherine clamped her lips shut.

  “I see,” Tristan said. “So you have prospered with Lord Debussey?”

  “Well, Mama’s uncle was a baronet, you see, but we don’t know them, because her own mama and
papa disowned her for marrying our papa. And they were right in warning her off, it seems, weren’t they?”

  “Indeed,” Tristan agreed dryly.

  “But,” Katherine continued, “though Mama always says the position of a housekeeper is below her breeding, she doesn’t mind it so much. We were well-fed and Lord Debussey and his wife were always very kind, even to the boys, who could be terrible scoundrels. When they were of age, Lord Debussey, who is a great patriot, my lord, gifted them with their commissions.”

  “That was generous of him.” Too generous. There was definitely something more to that story.

  She smiled. “Aye, it was. He’s a generous man. That’s why we’ve stayed on now that he is ill.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yes, sir. They say it’s a terrible disease that rots his lungs away. The doctor says he’ll be truly blessed to survive the year.”

  “And what are your plans once Lord Debussey passes on?”

  “The estate is to go to a distant cousin we’ve never seen nor met. But Mama says his lordship’s set aside a pension for both of us and an income for Reggie.”

  “But what about William, Katherine? Do you have any idea why William would lie to you and your mama about his death?”

  “No, sir.” She shook her head. “But if Warren truly did perish in the war, Willy must’ve taken it very hard indeed.”

  “Warren died at Waterloo,” Tristan said softly. “I’m sorry. I saw the record myself.”

  Katherine nodded. “It’s a blessing from God, indeed, sir, to learn that one of my brothers is alive after thinking him dead for so long. Tell me, is he a great man of Town? Willy and Warren always used to strut about the grounds with sticks pretending they were the haughtiest dandies to ever walk down the streets of Mayfair.” She grinned at him, her smile wide and striking, and at odds with the drab grayness of her attire. “Do tell me, sir. Is Willy a fine gentleman now?”

  “Katherine.” The sharp voice came from the doorway, and Tristan looked up to see Mrs. Fisk standing at the threshold holding the promised letters and giving her daughter a disapproving stare. Again he rose from his chair.

  The young woman’s gaze dropped to her feet. “Sorry, Mama.”

  “Leave us,” Mrs. Fisk snapped.

  Katherine stood and gave another awkward curtsy. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” she murmured before fleeing, her eyes downcast.

  Mrs. Fisk closed the door, then stepped toward him, holding out the letters. “Here they are, my lord.”

  He took the packet and she returned to the seat across from him, gazing at him with those calm, expectant brown eyes.

  “Mrs. Fisk,” he said, “is it true your master purchased the commissions for your sons?”

  She regarded him steadily. “Yes, sir.”

  “Quite a benevolent gift, Mrs. Fisk.”

  “It was.”

  “Why would a gentleman purchase army commissions for two of his servants?” Tristan tapped his chin in speculation. “Perhaps he was, in actuality, their father?”

  She straightened, and her brown eyes bespoke defiance. “No indeed, sir, he was not. My eldest three children were legitimate, all of them.”

  “Then they must have done him a great, great service to deserve such a gift.”

  Her brown gaze narrowed. “I want to know more about my son.”

  “Anything I know, I will tell you.”

  She stared at him for a long moment before speaking again. “Very well, sir. It was not my sons who did him a great service. It was myself.”

  “Ah.” Tristan paused. So she had sold her body to Lord Debussey for the purchase of her sons’ commissions. An interesting exchange, one he’d never heard tell of before. Lord Debussey must have placed an inordinately high value on her “services.”

  “My father was a gentleman, my lord, and I assure you, my twins did not deserve to be tied to a life of servitude. They were astute, charming, handsome boys, born to be gentlemen. I would have done anything, anything, to ensure they had a future.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Fisk.”

  “Lord Debussey was in need of an heir. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to provide him with one before Lady Debussey passed on. By that time, he had honored his part of our contract. I am bound to him. For life.”

  Lowering himself into the chair, Tristan focused on the papers in his hand. Mrs. Fisk watched him silently as he skimmed the top page, which was a quite official-looking death certificate. At the bottom was a scrawl from a doctor adding his condolences. The next sheet was the letter from Fisk to his mother, dated just two days after the battle of Waterloo.

  Dearest Mother,

  Warren is dead. Shot to death by a man on our own side. We were on the walls of a château called Hougoumont, vulnerable to the enemy’s onslaught. Warren and I doubted the order to scale the wall put forth by our colonel, but as in service, one must always follow one’s orders in the army, so we did as we were told. I was hesitant, but as you know, Warren was the less obstinate of the two of us, and he convinced me to follow the order, as madcap a scheme as it was.

  My brother was shot in the back. He fell from the wall and died in my arms as the battle raged around us. Many other men in our regiment fell around us in a violent and despicable manner as the French set fire to the château and we cowered in the muddy garden, lambs to the slaughter, sacrifices to Wellington’s grand victory. Mutiny would have been a better choice, no doubt. I am alone in the world because of a vain, spoiled aristocrat who threw us into danger without a care. The colonel himself is missing and likely dead. I hope he is. I hope he burns in the fires of hell for what he has done to Warren and the other men.

  The regiment is to be disbanded, and I will be selling my commission. I shall be home within a month’s time.

  Your Son,

  William

  Tristan stared at Fisk’s angry script. He remembered the burned remains of Hougoumont. Weeks after Waterloo, he’d seen firsthand the château where Garrett had fiercely staved off wave after wave of French troops determined to breach the wall. If they’d succeeded, it would have put them in the perfect location to view Wellington’s every move, greatly weakening the allied position.

  His heart pounding, Tristan recalled the charred walls of the ruin. The bloodstains everywhere. The overwhelming evidence of death and destruction. At all costs, he’d avoided taking Sophie to the site when she arrived a few months later. Tristan set the letter in his lap and flexed his stiff fingers. This wasn’t the voice of the calm, conciliatory man Tristan had known in London. It was the voice of an angry, vengeful boy.

  He glanced up at Fisk’s mother. She was like him. Calm and determined. Both would go to any lengths to get what they wanted. And it seemed they wanted the same thing: Fisk’s success in the world of men. Because of their distant link to the aristocracy, she had raised him to believe he was entitled to it.

  “Please tell me about my son now, my lord.” Despite her lack of rank, Mrs. Fisk’s clear voice dripped with confidence. It wasn’t surprising a man as quietly evil as Fisk had sprung from her womb.

  As promised, Tristan told her everything he knew about Fisk. But he could not bring himself to say that after Fisk had spent the funds from his commission, he had become a blackguard and had likely achieved everything through extortion and embezzlement. As he spoke his concern grew. Sophie could be in danger. The children. And perhaps Garrett himself, blind to Fisk’s machinations, was most at risk. When he had finished, a little towheaded boy ran into the room and directly into Mrs. Fisk’s arms, crying, “Mama, Mama!”

  Young Reginald. Lord Debussey’s son, no doubt. A bastard gifted him too late after his wife’s death to be passed off as a legitimate heir. Tristan wondered if Fisk even knew he had another brother.

  Later that afternoon, Tristan was on a horse riding hard for London. Sophie slowly withdrew her hand from the drawer. She pushed the drawer shut and locked it, willing her hand not to shake, before she responded.

  “M
r. Fisk. What a surprise.”

  “Yes,” he said pleasantly. The look on his face was utterly emotionless. He stepped in and softly shut the door behind him. It was the most menacing action Sophie had ever seen.

  She rose unsteadily from the chair. “I was just looking for a document I misplaced. Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to be here.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  She affected a sigh. “Truly it is. I suppose I shall have to try His Grace’s study next.”

  She moved toward the door, but he stepped in front of her, and she jolted to a halt.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Fisk.” She stared straight ahead at his chin, unable to raise her eyes to his.

  “I don’t think so, Your Grace.”

  For the first time, she noticed how large he was. Not as big as Garrett, but he was far wider and taller than her.

  She should scream. Surely one of the servants would hear. It would arouse gossip, but if she didn’t, she feared something much worse than servants gossiping belowstairs. She opened her lips, but before any sound emerged, he slammed his hand over her mouth and twisted her body around, clapping the other burly arm across her chest. Her screams sounded like muffled squeaks, no louder than a frightened mouse. It was hopeless—nobody would hear her.

  She couldn’t take a breath. His arm clamped tightly around her, constricting her lungs. His hand covered her mouth and nose.

  She still held the key to the drawer. Turning it in her fist so the sharper end faced him, she gathered all the strength she possessed and plunged the key into his thigh. He grunted in pain and released her. Gasping for air, she scurried out of reach. But he was blocking the door. And, faster than she could blink, he leaped on her. They tumbled to the carpeted floor, her head grazing the corner of an end table. The impact of him falling on her jolted through her body, leaving her breathless.

  Taking advantage of her momentary daze, he scrambled atop her, pinning her arms beneath his knees. Then he dropped his forearm on her throat. “Bitch.” He stared down at her with gleaming eyes. Saliva stretched between his teeth as he sneered at her. “I knew it would be you. You couldn’t let well enough alone, could you?”

  He was crushing her windpipe. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. She could only move her legs, but they flailed uselessly, unable to make contact with his body. She thumped her ankles against the carpet, staring at him in terror.