“Yes. Well, she took three servants with her.”
“Where the hell is Garrett?”
“He’s been very ill, Tristan. Mr. Fisk was poisoning him with opium.”
“Was that why—?”
“Yes, it was the opium that caused the outburst at Lady Keene’s ball.”
“Good God,” Tristan muttered. He pushed himself off the sideboard and looked accusingly at his aunt. “You let her go?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Damn it!” He took several deep breaths to regain his composure. “Forgive me for cursing, Aunt, but you don’t know what you’ve done. William Fisk is an angry man. He’s dangerous.”
“I know that, Tristan. Sophie knew it when she left in pursuit of them. He…” She licked her lips. “He assaulted her.”
“What?” He stared at his aunt in disbelief.
“He tried to strangle her, and he hit her with a crystal lamp. He would have killed her, but one of the chambermaids interrupted the deed, so he merely left her unconscious in a closet. Sophie was cut and bruised, but otherwise all right.”
“And she still tried to follow him?” he gasped. Foolish, suicidal woman!
“She is Rebecca’s only hope, Tristan.”
“God.” Tristan paced the long length of the drawing room. Fools, all of them. Would Sophie really take such a risk to save something so trivial as Becky’s honor?
Of course she would.
He spun to face his aunt. “When?”
“She left this morning. Just before noon.”
That gave them almost a five-hour lead. But she was in a carriage and they’d be on horseback. “Where is Garrett now?”
“He’s sleeping. The doctor finally determined he was past all danger and decided to let him rest.”
“Does he know about any of this?”
Aunt Bertrice shook her head. “I told him Sophie was asleep. As disoriented as he has been, he didn’t question it.”
“Well, it’s time for him to wake up and hear what has happened. His wife needs him.”
As he turned to leave the room, Aunt Bertrice grabbed his sleeve. “Be gentle with him, Tristan. The opium is still affecting him.”
Tristan looked down at his aunt. True concern clouded her blue gaze, and he put his hand over hers. “I will, Aunt. But we’re both going after Sophie and Becky. Together.”
“Good,” she whispered.
Connor scratched on the door to announce that a Mr. Jennings was waiting downstairs. Aunt Bertrice told the butler to show him up.
Tristan turned to her. “What is Jennings doing here?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Aunt Bertrice said. “Sophie seemed to believe he was a friend of yours and he’d help us.”
“Well, she was right to call him.” Tristan moved to the door to greet Jennings, his mind whirling.
The older man looked surprised to see him. “My lord! I thought you were in Leeds.”
“Kenilworth, actually. I was, but I just returned moments ago. Please sit down, Jennings.”
Jennings sat, and as Aunt Bertrice fussed over him and brought him tea, Tristan explained all that had happened. Jennings nodded in response, but didn’t appear overly surprised.
“I’ve discovered the identity of ‘Dr. MacAllister,’ my lord. He is an actor, currently appearing in the minor role of Doctor Butts in Covent Garden’s production of Henry VIII.”
Tristan sucked in a breath. So when Fisk had visited the theater, it was not for a tryst with an actress, but to collude with the “doctor.” How much had Fisk promised to pay him for his deception?
It didn’t matter. Now he would hang. “Find him,” Tristan ground out. “Have him arrested.”
“I will, my lord.”
“Also…” Tristan cast a glance at Aunt Bertrice. “I believe there might be cause to question the duke’s solicitor, Ansley.”
“Oh, not Mr. Ansley, too,” Aunt Bertrice gasped. “But he has worked for our family for so long…” She rubbed her temples as if willing it all away.
Tristan understood her feeling of betrayal. He’d known the man almost all his life, had worked with him, had depended on him. “I’m not certain, Aunt, but he and Fisk were speaking daily, and Ansley’s no fool. By now, he should have alerted Garrett that something was amiss. The mere fact that he hasn’t raises my suspicions. Furthermore, I’m not certain Fisk could have been so successful in all he has done without Ansley’s help.”
“I agree, my lord,” Jennings said. “I will look into the matter while you are gone.”
“Thank you, Jennings.”
Tristan showed Jennings out and then he went back upstairs. It was time to wake the Duke of Calton.
Garrett felt as if he’d been eaten by a dragon, chewed, and spat out. He could hardly drag his eyelids upward. He saw everything in double. He squinted at the dark figure hovering over him, then growled out loud when he finally discerned who it was. Tristan.
“Oh, do calm yourself,” Aunt Bertrice snapped from behind Tristan’s shoulder. “There’s no time for your childish games today, boy.”
“What’s he doing here?” he rasped.
“I’ve come to help you,” Tristan said.
“I don’t need help.” Garrett made to turn over and fall back to sleep, but a steely grip on his shoulder kept him in place.
“You must wake up, Garrett,” Tristan said firmly. “And you must gather your wits.”
“You’re going to need them,” Aunt Bertrice added.
He blinked until the wavering faces of his cousin and aunt came into focus. “Why?” he demanded in a cracking voice. “Has something happened?”
Where was Sophie? He couldn’t remember seeing her since he’d woken up to cold water being poured over his head by the strange doctor—a most barbaric, painful, and despicable prescription, but the doctor had seemed satisfied it had roused him. As soon as the servants had warmed his chilled extremities, he’d fallen back into bed surrounded by heated bricks. He wondered how much time had passed since then. He’d woken once or twice in the interim. Each time, Miranda had been by his side. The first time she’d read to him in her crisp, sparkling voice from Gulliver’s Travels until he’d fallen asleep again, and the second time she’d held his hand and chattered on sweetly about nothing.
“Yes, something has happened.” Tristan’s arms encircled him and pulled him into a seated position.
Garrett’s mind was a garble of confusion. But then he remembered—he’d been searching for Sophie in the rose garden… and then… God. The madness had overtaken him yet again.
He groaned in pain and covered his eyes when Tristan opened the window and sunlight invaded the room like scraping glass against the inside of his skull. And then Aunt Bertrice explained what had happened. As she spoke, Garrett dragged his legs over the side of the bed so he sat on its edge.
Fisk. The word resonated through him with each heavy beat of his heart. Fisk had assaulted Sophie. He’d tried to kill her. He’d eloped with Rebecca. He’d lied about his family and about the inheritance he’d said came from his uncle. He’d embezzled from Garrett. He’d eavesdropped on all of them. He’d hired an actor to diagnose Garrett with madness. He’d propagated the rumors regarding Garrett’s sanity, and he’d made Garrett doubt himself, all the while poisoning him with opiates.
“No,” he whispered. “Fisk is my friend. This is impossible. I cannot believe it.”
“You’d best believe it, boy. Fisk has taken Becky to Scotland. Sophie is battered and bruised, with a gash on her head.”
“But why would he—?”
“Revenge,” Tristan said tiredly. Garrett’s gaze shot to his cousin, who’d curled his tall body into one of the armchairs beside the fire and was rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingertips.
“Why?”
“His twin brother died at Waterloo, and Fisk blames you.”
“Why would he blame me for such a tragedy?” Garrett couldn’t recall the events of tha
t day, but he knew he’d have done nothing less than follow the orders that came down from the field marshal.
“He believes you placed them in danger deliberately. ‘Lambs to the slaughter,’ I believe were his exact words.”
“God.” Garrett raised his heavy arm to push his hand forcefully through his hair. “I don’t remember. As much as I remember about everything else, I can’t remember anything about Waterloo.”
“He hates you, Garrett. He believes you deserve any unhappiness or dishonor that might come your way, so he has taken every opportunity to manipulate your life into a shambles, all the while becoming rich from his efforts and making himself appear to be the hero.”
“Not to Sophie,” Garrett murmured. She hadn’t trusted Fisk. Why hadn’t he listened to her? He was a damn fool and a brute.
Tristan continued. “Fisk is distantly related to a baronet, and he feels entitled to the life of an aristocrat. It explains why he was stealing from you and so fervently pursuing Becky. When he realized Sophie knew of his embezzlement, he still thought he could get his filthy hands on Becky’s money by marrying her. That’s why he’s taking her to Scotland.”
All of it made strange, twisted sense. He should have seen it—he was a fool not to have done so.
“Where is Sophie?” he asked gruffly.
“She’s gone after him,” Tristan said, his face tight with tension. Garrett stared at the other man, uncomprehending. “Gone after him? I don’t understand.”
“She took two grooms and a maid and went in pursuit of them.”
“Why the hell didn’t she call for help?”
“There was no time. Furthermore, she couldn’t trust anyone not to spread news of Becky’s disgrace all over England.” Aunt Bertrice looked pointedly at both men. “The two people she depends on most were unavailable, so she’s ventured on her own to make one last attempt to salvage Rebecca’s reputation.”
“By confronting a man who has attempted to murder us both?” Garrett asked in rising anger.
“She has no intention of confronting him,” Aunt Bertrice said. “She merely intends to convince Becky to come home.”
Garrett stood, forcing his protesting legs not to wobble. “I must go after them.”
“No,” Tristan said. “Sophie needs us both. We’ll both go.”
After a moment, Garrett nodded. Commanding his beleaguered body to move, he strode over to his wardrobe and opened it, yanking out the first articles of clothing he could find. Aunt Bertrice excused herself, leaving the two men alone.
Maintaining a firm grip on his relative calm, Garrett pulled his stockings up his legs. It hardly seemed real that his trusted friend was in actuality the enemy. If it were only Tristan come in to tell him everything the man had done, he’d never have believed him. But Aunt Bertrice was there, too. He had no choice but to accept all this, though a part of him insisted he was still in the depths of his madness, and that must be why nothing made sense.
“We’ll change horses as often as possible,” Tristan said. “I’ve already been riding for days, but we’ll ride through the night. I imagine you and I will both collapse from exhaustion if we don’t stop at some point, but we’ll do the best we can. Fisk has most likely hired a post chaise and Sophie’s in the traveling carriage. Knowing Sophie, she’ll change teams and ride through the night. She’s likely to catch them first.”
“We’ll try not to let that happen.” Garrett’s gut clenched at the thought of Fisk hurting Sophie. And it was his fault. He’d welcomed Fisk in their home, given him his trust…
A memory slammed into him, and he paused with his riding breeches dangling from his fingers. “I have a sensitivity to opiates.”
A line appeared between Tristan’s eyebrows as he frowned. “What?”
Garrett closed his eyes. The battle. His men had been on the fringes of it, unlike at Waterloo. He’d taken a blow to the arm. The skin hadn’t been broken, but it had swollen, and the doctor had given him laudanum to soothe it. “At the battle of Quatre Bras, I suffered a minor injury. I was told afterward the doctor gave me laudanum for the pain. The next morning I couldn’t remember any of it, but Sir Thomas said I had behaved in quite a distressing manner, throwing things and raging. By the following afternoon I was able to resume my duties.”
Tristan nodded. “Fisk must’ve witnessed that incident. He intended to have his vengeance on you by allowing the world to watch you decline into madness.”
“And in the meantime, stealing my fortune and my sister.” The weight of Garrett’s arms was suddenly too heavy to bear. He let his hands drop to his sides, defeated. The breeches slipped from his fingers. Christ. He was an idiot. If Fisk had indeed done all they’d accused him of, then he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sophie or Rebecca. If anything happened to Sophie or his sister, he would never forgive himself.
With renewed energy, he retrieved the breeches and yanked them on, then pulled on a shirt and a waistcoat. Then he knelt to retrieve his gun from the oriental cabinet.
“Damn it!” he spat.
“What is it?” Tristan unfolded his body from the chair and came to investigate. Garrett looked at him over his shoulder. “She took my pistol.”
A muscle twitched in Tristan’s jaw. “There are more guns in the gun cabinet,” he noted.
“But we must leave. Now.”
“Yes.” Garrett closed his eyes, and a vision of his daughter, his bright blonde little angel, swam in his mind’s eye. “But first I have to say good-bye to Miranda.”
Miranda looked up from her book when Garrett walked into the nursery. “Papa! You’re up!”
He nodded. “Yes, I am, Miranda.” He glanced at Miss Dalworthy. “I should like to be alone with my daughter for a few minutes, please.”
The governess curtsied. “Of course, Your Grace.” She bustled Gary out of the room, and Garrett moved to kneel across from his daughter. He took her soft little hands in his own and squeezed gently.
“I must leave you, Miranda.”
“Are you going after Mama?”
He couldn’t help but smile. She was too observant. He’d never imagined experiencing any emotion as strong and sweet as what he felt for this intelligent little girl.
“Yes.”
“Will you come back?”
The question shot at him like a dart in the chest, and the smile slipped from his face. He couldn’t say he’d be back. He couldn’t predict what might happen, but he intended to kill William Fisk if Fisk didn’t get to him first. A feeling of dread had settled like a stone in his gut, and her question made it sink even deeper.
He wouldn’t lie to his daughter, so he gazed into her little heart-shaped face and told her the truth. “I don’t know, darling.”
She sucked in a breath. “Mama loves you, too, you know.”
She loves you too. Not just him. Not anymore. Sophie would never sacrifice that piece of her heart she’d given to Tristan. He knew that now.
“I know,” he said softly.
He gathered her in his arms and held her, rocking gently for several long moments.
“I love you, Papa,” she said, her voice muffled by his coat.
“I love you, darling.” He kissed the top of her head. “I love you, Miranda.”
Before he left to join Tristan at the stables, he stopped by his study, where he kept a miniature he’d found of his daughter in one of the desk drawers. It was a good likeness, showing the expressiveness of her eyes, the pink flush of her cheeks, her blonde curls. He slipped the little portrait into his coat pocket. No matter what happened, she’d stay close to his heart.
Chapter Twenty
Tristan pulled up beside Garrett, who’d slowed his mount, a dull brown chestnut, to a trot. Both horses were tired, though probably not as tired as the men riding them. They’d pushed hard, driving through the night until they couldn’t stay seated, then up at dawn after a few fitful hours. It was hell knowing Sophie and Becky were in danger. Tristan just wanted to eat the miles between them an
d spit them out. He didn’t care how tired he was—he couldn’t stand the thought of Sophie hurt by that bastard.
“We’ll catch them tonight,” Garrett murmured. Dark circles ringed his eyes, red rimmed his lids, and he slumped in the saddle. As tired as Tristan was, he knew Garrett was even more exhausted. He still battled the lingering effects of the opium, but he never complained.
Tristan nodded and glanced at the sky. The sun already dipped low, edging from behind a thick cloud cover. The people in the last village they’d passed through had said Fisk and Becky’s carriage had stopped there at noon, and Sophie’s had driven through three hours after that. If Garrett and Tristan pushed hard and rode through dinner, they should arrive at the village of Brough just behind Sophie. If Fisk chose to stop there for the night, that was where this drama would play out.
“I remembered something else,” Garrett said.
Tristan gazed at his cousin. His mouth was set in a flat line, his fists clenched the reins.
“What’s that?” Tristan asked.
Garrett slid a glance at him then stared ahead. “The battle. For the first time, I remembered what happened. I remembered—I think I remember—Lieutenant Fisk. My first and only encounter with him as a soldier in my regiment.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d suffered a cut to the head.” He reached up and ran his finger over the knot on his forehead. “I’d been shot. I was down, gasping for breath. My mouth was full of dirt and blood, I think… God.”
He reached into his jacket to pull out a flask, from which he took a long draught. Tristan remained silent, watching him. When he’d capped the flask and slid it back into his pocket, Garrett continued. “I thought I was dead. It was complete chaos—madness all around, men falling everywhere, fire. I didn’t know where any of my aides had gone. Blood streamed into my eyes, and I couldn’t see. But I could hear. Screaming, shouting, the clash of weapons, the guns and cannon. The sounds were deafening. I felt as if I was drowning in them. And then someone turned me over and wiped the blood out of my eyes, and I saw a wild youth, mad with bloodlust.”
A Hint of Wicked Page 29
