A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

“Fisk,” Tristan said.

  “Yes.” Garrett frowned. “I think so… yes, I’m sure it was him. He didn’t look nearly as…

  civilized as he does now.” He shook his head. “But I am certain it was Fisk.”

  “What happened?”

  “At first, by the expression on his face, I thought he was the enemy, and he was going to put me out of my misery. But then he dropped to his knees beside me, and when I saw his red coat, I knew he was one of mine. He said, ‘You’ve been injured, colonel.’ I couldn’t answer him—my tongue wouldn’t work, and I could only stare up at him. He said, ‘Let’s get you somewhere safe.’ He took me by the armpits and dragged me to this place, an underground cellar, I think it was.” Garrett’s brow furrowed. “I can’t remember how he got me there—I imagine I was unconscious most of the way. But then I opened my eyes to find myself curled in a ball on my side on a hard dirt floor. The only light was from the door…”

  Garrett’s voice trailed off, his eyebrows drawn together as he stared at a spot in the road just ahead. But Tristan knew he wasn’t seeing the road. He was seeing for the first time the scene that had been locked inside his head for eight years. “Or perhaps the light came from a window. I don’t know. But Fisk, he crouched on his haunches, looking at me calmly, chewing on a blade of grass. I could still hear the sounds of the battle outside. I didn’t know what he was doing—he was just watching me. Not trying to stanch my wounds. Not going for help. Just watching me, chewing and chewing. It was… disconcerting. I was more afraid then than when I was shot.

  “When he saw me looking at him, he smiled at me. Then he said, ‘I suppose I should get some help.’ I tried to nod, but wasn’t very successful. I was forcing myself to stay awake by sheer force of will, but he kept fading in and out of my sight. He rose to his feet, and even though Fisk isn’t a large man, he seemed massive to me at that moment. I saw his bayonet. It seemed to come at me in slow motion, aimed for my head.”

  Garrett pulled out his flask and took another drink. “It’s all I remember.”

  “He tried to kill you,” Tristan said flatly.

  “I think so. If it was him.” A crease appeared between Garrett’s brows. “I’m certain it was him. But why would he stay near me, risk my remembering?”

  “Perhaps he believes he was a different man that day. You said yourself he looked different. Perhaps he thinks you’ll never recall those moments before he tried to kill you, or perhaps he didn’t intend to give you the chance.” Tristan shrugged. “Who knows? The man is delusional to think he could get away with any of the things he’s done to us. If he were sane he would’ve taken the money and run weeks ago.”

  Tristan’s throat was dry as a desert. He reached for Garrett’s flask, and Garrett passed it to him. He took a deep swallow of whiskey and handed it back. “He knew where you were after Waterloo, and when we looked for you, he didn’t say a word.”

  “He made sure I was hidden. Probably paid Lebeck to keep me out of sight.”

  “Bastard.”

  Goddamned Fisk knew exactly where he was the entire time. While Tristan and Sophie had desperately searched for Garrett, Fisk had kept him from being found. Garrett stared ahead, unflinching. “I have been a fool. I let the man into my house. I placed myself and my family in danger.”

  “He will pay for his misdeeds,” Tristan said softly.

  Garrett raised a cynical eyebrow. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. Sophie, you, and I… we have always been fearsome to behold together. Nobody could conquer the three of us. Not your father, not the servants, not even Aunt Bertrice. One at a time, perhaps, but the three of us together? Never.”

  Garrett sighed—a sound of sheer, bone-deep exhaustion. “True.”

  “Let’s go, then.” Tristan gathered his reins.

  Garrett raised his hand, and Tristan paused as Garrett turned to him, his eyes a cloudy, anguished blue. “I love her, you know.”

  Tristan nodded. “I know.”

  He did know. He understood exactly what it was to love the Duchess of Calton when another man loved her, too.

  He urged his mount into a canter.

  Her breaths shallow, Sophie slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door clicked open, and she pushed it wider, thankful it didn’t squeal on its hinges. She’d spent a fortune to bribe the innkeeper for the key to “Mr. and Mrs. Fishman’s room.”

  She’d only succeeded because she’d told him most of the truth. That Becky was her sisterin-law and not really married to Mr. “Fishman” but on her way, without her guardian’s consent, to Scotland to elope.

  The innkeeper found the story highly entertaining, and when his pockets had been weighted down with enough guineas, he’d finally given her the key. Becky and Fisk were asleep. Though she’d known they’d be sharing a bed, Sophie’s heart lurched to see the truth of it. Becky was on the side closest to her, and turned toward the door, her cheeks flushed and a soft smile curling her lips. Fisk faced the far wall, and Sophie’s hopes rose. It would be ideal if she could steal the girl away without having to confront Fisk at all.

  Keeping the pistol firmly in her grasp, she held it behind her back as she padded to the bed. She bent down and gently shook Becky’s shoulder.

  Becky’s eyes fluttered then opened. “Sophie?”

  “Shh.” Sophie glanced at Fisk, but he didn’t budge. She knelt lower to whisper in Becky’s ear. “Becky, dearest, come outside with me. I want to speak with you.”

  Becky yawned. “Why are you—?”

  “Shh. I’ll explain everything outside. I don’t want to wake… him.”

  “Oh.” Becky shifted and crawled out of bed, wrapping her arms around her naked, pale body when she stepped onto the bare wood of the floor. “Goodness, it’s cold.”

  Sophie wasn’t prone to violence, but the sight of Becky’s bare form made her hand shake with the urge to point the weapon at Fisk’s relaxed form and shoot him dead. Keeping the gun carefully concealed in the folds of her skirt, Sophie turned away from Fisk and hurriedly found a robe to toss over Becky’s shoulders. She slipped her hand in the younger woman’s, tugging her out the door. Then she closed it, not bothering to lock it. If she took the time, it wouldn’t slow Fisk down much.

  She glanced down the corridor, meeting Tom’s eyes at the opposite end, where he stood, ready for trouble. Poor Tom was exhausted. She’d offered to hire on someone else and leave him after forcing him to drive the team all night last night, but he’d refused to leave her. Now they were in the village of Brough, and it was nearly midnight on the second night. Pip Johnson had been asleep sitting up when they’d arrived, but she’d left him in the yard while she and Tom had gone to fetch Becky. She’d ordered him to keep the reins in his hand, with a steaming cup of dark coffee on one side of him and on the other Delia, who had orders to do whatever was necessary to keep him conscious.

  “What’s wrong with your head?” Becky asked, frowning at her.

  “I was hit with a table lamp,” Sophie said grimly. She tightened her hand over Becky’s.

  “Have you followed us, Sophie?” Becky extricated her hand from Sophie’s and pulled the edges of her robe together, crossing her arms over her chest. Sophie glanced back at the door to Becky and Fisk’s room. Fisk could be on them in a second. If it happened, she’d be ready. So would Tom.

  “Why did you follow us?” Petulance laced Becky’s voice.

  “I’ll explain everything later.”

  “I should get back to William soon.” Fisk’s Christian name rolled off Becky’s tongue meaningfully. “If he wakes and I’m not there, he’ll worry.”

  With Tom following at a discreet distance, Sophie led Becky down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. As soon as they began to descend the final flight, Becky paused.

  “There are no rooms down there.”

  “I thought we could talk… in a common room,” Sophie said, thinking quickly. Becky’s eyes widened. “I can’t go into a common room in this sta
te!”

  Sophie turned back to Becky. Looking up at her, two steps above, she rounded her hands over Becky’s arms. “I’m taking you home.”

  “What? No!” Becky whispered. She wrenched away, but Sophie grasped her wrist.

  “Listen to me, Becks. William Fisk is not what he seems.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I speak the truth. Fisk is an evil man. He’s marrying you solely for your money—”

  Outrage tightened Becky’s face. “What are you saying? Are you trying to turn me against him? It’s too late for that, Sophie. I’m to be his wife.” She smiled and straightened, practically glowed with the truth of it. “I’ve had carnal relations with him. There’s no turning back now.”

  Sophie resisted the urge to shake the girl. “Look at me,” she said in a low, urgent voice.

  “Do you see my head? He did this to me.”

  Becky flicked a glance at the scabbed-over wound on Sophie’s eyebrow. “I don’t believe you. William wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “It’s true, Becky. You must believe me. He has been manipulating all of us, trying to hurt Garrett. We have all been pawns in his twisted scheme.”

  “You’re a liar!” Becky’s lips curled downward. She pulled her hands back, but Sophie held on tighter. “Let me go!”

  “How do you think this happened to me? Mr. Fisk discovered that I knew he was a blackguard, and he tried to stop me. Becky, he tried to kill me.”

  “No.” Becky’s lower lip quivered. “No, no, no. You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Then you’re mad. Just like Garrett. Both of you have gone mad!” With force Sophie didn’t know she possessed, the girl wrenched away from her and sprinted back up the stairs. Sophie yanked up her skirts and pursued her at a run. Just as Becky reached the door of the room she shared with Fisk, Sophie grabbed her shoulder. But it was too late. Becky flung open the door, and Fisk, who was standing at the window, turned toward them. Sophie dropped Becky’s shoulder as if it had scalded her and buried the gun in her skirts.

  “Becky. There you are.” Only Fisk’s flushed cheeks belied his calm. He was wearing an exquisitely embroidered red silk robe, but he looked young, and so innocent. It struck her that she hadn’t seen Tom at all in her pursuit of Becky back up the stairs. If he’d been near, surely he would have helped her. Good Lord, Fisk must’ve done something to him. She hadn’t even heard a scuffle.

  Becky ran to Fisk and clutched at the lapels of his robe. Fisk curled a possessive hand on her shoulder. He tilted his head inquisitively at Sophie, his gaze lingering on the cut on her forehead. “Your Grace. What a surprise.”

  The sheer blandness of his voice sent cold terror rolling down Sophie’s spine. She gathered her wits and matched his neutral tone. “I’ve come to stop you two from this nonsense of eloping and to beg you to return to London where you can be married properly.”

  His eyes widened minutely. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fisk. Becky’s family loves her, and we won’t stand for her to be taken from us. Not like this.”

  Becky burrowed her head in Fisk’s shoulder. “She’s accused you of things, William. Terrible, terrible things.”

  Fisk raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Sophie focused on Becky. Fisk was too terrifying. She wasn’t sure she could look at him and think of all the things he’d done and keep her composure. “Come home with me, Becky,” she said calmly. “I beg you. You know how we all care for you.”

  “I can’t believe you,” Becky whispered. “Not after the hurtful, awful things you just said to me.”

  Sophie’s breath froze in her throat. Despair welled in her chest. Where had they all gone so far astray with this girl?

  “Becky… please. You will regret this, I promise you. At least give it more time, think things through first.”

  Why hadn’t she thought to bring proof of Fisk’s evil doings? On second thought, she didn’t have any. An empty opium bottle wouldn’t mean anything to Becky. Becky shook her head. “There is no need to think of anything. I already know what is in my heart.”

  Fisk reached up to pat Becky on the shoulder. “You look tired, my dear. Perhaps you should return to bed. We will see the duchess again in the morning, and you can say goodbye to her then.”

  Sophie knew Fisk wouldn’t keep Becky close to her for that long. This was her last chance.

  “Becky,” she pleaded. “Please spend the rest of the night with me in my room.”

  “Honestly, Sophie.” The girl looked exasperated. “Are you trying to guard my virtue? You must know it’s too late for that.”

  “Please, Becky.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Becky said imperiously. “Perhaps after some rest you will see how utterly irrationally you are behaving.” She turned away in dismissal.

  “No.”

  Slowly, Sophie raised the pistol, pointing it at Fisk. Lord knew she couldn’t shoot him, not now. Becky was too close.

  Becky whipped around to face her, her expression dark with annoyance. When she saw the weapon, her eyes widened. “Oh, Sophie! What are you doing?”

  “I can’t allow you to go with him. He’s… he’s a very dangerous man. Too dangerous.”

  Becky stared at the pistol, her lips parted in shock.

  “He attempted to kill me,” Sophie continued. “He was poisoning Garrett with opium, trying to make the world believe he’s mad.”

  “Madam, please.” Disgust infused Fisk’s voice, and she narrowed her gaze at him.

  “You have been trying to ruin our lives. Taking Becky for her money, stealing her inheritance—”

  “Sophie, stop it!” Becky sidled behind Fisk, grasping his arm, and Sophie thought back to what Garrett had said when he’d aimed this pistol at Tristan. The bullet in this weapon is capable of tearing a hole through three men…

  “He’s been manipulating us from the beginning, Becky. All of us.”

  “Please calm yourself, Your Grace,” Fisk said harshly.

  “You’re trying to manipulate me,” Becky added in a shrill voice. “Into going home with you. I’m no innocent, Sophie. I’m not a child. I know what you’re doing.”

  Sophie held the pistol in two hands, aiming directly at Fisk. It was heavy. She didn’t know how long she could maintain this position—her arms were already starting to tremble.

  “Just leave, Mr. Fisk. Go away, somewhere we won’t ever have to look at you again. But Becky is ours. We won’t let you take her.”

  Fisk flicked his gaze carelessly around the room. “We?”

  “Me, Garrett, and Tristan.”

  “I don’t see either of them here. Your Grace.”

  “They are indisposed.” Because of you. “But you’re the one who’s mad if you believe they’ll let you get away with this. I offer you a compromise. Give me Becky, and I’ll let you go in peace. Garrett and Tristan won’t follow you.”

  “And if she chooses to come with me?”

  “It’s no longer her choice. She’s unable to think rationally.”

  Becky’s white knuckles contrasted harshly against the blood red of Fisk’s sleeve. “You’ve gone mad,” she whispered, her blue eyes wide. “Mad, mad, mad.”

  “No, Becks. You must see the truth. He’s been stealing from us, lying to us, poisoning your brother, hurting us all.”

  Fisk’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t break his gaze from Sophie’s. “I will take care of this, Rebecca. I want you to go with Mr. Hayes. He’ll keep you safe, my darling.”

  Sophie risked a quick glance at the door and saw a hulking shadow standing at the threshold. She recognized the man as one of the henchmen Garrett had employed to guard her door when he’d first come home.

  “All right,” Becky murmured.

  Yes. Go. Then Sophie would have a better shot at Fisk. Fisk sidestepped toward the door, blocking Becky’s body as she exited.

  “You know I wouldn’t shoot her,” Sophie said softly.

  �
�Do I?” Fisk asked. “Your behavior is quite irregular, madam. I can’t be certain what you might or might not do.”

  She hissed at him through her teeth. She kept her aim steady, but her hands shook now, and she was certain he could see the jerky movements. Could she do it? Could she shoot him?

  Hayes took Becky’s arm and ushered her down the corridor, and Sophie heard the soft pad of retreating footsteps and the fading sounds of her whimpering sobs. She remembered Garrett lying unconscious in bed, pale and cold to the touch. She thought of Tom out in the passageway. Probably injured. Maybe dead. Yes. She could do it. She could shoot William Fisk. Her hand tightened over the trigger.

  “Well, Your Grace,” Fisk said in a low voice. “It’s just you and me.” Fisk glanced to the pistol, then up at her face. “You’re not a murderer, duchess. You won’t shoot me.”

  “Won’t I?” Her voice came out clear, softly confident, unlike the rioting panic coursing through her veins.

  He shook his head. “Of course not. What gently bred lady such as yourself would shoot a man? None that I know.”

  “It is obvious you don’t know many,” Sophie said humorlessly. He took a small step forward, and Sophie stepped back. “Don’t move.”

  He raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Forgive me.”

  She couldn’t do it. She had her chance. Now, right now. But she couldn’t squeeze the trigger. She couldn’t kill him, even though she knew he would gladly kill her. Lord, she was a coward. A fool.

  A lump formed in her throat, but still she faced him, her hands vibrating as they aimed the gun at his chest.

  “Don’t take Becky,” she whispered, and she nearly cringed. The quiet authority in her voice had taken on a pleading quality.

  “Rebecca loves me.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Silly twit that she is.”

  “Don’t take her,” Sophie repeated, more strongly. “I will shoot you.”

  “No. You won’t.” He paused, and then lowered his chin as if to drill his gaze into her very soul. “Now, my pretty duchess. I need you to go away. I need you to leave me and my little bride in peace.”

  She shook her head sadly. It would never work. Even if she agreed, Garrett and Tristan, once they discovered everything Fisk had done, never would. She should shoot him now. Why couldn’t she? She sent up a quick prayer for strength.