As for Tristan, he’d gone through all this before with Linnet. He really couldn’t live through it twice. He’d be a laughingstock. But more important, he would fail Sadie.
Failure was not an option.
She clasped her hands together in entreaty, wincing. “The scandal—oh, Tristan, you mustn’t. I’m not worth it.”
He reached for her and cupped her cheek. “That’s where you are wrong. You are very much worth it.” Charlton and people like him didn’t know Sadie at all. Tristan might not actually fight a duel, but Sadie needed to think he would.
That supposed Charlton made it through his concussion or whatever it was. Tristan was tempted to go upstairs and put a pillow over the man’s face to hasten his deserved demise, but Sadie would be deemed guilty.
She turned her lips to his palm and kissed it. Tristan felt a powerful jolt of emotion—possession? Empathy? He did not want to see Sadie hurt anymore.
Chapter 33
Tristan was being kind, and she couldn’t bear it. Sadie wanted to cry her eyes out. It was most unlike her. But really, almost everything she had done these past few days was unlike her.
Not the running away, though. She was champion at running away, even if she never got very far.
If Roddy didn’t get better, she’d have to run somewhere far, far away. The thought of jail—or hanging—was simply too awful. Being a duke’s daughter wouldn’t help her escape the noose.
If he lived—Tristan couldn’t possibly be serious about fighting a duel. If she disappeared, that would put an end to that, wouldn’t it?
She would miss Tristan and his expressive dark eyebrows. Miss his capable hands. Miss becoming his wife in truth.
Oh, Lord. What was happening to her?
She stopped kissing Tristan’s palm. It was a silly thing to do, but then she specialized in silly.
“It will be all right, Sadie.”
“You must promise me not to fight a duel. Swear it. I will never forgive you if you do.” If he died because of her, she’d never forgive herself. She would have to try to kill Charlton all over again.
“My, you look fierce. All right.”
“You’re not just saying that to fob me off?”
“I’m a man of my word. Are you?”
“What do you mean? I’m not a man, you know.”
“All too well. Yesterday we spoke vows in the chapel. I intend to honor mine as best I can. As far as you will let me. I expect the same from you.”
Ah. The obey part. Sadie swallowed, and found herself crossing her fingers behind her back. For some reason, lying outright to Tristan was unexpectedly troubling. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I can ask.” He got up from the sofa and opened a cabinet, coming back with a deck of playing cards.
“Cards? Seriously?”
“It will pass the time.”
“I have no head for cards.”
“You know how to count, don’t you?”
“In several languages.” Miss Mac had insisted to qualify as a lady, one must have mastery of French and Italian. If that’s what it took, Sadie was all set.
“Good. We only need to count to twenty-one in English.”
“Vingt-et-un?”
“Yes. Have you played it before?”
Sadie had not. Unlike many females of her class, she was not to be found in card rooms at parties frittering away her pin money. She liked to dance instead, although most of her partners were half a head shorter and a good deal less graceful.
She and Tristan sat at the fruitwood card table. He shuffled and dealt the cards deftly. Sadie lost every hand, asking for new cards when she should have been satisfied with what she had. Rather like her approach to life in general, she realized. The grass wasn’t always greener, and the necessary card might be buried at the bottom of the deck.
“It doesn’t hurt to be conservative,” Tristan advised her, when she’d gone down to defeat yet again. “And you need to pay attention to the cards that have gone by. There are only four aces in a deck, you know.”
He might as well be speaking Greek, a language she did not know. “I told you I was no good at this. Where in blazes is Dr. Oakley?”
Tristan checked his pocket watch. “It has been a while. I’ll go check.”
Sadie bit her lip. “You’ll tell me the truth, won’t you?”
“I will.” He placed a brief kiss on the top of her head and was gone.
Sadie picked up the deck for a game of patience, something in which she was sorely lacking, but her hands shook too much to proceed. She tried to steady them, examining the uncomfortably heavy emerald ring. The square stone was substantial. Worth a lot of money. Again she tried to remove it with no success. If she had to leave, it would have to go with her.
She—didn’t want to leave.
Puddling wasn’t such an awful place. The surrounding countryside was beautiful. Sykes House and its gardens were perfectly delightful. Now that she was beginning to get to know Tristan, he was more or less delightful too.
Sadie got up and paced the length of the drawing room. She’d missed her prescribed daily walks, part of her rehabilitation plan. Her entire routine—her entire life—had been upended because of the fire. She could blame or thank Mrs. Grace, depending upon her mood.
Left, right, left, right. She spent a full five minutes going from one end of the room to another, and came no closer to finding out what was happening upstairs.
She couldn’t wait for news any longer. Sadie wasn’t sure where the footmen had carried Roddy. The house was a warren of wings and rooms which she had yet to explore. She was its mistress now, wasn’t she, with a right to climb the stairs instead of feeling useless and guilty.
Or so she thought. A tall young man in the Sykes livery was guarding the staircase, looking just a tad nervous when she sailed out of the room.
“Sorry, Lady Sarah. Mr. Tristan left strict orders for you to stay down here.”
“I beg your pardon.” She tried to look down her nose at the footman, which was difficult as he was as tall as she.
He did not wither under her gaze or freeze at the chill in her voice. Tristan had picked well.
“If you will be so kind to return to the drawing room, my lady.”
She wasn’t feeling kind. Taking another tack, she flicked her eyelashes ever so slightly. She wouldn’t want the poor boy to be overwhelmed. “What if I want to go to my room? To, um, freshen up? It has been an ever so trying day.”
“Mr. Tristan told me not to be bamboozled by your charm or beauty, Lady Sarah. But if I was to succumb to your wiles, John and Henry are stationed outside Lord Charlton’s door. You won’t get in.”
Damn Tristan for being so high-handed. But charm? Beauty? Those words were tiny sops to her irritation.
“What if you were to escort me upstairs to my room, just to prove I have no intention of trying to visit Lord Charlton? Why, I don’t even know which room he’s in.”
“And I’m not telling you. No, my lady. You are to remain downstairs until Mr. Tristan says otherwise.”
Sadie contemplated stamping her foot but knew when she had been bested. She returned to the drawing room and rang for tea. If she was stuck here, she might as well try to enjoy it. Breakfast was long ago, and she hadn’t been able to eat very much with those three men glaring at each other.
Looking harried, Mrs. Anstruther herself answered the summons. “Yes, Lady Sarah?”
“Any news? What’s happening, Mrs. Anstruther? And may I have a pot of tea?”
“Tea you shall have, but I have no idea. Dr. Oakley is taking his own sweet time.”
Dr. Oakley didn’t have much sweet time to take—he was nearly as elderly as Reverend Fitzmartin. He must have years and years dealing with Puddling’s reprobate Guests.
“What are the servants saying?”
“Nothing, if they know what’s good for them. Mr. Tristan hates gossip with a passion, especia
lly after—” She stopped herself and colored. “We’ll protect your reputation, Lady Sarah.”
Protect her reputation? Sadie had been so worried about Tristan doing something irrational that she had quite forgotten her part in the situation. She couldn’t even reassure Mrs. Anstruther that she didn’t usually go about hitting people, because she did.
“Th-thank you.”
“Would you like some sandwiches, my lady? Biscuits?”
The thought of food now soured her stomach. “No. Just tea, please.”
According to Tristan, it worked wonders.
Chapter 34
“I’ll wait for you outside. Don’t be too long—we don’t want the patient taxed. He is somewhat agitated and most anxious to speak with you. Anstruther, let me go over a few things with you while your master and the viscount have their tête–à–tête.”
Tristan nodded to the doctor. Even a minute would be too long spent with Charlton, but it had to be done. He was not relishing this conversation, but the fellow apparently was determined it would take place, and in private.
The viscount lay in bed propped up on a mountain of pillows, his head swathed in bandages. Charlton would live, but shouldn’t be moved for a day or two. Anstruther was to move in to the adjacent dressing room and monitor him for any signs of concussion.
“Are you sure you’re not too tired? I can come back later this afternoon.”
“No. This needs to be said now. I’ve finally had some sense knocked into me.”
A joke? Tristan settled into a chair near the bed and waited.
“You are aware I’ve considered myself engaged to Lady Sarah this past year. The settlements were drawn up, and, fool that I was, I passed a great deal of money into the duke’s hands on the expectation that the man was to be part of my family.”
“You’ve made a lucky escape then. As I said, I will make good your losses, Charlton.” They’d both grow old before slippery Islesford pitched in.
“I—I cared enough about Lady Sarah to overlook some peculiarities in her background.”
Tristan smiled despite himself. “She does have a temper.”
“I’m not talking about her temper. You have a right to know, and I have an obligation to tell you, as one gentleman to another. God knows, Islesford won’t be straight with you—I had to worm the information out of him bit by bit.”
Was there more madness in the family than was already obvious? Some two-headed ogre locked in a turret at Marchmain Castle? A grandmother who’d signed a temperance pledge? “What the devil are you talking about?”
“You must have noticed on your wedding night. Sarah was no virgin bride.”
Tristan felt the color drain from his face. And his fists clench. It wasn’t cricket to beat a man who was already down, but tempting nonetheless. How dare Charlton speak of Sadie thus, and how could Tristan sit and listen?
How could he not?
“Are you saying you slept with her?” Impossible. If the man claimed it, Tristan would know him for a liar. Sadie would never—
Well, how was he to know what Sadie might or might not have done? She was not precisely consistent, and had run loose for years.
Charlton’s lips twisted in distaste. “I? I’m a gentleman, Sykes. I would never anticipate my wedding vows. I gave her plenty of chances to come to terms with her earlier indiscretions and admit her faults. A year of chances, hoping she would be honest with me. I treated her with every respect for all the good it did.”
Charlton was actually giving him a look of pity. Tristan was incapable of speech.
“What, you didn’t know? She fancied herself in love with her groom. Her groom! She should know the requirements of a gentlewoman by now, but the earthy aspects of her mother must have come to the fore.
“An Irish groom, can you imagine? Islesford paid him off, but I tracked him down in Newmarket just to make sure he’d stay out of my way. Ghastly common fellow. Horse trainer now. Told me he’s still in contact with Lady Sarah, had the letters to prove it, and if I knew what was what, I’d pay him off too. The man bragged he’s left a litter of bastards up and down the British Isles, and it is only a matter of luck that—”
Charlton got no further as Tristan’s bunched fist somehow encountered the viscount’s yellowing teeth.
The man spat of mouthful of blood onto the counterpane. “What was that for? I’m trying to do you a favor! Ask the duke. Ask your bride. You’ll need to watch her like a hawk. I’m well rid of her.”
“I don’t care what Oakley says. I want you out of my house,” Tristan said, rubbing his knuckles. He and Sadie were now a matched pair. “If I hear that you have insulted my wife in any way, even to as much as utter her name with your filthy mouth, you will wish you were dead, and any money you hoped to recoup will be forever unavailable to you in hell. Is that clear? Anstruther!”
He was shaking so hard he could barely convey his orders. In much less than twenty minutes, Charlton was bounced down the stairs on a litter by four footman to a spare carriage. Tristan didn’t care how far Young Fred had to travel to get the viscount away from Puddling, nor did it matter if the jostling trip would kill the bastard.
Tristan locked himself in his father’s study and, despite the early hour, poured three fingers of brandy. Had Charlton told the truth?
What if he had? Tristan had certainly not been a virgin when he’d married the first time. He doubted Linnet was one either, God help him. In fact, the likelihood of that was remote—she had run wild, as he’d come to find out, and her parents had been anxious to wash their hands of her.
But Sadie, he’d been so reluctant to breach her defenses until she was ready. Had given her every opportunity to get used to the physical side of marriage. Had been so careful. So sensitive.
Was he a fool? Again?
If she loved another man, an Irish groom no less, there was little hope for them. No wonder her father had tried to restrain her impulses.
It wasn’t that his rival’s birth bothered Tristan; he was more democratic than most men of his class. But if her heart was engaged, there was no point in Tristan making an effort to woo his unwanted wife.
And the irony—Sadie didn’t want him either.
He swallowed too much brandy. Could he be so wrong about her? Tristan remembered last night, and shook his head of the angelic vision she’d gifted him with. He’d been sure—
Well, he’d been sure before, and look where that had led him. He would get no closer to the truth swilling brandy in daylight. It was time to find the damned Duke of Islesford.
And then he’d deal with Sadie.
* * *
Islesford was easy to run to ground. He was in the billiards room, smoking a cigar, drinking Sir Bertram’s best Scotch whisky, and hitting the balls in a desultory fashion. He seemed unsurprised to see Tristan.
“Care for a game?”
Tristan bit back a bitter reply and shook his head.
The duke returned the cue stick to its wall case, and settled into a plush armchair. “I understand you’ve saved me from traveling with Charlton. He’ll live then, will he?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I see you’re still here.”
“I couldn’t very well go until I knew things were settled and my girl was safe, and now it’s a little late in the day to head for London.”
“You could take the train,” Tristan said, churlish.
“And leave my coach here?” The duke looked nonplussed.
“We’d send it on. As a matter of fact, we can get you to the station within the hour. I believe you have plenty of time to make the four o’clock train. You’re still packed, are you not?”
“You are anxious to begin your honeymoon.”
The duke winked at him, and Tristan wanted to punch him, too. Sadie’s temper must be rubbing off on him.
Tristan took a breath. “Charlton had a few things to say to me before he was removed.”
“Oh?”
/>
“I think you know what they might be.”
Islesford squirmed in the chair. “I? How should I know? I don’t go around eavesdropping, and I’m not a mind reader.”
“The. Irish. Groom.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games with me, Your Grace. He told me Lady Sarah formed an unsuitable attachment to the man.”
“Why, that’s old news!” The duke reddened, and took a sip of his drink. “She cried her eyes out at the time. Swore he loved her. Loved her money, more like. He came to me, not to make an honorable offer—not that he could have—but to blackmail me for his silence. I burned all her letters. Romantic rubbish. She moped around the castle for months, not eating, behaving in the most shrewish manner, and I must say it was a relief when—well, you know. Nothing transpired. No half-breed brat arrived to sully the Marchmain name.”
So it was true. Tristan shut his eyes briefly. He couldn’t afford to show the weakness he felt.
Again.
But then, Sadie hadn’t really betrayed him. Hell, she hadn’t known he existed when she gave herself to the rogue . She’d never claimed to love Tristan; they had been forced into this impossible situation. He wasn’t coming to her an innocent lad. Why should she be untouched?
“You needn’t worry, Sykes,” the duke assured him. “I gave the fellow a small fortune, and he’ll keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him. I’m not so sure about Charlton, though. You may have trouble there. The man’s a corkbrain. My Sadie would have run rings around him.”
Sadie could run rings around most everyone. Even Tristan. He’d begun to—well, he could stop beginning. Go back to his old ways. He’d had experience shoving his finer feelings into dark corners for more than a decade.
“Who was this groom?”
The duke waved a hand. “Dermot Something. Ryan? Reilly? I forget.”
“I’d like you to find out.”
Seducing Mr. Sykes Page 18
