by Darcy Burke
Sir Bernard Hurstine III had become a cross and short-tempered man in the last two years. Evelyn refused to take any responsibility for his disposition, but, perhaps, if she hadn’t stood up for her decision and instead cowered before him, things would be different. But it was done. Inhaling deeply, she stood and walked toward the library at the back of the house. The door to the wood-paneled room swung open. Late afternoon sun gleaming off the polished woodwork brightened the dark room, and the black marble fireplace glowed amber in the light. The smell of a cigar mixed with leather and linseed oil filled the air. A cloud of smoke enshrouded the tall, formally attired man standing at the rear window, his back to her as he blew out another puff from the pungent tobacco. An odd smell, she thought, one that was repulsive and yet so familiar, strangely comforting. It’d taken years for her to not crinkle her nose over the stench. This was his library, one of his few sanctuaries, but normally he did open the window when she entered. Today, it was closed. He was not happy and she noticed the brandy snifter on the desk between them. The missing contents from within it only amplified his anger.
He’d been in here a while. Lost in a pile of papers on the desk, a big, heavy parchment lay prominently in the center.
She breathed deep and held her breath, waiting. It was like he didn’t know she entered.
With a swallow, she said, “You called for me, Papa.”
“I understand you took to the chairs like a wallflower at Lord Hoyt’s ball last night,” he stated, not turning from the window.
Silence descended in the smoke-filled room. The tension rose. Evelyn’s spine prickled as though stabbed with a hundred pins.
“No, Papa,” she started. “I was merely tired…”
“And at the Solstice Ball, you merely danced thrice.”
“Papa…” Her throat tightened, making it hard to talk, to defend herself.
He turned toward her, stubbing his cigar in the crystal bowl on the desk. “Your mission, my dear, is to find a husband. Not for Lady Sarah, though I’m sure that is her goal, too.”
The same old argument. She fought for breath. “It is only the beginning of the Season…”
With a grunt, the man slumped into the leather-backed chair. “Evelyn, it is imperative you wed. That man you claim asked for you hasn’t been seen at our door in three years, nor sent word to see you. I can’t be quiet any more. He won’t return. And at your age, time is no longer a luxury. Bad enough what happened, but I can’t stand by and let you be put on any damn shelf.” He sighed in exasperation. “Don’t you want a husband? A home of your own?”
Her eyes blurred. Marriage. Men. Intimacy. Perhaps she could do so with Richard, but without? She wanted to run.
“I know, Papa…” her voice trailed. Even she heard the broken thread. “But I truly am not marriage material, considering.”
“You must marry.” He stared at her. “I will not give this estate to anyone other than your husband and he must be of good heritage.”
A gentleman. A nobleman preferably. She shuddered. “Papa, no one will want a, a…”
“Posh!” he muttered, waving his hand in the air. “I told you to give up that child.”
Evelyn’s anger sprouted. “That sweet little girl is your granddaughter!”
Bernard glowered, his almost six-foot frame towering as he leaned on the desk, hands fisted against the wood top. “Any other woman in that ‘situation,’ would have found a way to end the problem long before it was noticed—or given the babe to an orphanage, which you should have done!”
Aghast, Evelyn stood trembling. Coldness filled her. Abandon her? Cruel, but she knew he was right. But she couldn’t, not her Mary. “Never!”
He picked up the parchment, the crinkle of the old paper sounded thick, strong. “You must marry. Period. End of discussion.”
“And Madeline? Is this what you did to her?” The moment the words escaped Evelyn’s mouth, she wished she’d swallowed them. His face turned red as he pursed his lips.
“Your sister is no longer with us. Let her rest in peace.” He sat down, yanking a ledger in front of him. With pen in hand, he started to work, ignoring her.
She nodded her head and turned to go, when he spoke.
“A month, Evelyn, a month. Either find a husband on your own, and good luck finding a worthy sot who’d take your bastard, or I will find one for you.”
***
Tristan was suffocating. The theater was packed with patrons, all milling about. Their voices grew in volume to an alarming level in his ears. The lobby, where they all stood during intermission, amplified the sound. The faint smell of gas from the light fixtures above, mixed with the aroma of strong perfume, wool and human bodies tried to pull him back to the battlegrounds in the East. He struggled to find the way out of his downward pull to madness, to the insanity that ate at the corners of his mind. But it was growing difficult and the lady next to him barely helped.
The little chatterbox continued on about her excursion to Essex, as if the county was a foreign land. He inhaled deeply. To this London-raised chit, it was. Oh, how he’d love to show her a foreign land….like Afghanistan…
“Wrenworth!”
The male voice interrupted Tristan’s momentary mental tirade. He glanced up to see one of the few men he knew who stood almost a head’s height taller than he. William Holmes, the Earl of Statwicks, beamed, shoving a glass of brandy into Tristan’s hand.
“Most welcomed, Will,” he said, taking a sip of the potent drink. The warmth of the liquor took the edge off.
Statwicks was a large man, built like a Viking as they used to kid him at Eton. At six feet, the dark-haired mongrel had matured into a grinning fool, appearing like an oversized court jester with an infectious smile and extremely broad shoulders and bulky upper arms that intimidated most people.
The chuckle from Statwicks resounded loudly. “You looked like you needed one.”
Tristan snorted, lowering his head as he stole a glance at his companion. Lady Sarah was still engaged in her discussion with another woman.
“I have come to the conclusion” Tristan’s voice lowered, “that I don’t like people.”
Statwicks laughed. He leaned toward Tristan and slapped his shoulder. “Good God, man,” he said into Tristan’s ear. “Do you think any of us do? Dress up and be good little boys and smile for the ladies. Ugh! Egads, do you have any idea how badly I tried to injure myself to avoid all this mess?”
Tristan chuckled, the weight of his troubles abating somewhat. “It’s just…”
“Fuss and feathers, laddie, fuss and feathers. And, from appearances, one you must tolerate to find an eligible lady. Finally looking to be shackled like the rest? Own up to society and all that drivel?”
“Orders,” Tristan snarled, baring his teeth in a crooked grin.
“Ah, yes, tradition, title, family. I know the subject perfectly well,” Statwicks sighed with a dramatic air. A comical display, considering the man’s stature. “Yes, nuptials myself in a month’s time,” the Earl half-heartedly muttered, pulling at his collar like it was too tight. He scanned the lobby. “There, there is my sweetheart. Lady Lynda Miltshire.”
Tristan glanced in the same direction. Next to Lady Sarah stood a tall dark-haired beauty with porcelain skin. The ladies laughed and he watched her full-sized breasts bob at the edge of her décolletage, making the lace fiche at the edge strain to keep the twin globes bound.
He turned to his friend, with a questioning gaze. Statwicks nodded.
“Yes, the most luxurious set I’ve yet to, ahem, see,” he whispered.
Tristan laughed. Only his friend would make sure to find a buxom bride.
The ladies saw them looking their way, and both walked up to the men, smiling and happy to be there.
Lady Sarah was a pretty thing, Tristan decided. A petite blonde with a lovely hourglass figure, though how could she not have one, wearing a corset? This was their second outing. The ride in Hyde Park, during the appointed hour for th
e entire ton to see, was enjoyable enough for him to ask her to accompany him to the theater. Her bronze silk dress with its black lace trim draped her body splendidly. Even the bustle wasn’t overly done–he couldn’t stand the huge bulge in the back some wore. No, she was like candy, sweet, with a pretty little laugh and sparkling eyes. Yet, despite her many attributes, she still lacked something. Was it enough to discourage him even though she was the best of those available? New to “polite” society, not thwarted by its priorities nor haunted by rumors about him or his family. And the Bow Street Runners(?) found nothing about her or her family that prevented her from being a good match for him.
Gad, how he hated England! Always God, Her Majesty, St. Michael and St. George! Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it back down with the last swallow of brandy.
“Lord Wrenworth, are you all right?” she asked, looping her arm in the crook of his, concern flitting across her brow.
“I am fine, just a touch of nerves, wondering how I convinced such a pretty lady like yourself to accompany me here,” he soothed, raising her hand to kiss the back of it. She blushed.
He made the huge mistake of glancing over her shoulder. At the far side of the lobby, standing next to some fop was a real beauty. Miss Hurstine, the Baron’s daughter. Dressed in a sapphire blue silk dress trimmed in white, she captured his attention. The bald-headed fool next to her said something and she laughed. Jealousy raced through him. He should be here with her, not this uninspiring lady the ice queen insisted he meet. His shoulders tightened. The lilt of her voice traveled across the large room and struck a chord deep inside him. When she raised her head and faced the crowd, their eyes locked ever so briefly, leaving him thoroughly smitten.
***
Evelyn vaguely heard Sir Sidney Whitshire say something. What it was she didn’t care, but she feigned interest anyway. An easy game really. One she’d played numerous times with Madeline when their father raged.
How many more evenings of “entertainment” must she endure? It was quite tiresome. She had a two-year-old at home and a pillow beckoning. Apparently, she’d lived in the country too long, with its natural rhythms and simple ways to amuse oneself.
And she hated this—the reason for this farce. Madeline was gone, and Evelyn’s babe remained. By all rights, that very fact should bar her from polite society, but her father had managed the situation well. If her sister was still around, she’d be ostracized for what had happened–but wrongly so. Granted, the choices the sisters had made that fateful night were unwise. But the men were worse. And the outcome horrific. Ghosts from that time still haunted Evelyn.
She blinked and turned her head, trying to clear her mind. However, she failed miserably at keeping her attention on her escort for long. Frankly she’d accepted Sidney’s invitation just to be able to tell her father she was being courted, but she’d never seriously consider him as a suitor. He was a male companion, nothing more. But ignoring Sidney by looking across the foyer was a mistake. With a forced smile still on her lips, she saw the one man she prayed to never see again…but hoped she would.
The Marquis of Wrenworth. Tristan. He was staring right at her. Her heart quickened. And when he—a man not used to being rejected—grinned devilishly, she gulped loudly. The sound was so unladylike, she admonished herself. How dare that man! He was escorting Sarah and should not be flirting with anyone but her! However, his eyes remained on Evelyn alone and did not wander to the other women. Should that make her feel better? Nobility and military–neither could be trusted!
A touch on her elbow startled her. She gasped and jumped, spilling her champagne.
“I’m sorry my dear,” Whitshire said, taking the flute before the contents dumped on her skirts. “It is time to return to our seats. They flicked the lights.”
Inhaling deeply, she gave her escort a nod but struggled to slow her racing heart. She bit the inside of her lip to the point that she tasted blood and returned to her seat, behind which sat her chaperone maid. The lights flickered again and went out altogether as the stage came alive.
Evelyn listened to the orchestra and concentrated on the actors filling the stage, declining another glass of the champagne.
To save herself—and little Mary—she had to find a husband. She needed one who also needed to marry, not someone who was looking for a love match. How hard could that be? Most of the men in the ton maintained both a wife and a mistress. And if she understood the on dits clearly, most married men wanted only their little trollops across town once the “heir and spare” arrived. She often heard they bedded their wives only to get them with child, and that was it.
Could she do that? Submit to another man? Let him take her? It sounded sordid, so distasteful, and, frankly, it made her want to retch. But if she didn’t find the right man soon, she could end up with the one next to her. Balding, overweight yet wealthy Whitshire. She cringed at the thought. He’d crush her in bed.
In her mind, a specter appeared. Tall and dark except for the shine of the military braiding on his sleeve. He grabbed her…and she swooned.
Chapter Four
Cumberland House, Pall Mall
The Assistant to the Secretary for War, Alfred Livingston, sat behind a large desk listening to Tristan’s report of what happened in Afghanistan. With spectacles perched on his nose and clothing befitting his position, Livingston looked every bit the busy and important man he was. Stacks of papers before him were scattered haphazardly.
“So it is your conclusion we have a traitor in the War Office, hey, Major Lord Wrenworth?” Livingston sat back in his chair, his gaze never leaving the spy’s face.
Tristan’s necktie seemed to tighten. His superior’s tone implied he was doubtful and needed more than the death of a few agents to convince him. “Yes, sir, I believe so.”
Livingston stood. He tossed his eyepiece to the desktop and pinched the bridge between his eyes as he started to pace. “That would be a disaster. Why do you believe it is so? Did Captain Lord Reynard not make an advance on the woman? As I understand it, her father had placed you as her husband, am I not correct?”
Tristan’s insides twisted. “Sir, it was not really that…”
“She wasn’t accosted? Or was it that you were not involved with her?”
Anger and regret stymied Tristan. It took great resolve to keep his voice even. “Sir…”
Livingston raised an eyebrow, his eyes widening. Tristan bit back a potential torrent of spite.
“Yes, sir,” he replied finally, his gaze not on his superior but on the wall of books behind him. “I was her husband, in a manner of speaking. But no, Captain Reynard did not ‘accost’ her.”
Livingston appeared to study him. Tristan’s skin prickled under his gaze. The man then picked up the report before him, scanning the page.
“In your own words, he was more than a soldier to you.”
“Yes, Lord Livingston, he was a close friend.”
“I see, well, then, proceed with caution.” Livingston lowered the report, gathered the documents that Tristan included to support his work, and dropped the pages into a desk drawer. Shutting the drawer, he sat back and looked up at him. “These are very important times for the Empire, Lord Major, so we will keep mum about this until you find more precise evidence. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
With a heavy sigh, he added, “And Major, do watch your back. This could amount to nothing or explode wide open. But, as usual, you know you are on your own in that regard. To expose your theory could make the fiend disappear, or worse, eliminate the threat to his activities. And if he finds you’re after him, he may take matters into his own hands. This could mean your death, and I’d be unable to help you. Though I would be at a loss without your services.”
If that final comment was supposed to make him feel better, it failed. But he hadn’t expected anything else from the man.
“Understand fully, sir.”
“Then be gone. But report on your findings wit
hin a month.”
Tristan nodded and turned on his heels to leave. Damn the Empire!
***
After all the years he’d spent in India and Afghanistan, nothing much surprised Tristan other than English ideas on manners and morals. Relaxing in a leather cushioned chair at Brooks, trying to forget Livingston’s cautionary dismissal, Tristan sipped his brandy while other patrons debated the recent bets placed in the club’s infamous ledger. With the Season in full session, matchmaking wagers almost outnumbered the vulturous mothers of the debutantes. Tristan’s stomach roiled because he knew his name was now listed in the book.
Harry sat to Tristan’s right watching Tristan as he toyed with an unlit cigar. Finally Harry laughed.
“I fail to see the humor in this,” Tristan griped.
Harry slid to the edge of his chair. “Aren’t you curious who you’re linked with?”
“No.”
“That is what is so funny. The fact that you say that, yet you sit there, smoke pouring from your ears…”
“That is simply my cigar.”
Harry’s grin spread further. “Right. Well, in case you are wondering…”
“And I’m not,” Tristan stated flatly.
“I placed money on you and the Hurstine chit.” He sat back, arms crossed, and waited for a response.
Tristan’s gaze narrowed. There was something about her, beyond her beauty, which called to him. His body registered her presence, albeit in memory only, stirring his loins to attention and inflaming his desire for her. She was fire and ice, a mystery. “Why her?”
Laughter again from Harry. “Good lord, man, haven’t you queried Debrett’s about her? Or that lovely Lady Sarah you’ve been escorting around?”
The barren environment and simple lifestyle of the East was looking better and better to Tristan. Olive-skinned women with kohl-shadowed eyes and veiled faces were far more interesting than those of his own country. Frankly, he’d prayed he would be exempt from all this, but, as Harry so annoyingly pointed out, he wasn’t. Except for the ice queen and her pretty friend, few Englishwomen attracted him. But he feared if he looked in the book, he’d discover some bettors had associated him with several others.
