by Darcy Burke
My darling Evie, I will miss you with all my heart. But never fear, you have my love. I will return, my love. Yours forever and always, Richard.
Where was he now? He’d been gone for twenty-four months without a word. All her letters returned as undeliverable, followed by word of him missing, presumed dead in India. Leaving her vulnerable—
She loved Richard. Didn’t believe he was dead but captive and trying to return to her. But now, it was too late. Tristan was here to claim her hand.
She had given her heart to Richard but was ruined in his absence and now, like a brood mare, was to be given to another man. As dismal as that seemed, why did desire race through her at the thought of the Marquis? In fact, how did any of this happen? She thought those men had destroyed that part of her two years ago for she wanted nothing to do with men since.
She wanted to scream.
Wanted to cry.
Why would he want her?
***
Tristan followed the butler into the library. He appraised the room and sized up his future father-in-law. From what he’d seen, the man did have a fortune. Tall, stately brick house designed in the Greco-Roman style like most of the houses belonging to the wealthy. Inwardly Tristant balked. These people, way too rich in land or money—usually both—spent all their time competing to keep their position or, even better, surpass their neighbors, while half of the Empire starved…
He swallowed his revulsion. No need to aggravate the Baron further. After all, he had taken his daughter this afternoon, although it wasn’t planned. In fact, he’d wanted to leave the dreaded festivities after realizing the only libations were tea and champagne. He wanted stronger substance.
Maybe Harry was right. He did drink too much. Well, to hell with them all! When the demons that poked at his thoughts and dreams dissipated, when he could return to the East and find that traitor who almost destroyed him and all his agents, then he would stop drowning in alcohol.
And then there was the haunting gaze of Aatifa.
Tristan’s attention suddenly returned to the present as the butler announced him. He gazed at the man behind the rich mahogany desk. Tall, with an average build, the baron studied Tristan while lighting his cigar. The servant bowed and retreated as Hurstine inhaled and blew smoke into the air.
Tristan hated tobacco after being in too many officers’ tents and interrogation rooms, suffocating on the smoke, mostly from putrid additions to the main ingredient. His nose clogged.
“Lord Wrenworth, sit, sit,” Hurstine prodded, motioning Tristan to the leather chair opposite his desk.
Tristan watched the man through the smoke-filled sunlight and planted himself in the chair.
Flicking some ashes, Hurstine sat and his eyes narrowed. “You made quite a scene today, my lord. A spectacle, really. And placed my daughter in a precarious position, claiming your betrothal with nary a word to me nor, from what I can gather, to Evelyn.” He leaned forward. “Care to explain yourself?”
It wasn’t a question. No, the man commanded him. Like one would do in trade. Interesting. If he used that tone in his financial dealings, no wonder he did well. Money. Dowry. Tristan squinted his eyes, furrowing his brows. With the practice of complete control, he leaned back in the chair.
“I’ve come to formally request your approval of your daughter becoming my marchioness.”
Hurstine frowned, his fingers steepled under his chin. “I gathered as much. Wasn’t aware you even would notice the child the way she avoids gatherings.” He stared at Tristan hard.
“Yes, but I did notice her,” Tristan said. “She is a beauty. And, I might add, she noticed me.”
The baron snorted as though in disbelief. “Evelyn prefers not to see others, particularly men…”
Silence descended. The sound of the mantel clock the only noise. The stench of the cigar, mixed with linseed oil, leather and wool from the carpet filled the air. Tristan knew Hurstine was scrutinizing him, which he should have found offensive. A marquis far outranked a baron, but this was the man’s only remaining child and heir, so Tristan dismissed the insult. Yet, breathing was becoming a problem. Memories of closed rooms, being “questioned” by Afghans, Russians and British personnel, both in reality and for practice, clamored in his mind. While he fought to keep his demons at bay, the physical reminders were another matter. His struggle to breathe intensified. If he could only get the man to open a window.
“Your daughter is too pretty to not attract men,” he stated. He coughed to clear his throat. When the man simply puffed on his cigar, Tristan watched in utter amazement as he blew the smoke toward his guest. “Either put that damn thing out, open the window, or I’ll take her to Gretna Green and just be done with it!”
Hurstine’s eyes widened. He placed the cigar in the crystal ashtray, without extinguishing it, and stood and opened the window behind him. The breeze pulled the foul air outside, and Tristan relaxed, able to breathe again.
Although the baron didn’t like Tristan’s maneuver at the lawn party and wasn’t even sure whether he liked the marquis, his title and all its advantages kept him from denying his daughter’s hand in marriage. As if he could for Evelyn’s sake…
“You have money riding on this?”
Tristan frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
The man’s stare didn’t falter. “Brooks. The betting book. I’m well aware that Evelyn is in it, and matched with you. A considerable sum is riding on whether you marry her or not. And yet, you sit here, asking for her hand when you basically forced it down our throats earlier today. So it makes me wonder how you placed your monies on this.”
Good lord, the man truly thought he wanted her hand to win a bet? The thought disgusted him. “Sir, yes we’re in Brooks’ betting book, but I’ve come for her hand in all honesty. She’s caught my eye, and I’ve enjoyed her company when I’ve had the privilege. I’m in need of a wife, she’s in the market for a husband, and I believe we’d suit each other quite well.”
Hurstine hummed, his fingertips tapping on the desktop. “I understand you’ve served in the East. India, I presume?”
Tristan’s collar seemed to tighten. A new interrogation. “In that region, yes.”
“And you’ve sold your commission?”
His lips twitched. “No.”
“So, you’d take her as bride and leave her?”
Tristan bristled. “Not right away.” A lie.
The baron stood, walked to the sideboard and poured two whiskeys. “Evelyn is my only living daughter. Her dowry is substantial, and I know of your family’s money problems,” he laughed. “Like most of your type. Never mind, I realize you might want her for that reason alone. She is a good, obedient girl but she has…issues.” He handed Tristan a glass. “Woo her to take your offer. She will not be agreeable to my forcing her hand; despite everything, she needs a husband.”
Tristan smiled. “Thank you.”
“Let us toast, then.” Hurstine smiled as he raised his glass. “To future happiness.”
Tristan tipped his tumbler to ring off the other, and, as he brought the glass to his lips, he wondered. Happiness was such a tart bitch…
***
Afghanistan, 1867
Tristan entered General Fitzwaters’ tent on a warm afternoon, longing for water and rest. He’d spent the morning at the shooting range, taking aim at targets on posts, each shot hitting the mark dead center. The dry air parched his throat. But instead of quenching his thirst, he’d ridden to the general. The summons read urgent. When wasn’t it, according to the military?
“Major St. James, sir,” he announced, standing briskly in front of the desk.
Fitzwaters hadn’t even glanced up. He was busy writing. He continued for another minute until he finished signing his name.
“Ah, yes, St. James, good, good,” he said, sitting back in his chair. The man’s eyes roved over him. “Busy keeping the color?”
Tristan’s lips curled. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re one
of the fortunate ones who can brown.”
Brown. Tristan’s insides clenched. Yes, he could tan in the sunlight. With his dark hair and brown eyes, his coloring helped him blend in better with the locals–more so than the tinted oils other agents used. He couldn’t decide whether that made him more special or an outcast to his superiors, for even now, Fitzwaters’ comment sounded polite but laced with rancor.
“You called for me, sir? I have reports to complete and…”
“Yes, and a return to the village. I know.” The general pushed several pages aside until he grasped one and brought it before him. “Read your last report. The loss of Cooper. A tragedy.”
Phillip Cooper, another agent, not military but one sent by the War Office to aid in the espionage of Afghanistan, had been “discovered” by the enemy. A Russian spy working nearby. Like a game of chess, Cooper was exposed and killed by the tribe in the neighboring village, one under Russian influence.
It irked Tristan, but he didn’t find out about Cooper until it was beyond time to smuggle him out. Even his connections to the head of the village wouldn’t help before the agent was murdered. The great game being played by the British and Russians in Afghanistan was way too deadly to be openly reported. Game…that also irritated him. Who truly cared about this sandy, mountainous land? What riches existed here for either the expanding British Empire or the growing czarist regime? Nothing other than a buffer zone to stop the Russians from getting closer to Britain’s gem–India. Tristan wanted to laugh. India, where the natives had tried and no doubt would try again, to expel their “superiors,” the British. And what was Cooper in all this? Or the other dozen agents that had been sent to their deaths over this land? Nothing but pawns in a game. Just like the Russian spies…
But Fitzwaters didn’t register the hate that flared in Tristan’s face, even though it was evident. He knew it was, the wave of it intense. Instead, the general put the report down and stood to pace behind his desk.
“Tris, you’re one of my best, but you can’t do it all alone. Land’s too vast for all that. So I have another for you to take.”
“Sir, that isn’t a wise idea…” It was a futile statement, but he’d said it anyway. While Cooper wasn’t with him exactly, Tristan still argued he was responsible for him.
“Major, this isn’t a discussion but an order.” The man motioned with his hand to the side of the tent.
The flap moved and another man entered. Dressed in army uniform, the tall man stood straight. Tristan quickly assessed him. Not only was his height good, he was lean, not paunchy like Cooper. But the man’s hair had the wrong color–sandy blond wasn’t the normal shade for this country. Dyes could be applied to change that. Thankfully, his eyes were brown, not blue or green. But he was the pale white of the British gentry or nobility. That was a major problem. Whereas Tristan tanned, and in fact spent the morning shirtless to get more color, his genetics remained unique to the majority of English.
“Lt. Grifton Reynard, sir.” The young man saluted the general.
“Reynard, meet the man who you will be assigned to in this new endeavor. Major St. James.” Fitzwaters smiled.
The soldier turned to Tristan. “Sir.”
“How well aware are you of your new assignment?” Tristan asked him, speaking in Dari, the native tongue of his village.
“I’ve been thoroughly briefed by the general, sir.”
Tristan’s brows rose high. Using the same language, the man was fluent in his response. “And as agents in the field, our deaths can almost be certain if discovered?” This time, he spoke in the other valuable dialect, Pashto.
“Yes sir. I read the report on Phillip Cooper, sir,” Reynard replied in Pashto, his skills excellent. He knew it too. A grin spread across his face.
“There is a bit about your color, soldier.”
The man shifted. “Yes, sir. I burn in the sun, not made of the same stuff as you, apparently. I burn terribly.” He laughed nervously. “But I’ve got the best available coloring oils, and I’ll dye my hair tonight.”
Tristan wanted to laugh. The soldier seemed enthusiastic. The most he’d seen yet in a recruit for this type of assignment. His fluency in the local dialects helped tremendously. Perhaps he had something he could work with.
He smiled. Reynard returned it. Tristan knew, deep in his bones, that he and Reynard would become close friends. It would be nice to have a friendly face in the nasty business of war.
But a friend in war also meant death.
Chapter Seven
London, 1869
Evelyn stabbed her finger again with the needle as she attempted to finish her embroidery on the fancy handkerchief. Hastily she let the fabric fall onto her lap as she sucked on the injured finger, hoping to stop the bleeding before it stained the white linen. Usually, she wasn’t this clumsy at embroidery, but this was the third time she’d stabbed herself today. She pulled her index finger out of her mouth and inspected it. No blood. The linen square sat on her skirt and beckoned her to continue, but she couldn’t. Despite attempts to distract herself, her nervousness wouldn’t be appeased by handwork.
No, she was too close to bordering on hysteria. Tristan was coming to fetch her this afternoon. A ride in the park, he’d said before kissing the back of her hand yesterday. His brief visit with her, simply a greeting and a smile, came after he’d met with her father.
It was done. She was betrothed to the Marquis of Wrenworth.
Her heart broke. Where was Richard? Why hadn’t she heard from him? He’d promised her his love and that he’d return to her after his time in the Army. As second son, he’d gone to fulfill his position in the military. He was the “spare” but not without his own inheritance upon the day of his return. He’d gain a minor title and land to the north. It was a land he promised she’d love, and he’d take her to London whenever she wanted, but it was his quirky smile and warm heart that won her over.
Last time she’d seen him was two years and nine months ago, and it bothered her she knew the count that well. She was almost nineteen and having her first Season when she met and fell for him within a heartbeat. When he left with the 64th “The Foot,” garbed in the finest uniform she’d ever seen, she cried for a fortnight, until his first letter arrived.
He wrote to her often at first, and she kept every one of his letters. After she was attacked, she received one more letter. Richard had been assigned to the border of India, and that was all he told her. Except for that, he’d been quiet for a while. Orders or something. The missive was short, but he did sign it as Her Faithful and Obedient Servant. Something kept her from writing him about her ordeal. Why, she never understood…
Yet, everything had changed. Another soldier claimed her. A small voice, deep inside her, pressured her to ask him whether he knew Richard or knew what happened to him. She shut her eyes. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t here, hadn’t written to her in all that time. Did he forget about her? She’d received no news at all about whether something had happened to him. If he’d been injured or killed, surely the news would have been making the rounds at the balls and other events, for the “hens” so loved to gossip about everyone.
Now he was gone and she was promised to another. At twenty and still dependent, she had no choice.
But what of Mary? What would the Marquis think? And did she have the nerve to find out? For despite everything, Tristan St. James wanted her, and he was so right—she needed a husband, a protector, for her and Mary. She’d have to make him glad of his decision and secure his name.
His name was all she wanted.
But with it came the other requirements of a wife. Including intimacy to produce an heir. Her body tensed at the memories that rushed at her—a hazy vision, with all the players moving in slow motion. A room, lit with low gas flames and a strange burning smell like putrid perfume. A plethora of pillows scattered on the floor. Three men laughing at her as two held her down. One used a knife to cut the fabric of her dress down to her corset. Her scre
ams as he ripped her clothing off, exposing her. One naked man got on top of her...
Evelyn squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block the memories. The box holding her needles and threads fell as she shuddered at the images in her head. Her heart thudded wildly, her ears filled with her own silent screams. She clutched the cushion beneath her as the visions continued.
“Miss Evelyn. Miss Evelyn.” Her maid’s quiet voice called to her.
Missy placed her hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, and she almost jumped at the contact. Her eyes flew open and she saw the maid. Calm, stoic, Missy was like an angel, her voice soothing. It drove the monsters away—again.
“I’m sorry, Miss Evelyn,” she whispered, bending to collect the fallen thimbles, needles and spools of thread. “The Marquis of Wrenworth just arrived.”
She swallowed, trying to catch her breath. “Thank you, Missy.”
The maid nodded as she stood.
Evelyn heard his boots on the wooden floor before Benton formally announced him.
“Miss Evelyn, the Marquis of Wrenworth.”
She flattened the folds in her skirt in an awkward attempt to calm her fraying nerves when he appeared before her. A glance upward, she found him grinning at her as he offered her his hand.
“Evelyn.”
With a quick prayer that her hands weren’t as clammy as she thought, she placed her hand in his and returned his smile. “My lord.”
He chuckled. “My dear, I think we are above such formalities. My name is Tristan.”
The heat of a blush flooded her cheeks. “Of course, my, I mean, Tristan.” His name rolled off her tongue easily, but there was a measure of safety in using titles. Alas, he stripped that defense away. She feared what else he might take next.
