by Darcy Burke
He sat on the settee and crossed his legs in a leisurely manner, his eyes studying her. With a deep swallow, she raised her chin in an attempt to show her station as a lady and sat in the chair. It took her strong will to ignore his momentary lack of manners for sitting before she did. Then again, the Marquis of Wrenworth’s behavior often played with proper protocol. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the rules, she remained convinced, but bent them, if not outright denied them when he chose to. Why? Particularly in the presence of a lady? Unless, of course, he found out her “indiscretion,” or so her father had decided. As if she had wanted to be taken, have her body violated…though her mind still remained blank on that night.
The door opened to the parlor. Evelyn’s maid Missy stepped inside the door and curtsied.
“Missy, good,” Evelyn said, her nerves jittering. Now was the moment of truth. Granted, he’d have no grounds to call off the engagement, or so she had to believe. Wasn’t he the one who said they both needed each other? She swallowed her indecision and stated, “Please bring Mary to me.”
Tristan sent her a curious look. She caught it for a brief moment when the door swung wider amid the commotion of Missy trying to slow the bundle of energy that wrangled out of her reach.
“Mama!”
Evelyn smiled as she turned to see her darling little girl toddling as quickly as her legs would carry her. Mary suddenly saw the marquis and stumbled to a stop, her mouth open but her eyes squinted as she stared at him. Her feet edged to the side of the sitting chairs closer to Evelyn, never breaking her gaze at him.
Evelyn snorted, and the noise brought Mary’s attention back to her. The little girl threw herself at her waiting arms and crawled up onto her lap as Evelyn laughed.
“Who is this enchanting creature?”
Evelyn managed to adjust Mary next to her and moved an errant ribbon out of her face as she tried to steady her pounding heart. “My daughter, my lord.”
Slowly she glanced at him, expecting to see his face red with rage, angry that she’d “given” herself to another–as if she had had a choice that night. Her own courage wrapped around her spine just like her arm encircled the child, to protect her. A motion she’d done on a regular basis for nigh eighteen months, more or less. Yet, instead of mad, the marquis’ eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Truly? She is a beauty, just like her mother,” he said smoothly, a slow grin curving his lips.
Mary sat still, amazing Evelyn. The little girl appeared to be watching him. He was looking at the child with a smile. Evelyn’s mind whirled with questions–the obvious one was why wasn’t he mad? His only words were a compliment to her, not an accusation or anything negative so far. Surely he’d take it that Mary was her own child, hence her virginity gone. Another moment passed and nothing. Then Mary squirmed, wheedling herself off the chair to the floor, where she took tiny steps toward him.
Evelyn opened her mouth to say something but stopped when he reached out and picked her up. Swinging her up into the air, they both laughed. He gave all his attention to the giggling toddler who bounced in his grasp, trying to get him to swing her again.
“Mary,” he repeated as he tossed the chirping child up again. “Mary. What a lovely name for such a pretty little girl.” He brought her to his lap. “My name is Tristan,” he said.
He cast Evelyn a questioning glance. The question. She shuddered. He laughed with Mary as he continued the game, but Evelyn knew he wanted more.
“I can explain,” she started.
“Please.” He caught the child and sat her next to him on the settee. “She is yours?”
The lump in her throat threatened to choke her. He wanted an answer. “Yes. I mean,” she looked at Mary. The little one was listening. “I took her as a baby.” She let the rest hang, fighting for air as her fear stopped her from more.
It took concerted effort not to let her jaw drop open in awe. Tristan showed no signs of anger over the child or remorse for his proposal to a ruined woman. But then again, Evelyn knew how looks could be so deceiving. For Mary’s sake, and her own, she prayed they were not.
Chapter Ten
Wrenworth Mansion
He should be angry, upset, even resentful or at least feel betrayed but those emotions didn’t register inside him. If nothing else, Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. So there were consequences to that night she’d been taken by those men. Her daughter was adorable. She took the child…easy to when it was hers.
The child had bounced on his knee, clamoring for more lifts than even his strong arms could give. She might have been tiny, but the bundle of wiggling energy wasn’t easy to keep in his grasp to toss up, catch and repeat endlessly.
The girl was cute. Brown curls, brown eyes and a pert little nose that scrunched when she giggled. She looked like her mother and yet not. No doubt that came of the spineless men that raped Evelyn. His hands clenching for a moment, anger bristling along his spine as he stood in his study, waiting for his man to arrive with his report. Evelyn’s attacker would pay for his crimes, Tristan would make sure of that. But the attacker had to wait. He needed to finish his first assignment—find the traitor to the British position in Afghanistan, the one responsible for Tristan’s men’s deaths. For Grifton’s death.
Where the hell was that man?
He walked to the sideboard. Grabbing the decanter of brandy, he pulled the crystal stopper out and poured the amber liquor into a glass. The pool of imported spirits shimmering gold from the glow in the fireplace flames. He took a sip, savoring the smooth taste that burned down his throat. There was a certain elegance to the setting, he believed. The dark room was what he needed. With the soft light of the fire illuminating the room, he relaxed, at ease. His eyes adjusted to the dimness and he relished the moment of peace. Spies became very familiar with the dark—whether it was man-made or internal.
Meeting the child only recalled the memories he had buried months ago in Afghanistan. The lifeless body of his beloved Aatifa was a vision that would never leave him. He’d tried to get to her in time but it wasn’t any good. No, the traitor had done his work well, placing her out of Tristan’s reach as a trap which exposed them. The consequences of that day remained forever carved in his mind.
He strolled over to the painted wooden globe set inside its stand, near the wall. As a child, he’d loved the large globe with its colorful landmasses and seas. His mind would wander over the British Empire’s vast territories, imagining he was a royal lord in charge. Back in the days before he joined the Army, before the truth about empire building revealed its evil side to him. Absently he sent the wooden ball spinning on its axis and stopped it. Before him lay India and the country north of it.
Afghanistan.
It wasn’t an easy existence there, the people mostly rural, yet there was a warmth from them. A vacant smile crept across his lips. Aatifa. His wife…
“Sir, Lord Wrenworth.” The crisp voice of the man behind him stated, catching Tristan’s attention. He turned.
“Well, Lieutenant Smyth, your report.”
Smyth stood straight, his eyes staring at the wall. “The few men I’ve talked to at the War Officeknow nothing of a man, officer or not, inquiring on the East, Afghanistan or the Russian influence there, in any sort of detail. Two ships left London around the period you suggested, each heading for naval ports in India. Mostly filled with troops, few civilians on board, and the few who were, were not single. Though the crews of both were civilian sailors, sir.” He coughed. “My lord.”
Tristan barely noticed the man’s discomfort over his title. At the cough, he glanced at him. “Smyth, I need you to get hold of those vessels’ manifests. I’m going to want those civilians investigated.”
“Yes sir! I mean…”
Tristan waved him off. “Lieutenant, I’ve called for you to work on this out of your exactness and loyalty, not just to hear you stutter every time you address me. For the time being, choose one title and stay with it.”
“Yes,
sir.” The soldier nodded and left.
Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and uttered a groan. The promise to Grifton remained—see to his lady’s well being. A chill swept over him, as if he could feel his friend’s presence. He grimaced. God help him!
***
Bond Street bustled with activity for early afternoon shopping. Evelyn walked down the aisle in Mmde. Pompadour’s Millinery, occasionally stopping at the tables and picking up a ribbon or hatpin, but she didn’t pay much attention to the object she held. Nor to the shop itself. Her mind was on her upcoming marriage. Everything seemed to roll on smoothly. The banns were posted, no one issued a complaint, so she should be pleased. In two weeks, she would wed one of the most desired men in the ton and raise herself and Mary out of on dits. No, that wasn’t true. It’d take more than the vows to clear her name and the shame cast on her for taking Madeleine’s daughter under her care. While Society deemed it a shame, Evelyn never did. Mary was too adorable and, to be truthful, the child was her shield from the wayward glances and innuendos of men. The thought of a man’s hands or anything else on her drove her to the brink of insanity.
But what would she do about Tristan and their wedding night? His “husbandly rights”? She shivered at the thought and dropped a comb and lace headpiece to the floor. With a muffled sigh, she swished her skirts aside to bend and retrieve them when another hand snatched if off the floor.
“I believe you dropped this.”
Evelyn glanced up to find a gentleman, dressed in grey trousers and navy coat, standing before her, offering her the lace accessory. He smiled at her, his dark grey eyes looked amused. The dark, virtually black hair neatly oiled into place, as was the trend. His starched collar and cuffs pristine white, the white necktie tied correctly.
Blinking, she took the piece from him.
“It would look very pretty on you,” he commented.
A quick glance at the piece to see what he meant, Evelyn remembered. It suddenly seemed to burn her skin and she placed it back on the table.
“Thank you, my lord…”
His smile broadened. “Charles Silvers, Earl of Dunsford,” he announced, with a slight bow. Glancing up while still bent over, he grinned in a lopsided fashion.
She frowned. The name wasn’t known to her. He remained bowed before her as she gathered her thoughts.
“Oh, how rude of me. Please, Lord Dunsford,” she murmured, her right hand motioning for him to rise. “Terrible of me to keep you so.”
“Hardly, Miss Hurstine.” He remained smiling at her and didn’t move.
Inadvertently, her gloved hand went to the folds of her skirt and she fidgeted with the pleated fabric until she realized what she was doing and stopped. The fear of that night, of the drunken men, invaded her mind. A shiver up her spine made her tremble. She hadn’t fallen to this in a while, not since Tristan had claimed her. Odd. He’d become her knight, to protect her, but he wasn’t here. Despite the fact the boutique had other customers, Evelyn’s demons returned in full force. Without knowing what she was doing, she bit her bottom lip, rolling the flesh under her teeth.
Dunsford must have seen it too, for his grin faltered and he stepped nearer. “My dear, what is wrong? I’m not here to hurt you.”
She inhaled deeply, an attempt to calm unsteady nerves. With a forced smile, she nodded. “Of course you’re not. Apologies.”
His affectionate grin returned. “Good. I hate to see a lady in distress.” He took another step. “I am fortunate to run into you today. I heard the news about Richard and know you were his intended. I wanted to express my sympathy to you.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Richard, yes, now she remembered him speaking of this man. She relaxed, her cold spike of fear dissipating. “Ah, Lord Dunsford, I remember Richard speaking of you. Thank you for your condolences. And may I return the same thoughts? He was your friend.”
Dunsford nodded. “Yes, indeed, a true one. Dearly missed by all who cared for him.” His warm brown eyes sought hers. “I was hoping for a chance to talk with you, as friends, in memory of Richard. Perhaps it would help me, and you, if we have but an opportunity to speak of him, without all the tears any upcoming memorial would bring.”
Her vision blurred. Someone she could talk to about her love, her loss. She blinked and a tear fell down her cheek. Quickly Dunsford pulled his white handkerchief from his jacket and handed it to her. Another tear threatened to fall so she took the linen piece and dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you.”
The man stood before her, waiting for an answer from her. She shouldn’t, truly, spend time with him but he seemed so sincere. Her mind argued, the image of Tristan in her head. They were engaged, their banns read, and most proper people would consider them husband and wife. And as a wife, she could talk to whoever she wanted, so couldn’t she as one betrothed do so as well? Of course she could.
“I would enjoy the chance to speak to a close friend of Richard’s,” she answered carefully.
He smiled. “Then perhaps I could send my carriage to collect you this afternoon? Late tea, by chance?”
Tristan was coming by. They had an appointment with the vicar to discuss the ceremony. She shook her head. “Oh, this afternoon will not do…”
“Then tomorrow?”
He asked the question like a man asking for water after traveling the desert. The need to remember his friend must run as deep as her love for the man did. “Yes, tomorrow will work.”
“Outstanding,” he said happily. “I’ll retrieve you at four?” At her nod, he tipped his hat. “I’ll see you then. Good day, Miss Hurstine.”
He spun on his heels and left the boutique.
Sarah came up behind her and said quite bluntly, “Evelyn, what are you doing?”
***
Tristan took another look down the hallway, knowing it was still empty, but old habits die hard. His line of work often bred such habits. The War Office Archives and Registry wasn’t a busy place, but being there placed him in an odd position if discovered. After all, he was home on leave to “settle family matters” and expected to formally resign or, worse, take a desk job here. He bit his tongue against the bitter laugh that would otherwise escape. Granted, many titled lords would have nothing to do with espionage. No, it was “beneath” his position now as marquis to ever contemplate heading back to fractious Afghanistan and put his life, his family fortune at risk for that arid land. Instead, if he did anything, he would take his place in Parliament and devote himself to designing the battles and determining the monies to be spent on them while here, in London. He cringed at the thought. Parliament and its House of Lords–the power-seeking sots, damning many English soldiers to their deaths in protecting the Empire. It made him angry.
Actually, while spitting would be helpful at the moment, instead he pulled a small glass vial out of his pocket and pried the cork out. He poured some of its contents, an oil, over two thin metal rods. Re-corking the bottle, he bent and inserted the stiff wires into the lock and slid them into the mechanism’s tumblers. A quick twitch from practiced hands and the door unlocked, the sound echoing in the silence. A smile came to his lips. Still one of the best, he congratulated himself as he withdrew his tools and gently turned the knob.
The room had an eerie cast to it from the faint sunlight seeping through the gap between the heavy drapes concealing the windows. Filing cabinets, tables and a few chairs scattered about filled the space before him. Years upon years of records and assorted information filled the drawers, the tabletops and chairs. All considered important for future reference–or stored here after use in a trial. Dust covered much of the room and Tristan held his breath to keep from sneezing.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Smyth would get those manifests, but he wanted more. Perhaps the regiment before his arrival might have a clue in their records or, even better, his own contingent did. Climbing for more power, higher rank, was nothing new. Of course, that often meant, in dire times, removal of someone to open up said position.
In war, anything could happen. And to men infiltrating the land, trying to “blend in” with the natives and, while disguised, see what the other side was doing, definitely opened opportunities for advancement. Advancement by wicked means.
Tristan scanned the paper labels on the file cabinets, looking for India or Afghanistan or even Russian advancement. Dust filtered throughout the air since he opened the door and had moved one of the curtains slightly to let in more light. There wasn’t much time. When he checked his pocket watch, he had half an hour till his appointment with the Secretary of War. For him to be found here would be precarious. He wasn’t on an official assignment. And if the culprit was involved in the War Office, well, him being caught here would be life threatening. He needed to find the man and eliminate him before he let loose more mayhem in the East. Heaven only knew what the game was…So far, it had cost Grifton his life. Damn!
Of course, Grifton was on his mind for another reason–that last request he made. Take care of her. Tristan said yes but the question remained, who was “she”? The man who was his subordinate had become his friend in the six months they were stationed in Aatifa’s village. Nights spent talking to improve Grifton’s tongue in the language. Time spent discussing many things, but he sensed his friend held back much about this girl. Heavens, he didn’t even know her name. Losing focus on his purpose, he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.
He froze, his attention caught by the label that named him and two companies that were sent to India. Afghanistan Operations was listed below and the year—1868.
Finally. Tristan knew the War Office tried to find personal information on key personnel, but for threat or benefit, he didn’t know. They had his, which held some fascinating entries, he was sure, of when the constable arrested him for drunken disorder, only to release him because of his father’s rank and other situations. But maybe Grifton’s papers would give him the girl’s name or at least something for him to go by.
