by Darcy Burke
He opened the drawer, thankful it slid without any sound. Rummaged through the filed pages. Ran across his record and thumbed through it. Not only did his semi-arrests remain, but so did the obituary of his father and brothers, as well as the London Times mentioning his return for the title. Prying deeper, Tristan was surprised. The record in his hand that would have pushed the blade into his fellow British wasn’t there. He frowned. With a shake of his head, he put the file back in and continued his search.
Viscount Grifton Richard Charles Reynard.
He grabbed the file. There was very little on the man. His father, the estate, Channingsway, in Surrey, a rather large earldom the son would have inherited. His years at Eton…Tristan flipped further until he found it. There, on a small slip of paper, was her name. He read it and felt his heart sink into his stomach.
Miss Evelyn Elizabeth Hurstine
He stumbled backward into one of the few chairs, not even realizing it was there. A flash of emotions raced through him. Every last bit of composure fled as the nightmare slid into place. The woman he was to marry, his ice maiden, the one he found himself desiring, waiting impatiently to claim as his, was the same woman Grifton loved and asked him to care for. Marrying her would protect her by his name and status, hence the promise kept. Easy. The search for the lady finished before it started. He smiled, pleased. But it didn’t last long. A strange sense of guilt wedged into him. Seemed somewhat awkward being responsible to the man he killed, fulfilling his final request by wedding the woman Grifton loved. And another searing question lodged into his mind—what if Mary wasn’t the result of that night Evelyn was attacked but really Grifton’s own daughter? More important, if she was, had the man known?
Tristan’s knowledge of children, especially little young like Mary, he could balance on the tip of his sword. With a rough attempt, he guessed the girl to be two, give or take some months. Grifton arrived at Fitzwater’s tent nigh on two years ago. It was possible he was the girl’s father. That made Tristan’s gut clench. Of course, if Evelyn had tried to write to him and tell him, the letter was held at Fitzwater’s headquarters because an English letter to a man trying to blend in with the natives could be fateful.
He bent over, his head in the palms of his hands. He not only killed a good agent but Evelyn’s intended and Mary’s father. And with a child, it was obvious Evelyn wanted her lover back, not some titled lord with a black soul. Her hatred for soldiers hit him broadside–Grifton left to be one, London sent him to India, where he took one of the most dangerous jobs, that of spy, and died because of his damn loyalty to the Empire.
Christ…
***
Livingston’s office was quite the opposite of the archival chamber. Sunrays shined through the cleaner windows. The mahogany bookcases, desk, chairs and filing cabinets were pristine, gleaming under the wax finish. The room smelled of lemon oil, wood, wool and tobacco smoke fumes, unlike the moldy, musty, dust-covered room he’d just left.
“So pleased you could come, Lord Major,” Livingston stated, motioning him to one of the leather-stuffed chairs.
Tristan sat, his brows furrowing. “You called for me.”
“Yes, well,” the man murmured and took a seat behind the clean desk. He leaned his arms on the wooden surface and stared at him. “How is your investigation going?”
Tristan settled for a moment, trying to smother the thoughts of his own evilness. “It’s still a work in progress.”
Livingston sat back himself, his fingers toying with a writing instrument, weaving it through them. “Your man, what is his name, Smyth? Rumors are spoken of his meddling in papers not for one of his station.”
Tristan shifted. Didn’t surprise him the Minister of Foreign Intelligence would think that, but… “Perhaps he is on a mission.”
Livingston’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Yes, no doubt.” With his fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze never left Tristan. “But we do have a situation. As titled lord, the expectations are for you to resign or, at best, take a counseling role with us.”
Counseling. More like going to Brooks. He scowled at the thought. “Mr. Livingston,” he leaned forward. “Sir, I’ve all intentions of returning to Afghanistan.”
Livingston frowned. “Son, there’s nothing for you to go back to.” He let the silence fill the air. “She’s gone.”
Aatifa. He knew she was dead. His heart felt the stab–his poor Aatifa. His wife. There was a rattle deep inside his chest as his lungs seized, unable to breathe at the loss. She deserved better than him. One of the many ghosts who refused to leave him.
“Sir, Aatifa may be gone, but there are still English soldiers out there. Its dangerous work, especially with this traitor to muck up the mess that much more.” His grip tightened on the arms of his chair without realizing it. “I believe it is in the best interests of the Crown to discover who this culprit is.”
A slow smile came to Livingston’s mouth. “I was so hoping you might say that.” Pushing back from the desk, he stood and grabbed a stack of papers, heading toward the map on the table to the right. Puzzled, Tristan followed.
Livingston stopped at the detailed map of England. “Word has come of an estate up north that has been under watch for some time. Near the coast, mind you.”
Tristan glanced downward to the section of eastern England, east of London. “Pirates?”
“That’s what we’d originally thought, ships arriving and leaving there often, but, considering what you have claimed, it raises the suspicion it might be more. Or perhaps, less, simply smugglers.”
Tristan noticed the stern look on his superior’s face and for the first time ever, an uneasiness poured into his veins. The man didn’t trust him, or the truth about the traitor might be revealed.
“If you will not resign to carry on your duties like most of your type would, nor are you willing to be counsel, then yes, I could use your skills,” the head of Intelligence for Foreign Affairs stated bluntly. “I need you to go up there, investigate, as it were, what the situation is. Being a low item on the list of concerns, considering India and Afghanistan and that pesky czar ranking higher, Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex even, I’d leave to constables and magistrates there. Until word of a rendezvous was mentioned to the agent I had prodding over there. The man is too inexperienced to deal with what may be bigger than we imagined. And I can go no further with this without drawing undo notice. If what you said is true, then, though a loose thread, so to speak, there is a possibility that ties this all together.”
Tristan’s nerves set on fire. The chance to see if there was a lead sent a bolt of excitement racing through his system. Then reality slammed into his thoughts. He was to marry in a fortnight. Shit!
“Is there a problem taking this mission?”
Tristan blinked. “No, sir. I’ll be on my way tonight.”
“Good, good,” the man stated, walking back to his desk. He waved his hand, a sign the meeting was over. “Good luck, my lord,” he added.
Tristan nodded and left. The marriage had to be postponed. Evelyn would understand–he hoped.
Chapter Eleven
My Dearest Evelyn, I beg forgiveness for this, but unforeseen circumstances have arisen, and I must make haste to see the matter at hand. Therefore, our visit to the vicar will be postponed as I shall leave immediately. We will see him upon my return, which, unfortunately, may be longer than the fortnight we had expected. Please, accept my apologies. You have my affections and care.
Your obedient Servant,
Tristan St. James, Marquis of Wrenworth
Evelyn read the letter again. Anger heated her veins in total disbelief. He left her. Just like Richard had done. A nagging thought lingered that he, too, would never return. No, he wrote he would. Despite his wayward attempt at warmth toward her, with the mention of her “having my affections,” she wanted to spit. The only thing stopping her was that the vile act served no purpose. She began to crumple the note but stopped. After all, what did she t
ruly care? Their banns were posted, no complaints echoed in the church, so they were set. Still, it rubbed her wrong he’d abandon her like this for something that came up suddenly without so much as a personal by your leave. She laughed, her hand quickly covering her lips. Since when did she care? The man was somewhat impulsive, claiming her like he did with the argument that each needed the other. In the long run, while he hadn’t said it, she was keenly aware that he’d leave her for the East the moment she got with child…
That thought alone chilled her blood. Ice snaked up her back. Marriage meant something she wasn’t sure she could do but had no way to stop.
Yet, being his wife meant saving herself and Mary.
Oh dear Lord…
“Miss,” the butler said, entering the room. “Lord Dunsford.”
Her hand moved to wipe at her lips when she realized she still held the missive in its wrinkled state from Tristan. Her cheeks turned hot over the idea she held his handwritten note against her breasts, as if he was a loved fiancé. Perish the thought! She inhaled a deep breath and tossed the note down on the table.
“Tell him I will meet him at the door shortly.”
Benton nodded and bowed.
“And send Missy to see me right away,” she added.
“Yes, miss.”
She straightened her back. She had forgotten about Lord Dunsford and the ride in the park to discuss memories of Richard but now smiled. There was no guilt in spending time in the park with a friend of a lost one, especially when one’s betrothed abandoned her right before they were to finalize their marriage.
Missy came through the side door to the room, carrying Evelyn’s wrap, gloves, bonnet and reticule. Thankfully, the maid was used to dressing her without much help from Evelyn. Years spent in the country, when her mind filled with groping hands and images of a night she couldn’t forget, often made her unresponsive to the world. Now the same feeling, of loss, gripped her emotions, making her retreat into her mind as Missy dressed her to prepare for an outing she now feared. It brought home to her that Richard wasn’t returning, made his death real. Suddenly, a chill swept over her, the desire to flee hit her hard. No, no, she refused to fall prey to it. Clenching her hands, she forced herself to stay planted to the here and now.
“Miss Evelyn, please.”
Evelyn blinked. Missy held a glove at her hand, waiting for her to unclench her fingers from the fist she’d made. With a deep breath, she relaxed, “Sorry, Missy.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Evelyn, for your loss,” the maid said softly, buttoning the cuff of the white kid leather glove.
With the pillbox hat on, the pearl tipped hatpin in place, the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, Evelyn took her green reticule that matched her apple green and cream-trimmed dress and headed to the door.
At the entrance, grinning from ear to ear, stood Lord Dunsford.
“Ah, there she is. My beautiful lady,” he cooed, bowing before her.
She laughed. “Please, dear sir, you’ll make me reconsider our outing.”
“Never,” he countered, his hand over his heart. “I am only admiring what Richard no doubt proclaimed to make him happy. Please, come.” He held his gloved hand out.
Gingerly, she placed hers on his, committing herself to an afternoon out with him. A nagging sense of guilt tugged at her conscience, but she quickly buried it. Tristan did not love her, and she did not love him. Their marriage, if it occurred, would be simply for the matter of saving Mary. Well, that was her aim. He said they both needed to marry. Though the word “marry” had rolled off his tongue like a snarl, she thought. He was reluctant to take a wife and all the encumbrance that it meant. Aristocratic families, though, kept their station through procreation via legal spouses; therefore, Tristan needed an heir. But what if in reality, he had another reason for marriage? And why her?
Suddenly, the idea hit her. In fact, she almost missed the step. Thankfully Dunsford tightened his grip, stopping to help steady her.
“Miss Hurstine, are you all right?” Concern etched in his face as he looked into her eyes.
Her mind still shouted Tristan only wanted her for her dowry then would abandon her for the war or another woman or whatever, but leave her nonetheless, making her a titled but ruined woman instead of soiled daughter. Of course, he’d never mentioned any of that in their time together, but for some reason, it appeared to her to be a viable reason for him to take in the soiled dove she was.
Pain shot through her hand as the pressure from Dunsford’s grip added to her dismal thoughts and returned her to the present.
“I’m fine, my lord,” she affirmed, trying to withdraw her hand from his tight grasp. “I merely overstepped, a clumsy fault, that is all.”
“Oh, my dear, I apologize.” He released his fingers but his hand lingered on her arm. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She managed to smile though her inner demons fought against it. “It’s good, my lord.”
“Charles, please.” He stood at the open door to his carriage, his hand her leverage to get in.
“Lord Dunsford,” she began as she sat on the seat and he followed her into the contraption and sat across from her. “We are here to discuss dear Richard, nothing more.”
He smiled. “Of course, my dear, of course.” He banged the roof of the vehicle and the driver started the team.
Evelyn eyed the man, suddenly unsure of herself. There was a hint of smugness about Dunsford, but it didn’t make any sense. Whatever it was sent a shiver through her, making her wonder if she’d made the wrong choice by accepting his invitation.
***
2 Weeks Later
Evelyn stirred the sugar cube in her tea, her mind wandering to the last three weeks of her life and for once, an emotion she hadn’t thought possible seeped into her veins–joy. Unknowingly, she sighed.
The noise of a silver spoon hitting porcelain rang across the table. Startled, she looked up to find Sarah frowning angrily at her.
“Whatever do you think you are doing, Evie?” her harsh voice cut through the spring air. “You are betrothed to Lord Wrenworth, but with him absent, you throw yourself at Lord Dunsford?”
“Sarah…” she began, staring at the tea in her cup.
After her first outing with Charles, the ride in the park discussing Richard, she got over her fear of him. Actually, she enjoyed his company. He’d taken her out to shop, for tea and crumpets in Piccadilly Square, and numerous walks in the park. They talked of Richard, his family, both of their times with him, and the visits soothed the ache in her heart. But the hole remained and Tristan, as noble as he was for asking for her hand, didn’t come close to filling it.
“Evie, your association with Lord Dunsford is a travesty, and you know it! How could you? Lord Wrenworth is so…”
“What, Sarah?” she retorted. In the long run, she figured her friend would say something. But what had she done wrong, talking with a man who knew her beloved Richard? Deep in her heart, she knew everything. Angry with herself, she straightened, lifting her teacup and said, “What of Tristan? Or is it a concern because you care for him? Hmmm? Perhaps in a manner unbecoming?”
Sarah’s eyes widened at the accusation, she exhaled deeply. Her gaze made Evelyn’s skin burn, the heat caused by her own guilt. But the look on her face turned soft and she shook her head.
“Evie, Evie…” she sighed.
“Sarah, he and I speak only of Richard,” she defended. It was true, or at least that was how it started and the reason it continued. Though she began to believe the tall dark-haired lord wanted more than that.
“Did you let him touch you? Kiss you?” The questions were light, like a whisper, as if Sarah was fearful of the answer.
Evelyn bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the tabletop. As kind as Charles was, the comfort of his company keenly appreciated, she wasn’t ready for moving past the memory of Richard. Besides, she argued inside her head, the man hadn’t even made an attempt beyond offering his hand to escort her
. But a small voice deep inside her protested when she did touch his hand, or his arm during a walk once, there was no heat, no lightning bolt of desire, nothing as living and demanding as Tristan…
“No, of course not,” she answered in an attempt to break the sound of that inner tongue. The longing, the need Tristan boiled inside her scared her senseless. Demons danced, thwarting her attempts to forget them and that night…
“Well, good,” Sarah said setting her cup down, her back straight. “Then you can save yourself from embarrassment.”
“He left me nearly four weeks ago, Sarah. With nary a word.” Abandoned. A shiver passed through Evelyn. Like Richard. “Papa is on the verge of publically declaring I’m calling the wedding off.” A deep gulp. “He seems pleased with Lord Dunsford. Therefore, perhaps he will ask for my hand.”
“And does he know of Mary?”
Ah, yes, Mary. She hadn’t mentioned Mary. There wasn’t a need to. Truly, she argued. Yet, if she considered marriage with him, she would have to tell him. Which begged a question in her head–she’d introduced the child to Tristan and he appeared unfazed by the little girl. Why? Everyone of note, particularly one of his station, would most definitely be against marrying a ruined woman with a bastard child. Not him. He actually played with the child, another surprise to Evelyn. It made no sense to her.
But maybe she was wrong in her assumption. He cancelled his appointment with her, apologizing over some vague issue and had been gone the last four weeks with no message from him. A chill raced through her at the implication.
She noticed Sarah sat back in her chair, a small grin on her face as she eyed Evelyn. “Evie, Evie, before you think of throwing Wrenworth to the wind, consider what Lord Dunsford will do about her.” She shrugged. “Besides, Wrenworth will be back and you’ll have more troubles with this tete-a-tete you’re playing.”
