by Darcy Burke
Every night for the last two weeks, Tristan made love to her. He was intoxicating. She couldn’t get enough. He taught her the beauty of being together, the ways to please each other, and he took her to heights unimaginable to her once troubled mind. They made love and spent hours talking. He still kept part of his life hidden, his defense being her protection, and she let him keep that wall there, too tired and satiated to complain. Sleeping in his embrace kept both their nightmares at bay. The laughing attackers were subdued, the fear squashed, and whatever dark demons had chased him in sleep, he’d no further episodes.
One thread held her happiness in check, and that was fearing it wouldn’t last. Not after the years of being an outcast, the one ignored even though limited respect for keeping Mary surfaced on occasion, usually just before she thought she’d collapse. To be raising a child born out of wedlock was unheard of, a social albatross, and she herself assigned to isolation forever, except for the few who figured Mary wasn’t hers and knew part of the story of that night. The night Hell released its demons…that and the fact that her sister Madeline was now courtesan to the man who took her innocence, gave Evelyn the only snippet of respect possible.
But Tristan accepted her as she was. In fact, she knew he wanted her. Being with her every night, ravishing her until she exploded with the stars, keeping her by his side left him with no time for a mistress—she hoped.
For now, she’d wipe her thoughts clear of such dreadful ideas. She gathered her basket and walked toward the house.
Two bounding toddlers came out the parlor’s French doors and raced in her direction.
“Mama!” Mary screamed. Nadir mimicked her, and they both tried to get their chubby little legs to go faster.
Evelyn grinned. “Come, now, what energy you have.” She laughed as they slowed, their rush sapping their energy. Lillian raced after them, her heavy servant skirts in her hands, the weight slowing her.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” she huffed as the children threw themselves at Evelyn.
Evelyn steadied herself, planting her feet as they got to her. She laughed, bending to put the basket down and hugged the children clinging to her skirts. “It’s all right, Miss Lillian. Let’s get them inside for luncheon.”
“Yes, my lady.” The nursemaid took Nadir’s hand as Evelyn picked up her basket of roses and took Mary with her free hand.
“My lady, I also need to tell you, you have a visitor.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “I do? Who?”
“A Lord Dunsford.”
Charles. Evelyn smiled.
***
Tristan leapt from the saddle, neatly hitting the ground. It was the style he’d learned in Afghanistan, from months of riding in flowing robes, the ability to jump and not fall. But here, it led to a powerful landing and a jarring reminder of his purpose for being here. He was so close and so far from finding that traitor, that killer, he could smell the blood.
The skidding of horses, the jangling of leather and harness, the squeal of wheels with a driver yelling, “Whoa!” made him snap around. A team of four halted precariously close to him. The driver glared at him. “Watch where you are!”
Tristan bowed his head, refocusing. He vacantly heard the man snarl, calling him a “nob” before he moved the team on. Good, he thought, he’d watch where he was going, and the man could slow his team down too. After walking through a battlefield with guns firing, he knew he often neglected life around him. A stroll through Hell changed a man. He saw that daily in India and Afghanistan, but he needed to realize that London was the worst of them all. The conniving politicians and those seeking such power, with all the money slipping through hands, made this place the fire pit of all time.
Across the street, he walked into the Golden Dove Pub. Smyth was there, and Tristan hoped he had found the answers he needed. The pub was crowded, mostly with commoners who had more than a few coins to them. It was a place to ideally blend in, to go unnoticed by those who’d see a marquis and know who he was. He’d mussed his hair some, knowing it was useless, but old habits die hard.
Smyth sat at a table to the left, against the wall. Hat jammed on his head, he looked out of place, isolated, as if drowning his sorrows. Tristan snorted. The man had probably nursed that lager the entire time.
He pulled the chair out and sat. “Do you have it?”
“Yes,” his associate replied, shoving a rolled stack of pages to him.
Tristan took the stack and untied the bindings. The pages had a set of orders for silk and hotel receipts, rented carriage tickets and a porter’s tab. He frowned. The hotels sat at London and Bombay, the rentals in India, the porter’s tab on a ship. But the silk supplier was out of India, with a note written in Russian on the top. Russia tried to master the Western trade and influence, to blend in, but failed in many respects. Importing silk to trade to the West must be one of those endeavors. The signature, though, he couldn’t read, not in the dim light. The taste of success so close…He rolled up the pages and retied the band.
“Good work.”
“Be wary,” Smyth muttered, his mouth at the rim of his tankard. “I’ve been followed, on a couple of occasions, from Essex to London.”
“By who?” The last thing he needed was someone grabbing these papers.
Smyth shrugged and downed his cup. As he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his grubby jacket, he said, “Never the same bloke. Always off to the side, but there. Bastard’s remained throughout the day. Next day, another in his place. Sorry, my lord. Whenever I went for them, they’d disappear, like smoke. Once I got that all assembled, thought I’d better give it to you first, then go after ‘em.”
Tristan shoved the packet inside his coat and lifted the ale the maid brought him. The taste of it was rancid, but, then again, this wasn’t Brooke’s or White’s. He grimaced nonetheless. “Can you discern the name on this?”
“Can’t read it but looks like the last starts with a ‘D’.”
***
They walked into the parlor, Evelyn leading the way and Dunsford at her side. The children babbled on, Evelyn only partially understanding them. Once inside, she kissed Mary and Nadir as the nursemaid collected them, shooing them out the door. Another maid slipped through the other door, opposite side of the room and set a tea tray on the table.
“Thank you, Holly,” Evelyn said, taking one of the filled cups and turning toward her guest.
“Sugar and cream, please.”
“So, you just popped in to see me?” she asked, dropping the sugar cube into the cup after the cream and stirred before handing it to him.
As he sat, he smiled. “Of course, upon arriving back from holiday, I hear such unexpected news of your marriage. I felt compelled to come and give you my congratulations.”
Stirring her own cup, she returned his smile. “Thank you.”
“Though I do admit some surprise is in order here.”
“How?” She took a sip to hide her annoyance that he’d find anything wrong with her marital status. He knew she was engaged before he left.
“Pardon my intrusion,” he began, setting his cup down and taking one of the lemon tarts off the petits fours dish. “But I did not think you’d follow through with the chap.”
She furrowed her brows. “I’m sure you understood my betrothal.”
“Of course, of course.” He inhaled the pastry. “I had hoped the truth about the man might have stopped you from making the mistake of marrying him.” He licked his fingers nonchalantly.
“Whatever are you talking about, my lord?” She wanted to be mad at him, but her skin prickled, like a fear that something he’d say might destroy her happiness. Quickly she dampened the thought. Tristan was her husband, and in the last few days, she knew her heart was falling for him.
“I was thinking of our dear Richard,” he stated, as if the man was a saint. Her stomach curled at her own derogatory thought. One shouldn’t think poorly of the dead.
“Yes, well what of Richard?” She tried t
o sound caring yet unconcerned, though it was out of place to think of her dead fiancé at all while in her husband’s house.
Dunsford sat back, cup in hand, and he crossed his legs in a lazy style. “Are you aware, my lady, that your husband was in the army?”
“Yes.” The hair on her neck bristled.
“And that he was stationed in Afghanistan, doing some business on the notorious side?”
She cocked her head, her mind trying to decipher what he meant by “notorious.” Her temple started to throb. “I don’t know what you’re implying, my lord.”
He gave her a slight, knowing, one-sided grin, like a cat before the mouse. “He never told you what he’s been diddling with? How odd, considering...” He leaned forward and placed his empty cup on the table. With a low voice, he added, “Dear Richard was in Afghanistan, too, when he was killed. My poor Lady Wrenworth, Evelyn, young Richard was killed for the Empire, not by the enemy but by the very man who he was under. Killed to protect the man’s identity–your husband.”
The vein in her temple pounded harder. “I beg your pardon. I don’t understand. He was killed, or are you implying murder?” Her voice pitched higher as her nerves strung tight. No, this couldn’t be happening. Her heart, which had started to heal, to fill with love again, thudded to a stop and plunged downward. Her fingers fretted with the edge of her ruched-top skirt.
“Oh dear,” he whispered, a hurt expression on his face, as if surprised she knew nothing. He moved to sit next to her on the settee and took her hands, folding them inside his. “I’m so sorry, but I somehow hoped you knew and that I wasn’t the bearer of bad news.”
She couldn’t look at him. Her vision blurred.
Dunsford tipped her chin up and held it, his own eyes sympathetic. “Dear Evelyn, your husband killed Richard in cold blood to protect his own safety.”
“No!” He had to be lying, but why? “He didn’t. Wouldn’t.” Or would he? In reality, how much of him did she know? Outside the bedchamber and breakfast and supper, she rarely saw him. He was either tied up in his study, pouring over papers for hours, or gone, never saying where he went. Her heart ached, wrenching in her chest. Why? With the mallet in her head rattling faster, the pain building, she glared at him. “Why? Why would he?”
Dunsford shrugged, his face contorted in empathy. “We are at war, a nasty game to say the least. Particularly there in Afghanistan. Good Lord! He had an Afghani whore, Evelyn! They’re a slovenly lot, looking to get out of that dirty land at all costs. I know because I’ve seen it in India and elsewhere. They spit out bastards to pin on our boys as a ticket to here.”
“I don’t believe you.” She couldn’t. If she did, all she fought for was gone.
“Evelyn, Evelyn,” he stated, pulling her close.
She tried to fight it. If she caved in…Anger swept through her. She yanked her hands and clenched her fists.
“I’m so sorry. I just found out myself. Then to hear you wed him, I feared for you. He’s a violent man from the reports I’ve read.”
Violent? Determined, she would give Tristan. After all, that is how she ended up as his wife. But destructive? No...
A tear still escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Dunsford took her hands again, gently placing them in one of his as he wiped the errant tear away with his bare fingers. “Evelyn, please. Let me help you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she managed to squeak out, fighting the tears that wanted to fall. She needed to think, to find the truth. Tristan said he still worked for the War Office even though they both knew as a nobleman he didn’t have to. And what did he do there? He’d told her he had spied with Richard, but killed him? Her heart clenched.
Dunsford nodded. “It took me a bit to swallow it as well. If what I know is true, I’ll help you out of your situation. Noblemen can’t be tried easily, particularly a marquis, but Richard’s death must be answered. Do you understand, Evelyn? Justice must be served.”
The words filled her ears, but her mind refused to accept it all. “I can’t believe it. Please, Charles, how do you know?”
He looked at her, face devoid of emotion, but his eyes burned brightly. “Because I was there.”
***
Tristan yawned, virtually stumbling over the carpet runner on the hallway floor as he headed to his bedchamber. Correction, he thought with a smile, his and Evelyn’s chamber. The world had spun on a shilling since she brought him back to the light last week, no over two weeks ago, waking him from the nightmare and refusing to leave him. The darkness that threatened his sanity, the demons of his past, the ghosts that remained had teased him mercilessly that night. He’d hoped he’d die and end his suffering—and hers, as a well-endowed widow—but, instead, they’d helped make his marriage whole. A wife who craved him. She’d thought he’d replaced any hopes of intimacy with her by means of a mistress. If she knew the whole truth, she’d not give her body to him, but run far away. He shook his head, still amazed.
The ghosts stayed away with her at his side. He somehow knew they weren’t gone, just waiting for the chance to pounce on him again and destroy his happiness. That word was foreign to him, and if she knew all his secrets, he’d return to Hell. He’d toyed with the idea of confessing to her. There was a strength in her he couldn’t believe, a type he’d seen in few men, but it was there. She’d managed well for two years with a will to persist, to care for Mary and raise her despite the attacks the ton made. He’d saved her only to destroy her if she knew the entire story. So he buried the past and Grifton for now. Later, much later, he’d try.
He pushed the door open, expecting to see her on his bed. Too late for dinner, he headed straight to his room to beg forgiveness and take her mind off the matter. Thrilled with the idea, it took him another moment to realize she wasn’t there, waiting. In fact, the room looked as though it was to remain vacant, as no candles had been lit, and the fire started by his butler burned low. The bed remained made, its covers untouched. He frowned.
He yanked his coat off, tossed it onto the chair near the fireplace and slipped his finger into the knot of his necktie, unraveling the knot as he walked to the door between their rooms. With a twist of the handle, he pulled it open and strolled in.
She sat at her vanity, brushing her hair in long even strokes. Wearing only her white lawn gown, so white and simple, her hair glowing in the firelight, she looked angelic. He stopped at the doorway, staring, a grin coming to his lips.
“Good evening,” he said slowly. He moved toward her. “I must apologize for being so tardy.” He stood right behind her, watching her gaze in the mirror as she noticed him. Her chin moved up, eyes slanted, appraising him. She was seductive, like a siren calling to him, and he couldn’t resist. He bent over, his lips on her neck, kissing at first. She trembled and that sent a thrill down to his hardening groin. Opening his mouth, he nibbled on her earlobe and down, murmuring, “I’ve missed you.”
Evelyn’s head tipped back, giving him further access to her. “Truly? Or is that to mollify me for your being so late?”
He chuckled and plucked the brush from her hand. “Perhaps it is both. Late because my need for you grows bigger, and I am sorry for my lack of time.”
Her lips thinned and eyes narrowed as her hand snaked out to skim across the bulge below his waistband. “Bigger I can feel.”
Laughter filled the air as he scooped her up in his arms. “All due to you, my dear.” He kissed her deeply, his passion taking control. Taking her to her bed, he placed her in the center and stepped back, opening his waistcoat, throwing it aside and pulling his shirt off, his eyes on her. Dressed in white, lying on the green duvet, his wife was a breathtaking temptress. It hit him hard, in the gut, how much he loved her. His fingers missed a button on his trousers when he realized the depth of his feelings. He wanted to keep her safe and in his arms. A heady feeling, one he struggled with for a moment before accepting it. Instantly he felt elated and vulnerable. Both emotions bad for a spy—especially if
the enemy ever discovered it. His nerves flared, but he dampened down the fear–he was with her, here, alone, and he wanted to make love to her.
She gave him a small wink. “You have a lot to make up for, my lord.”
He raised a brow. “In that deep, am I?”
She giggled. It was the invitation he longed for and he plopped on the bed next to her. “All right, madam, as you desire.” His arms snaked around her waist and hugged her tightly as he kissed her, responding as she returned his passion.
***
It took every ounce of energy to still her anxiety and the rumbles of her broken heart. Her body responded to Tristan’s touch, despite her mind reeling from Charles’ disclosure. And the memories of Richard came fast and furious, flooding her thoughts. His winsome smile, the deep chuckle that always made her laugh. She’d loved him so hard that for him to leave her was a devastating blow. The fact that he’d never return to her as promised made it more so.
Still, why had Lord Dunsford not disclosed this earlier? Her mind pondered over this and how he also claimed he was in Afghanistan at the time, with Richard. Before, their discussions had been more like he’d just learned of Richard’s death while here in London. He’d never mentioned being part of the military, nor an ambassador or politician. She should have pushed him further, but the accusation that Tristan, her husband no less, had killed her love, stole all her ability to think clearly. Confusion plagued her after he left.What was she to do?
It was in that state of mind she remained, not even hearing Tristan come home and to her. Her immediate thought this afternoon was to leave him, then stay away from him until she knew what to do, but he touched her and all such thoughts fell away.
