by Darcy Burke
The seamstress held the shot silk up to her, draping its length over her dress. The colors played beautifully under the light. “Have the new ball gown done immediately,” she ordered. One last event before she became too big.
“My lady, you have a guest.”
Missy’s voice made her nearly jump because she hadn’t even seen the maid enter the room. “Who?”
“Lord Dunsford.”
She closed her eyes. He could offer her distraction, which was sorely needed. Her head was on the verge of aching. With a nod, the woman pulled the silk off her. Free of the fabric, she headed to her guest.
“Charles, what a pleasure to see you,” she exclaimed, offering him her hand to kiss.
“My dear lady, you do me the honor,” he said smoothly, his lips brushing the back of her hands. “That silk looked stunning on you.”
She blushed, the crimson heat all too warm on her cheeks. “Yes, it does. Thank you.”
He grinned, offering her a wayward nod.
“To what do I owe this visit?”
“Must I have a reason?” His grin looked mischievous, like a child sneaking pastries from the cook in the middle of the day. “Actually, I do have one. I’d offered to take you for a ride. In the park, if you’ll recall.”
The memory flashed in her mind. A childish thought raced through her, how the idea of fresh air and the company might ease her anguish. She placed her hand on his arm.
“Excellent!” He took her to the door. “My carriage awaits.”
The ride in Hyde Park was ideal. The weather was clear and the air brisk with spring. Evelyn inhaled deeply.
Across from her, Dunsford sat, smart-looking in his black trousers, blue shot-silk waistcoat and dark great jacket. He still had a smile on his face, obviously pleased she was with him. Too bad a dark streak inside her refused to let her relax. She looked at the scenery, trying to gather her thoughts. Though her stomach was calm for once, her heart pounded rapidly. Ask him!
“It is lovely out, is it not?”
Fear snaked down her spine, startled by his jovial tone. “Why yes, it is.” She clasped her hands to steady their tremble. “Lord Dunsford…”
“Back to proper names,” he sighed. “Have I offended you?”
“Heavens, no,” she forced a giggle. “It’s just, I have a question I need to ask you.”
He sat patiently, expressionless. “Go on, please.”
She licked her bottom lip nervously. “You were in Afghanistan?”
He chuckled. “Afghanistan? I was there, once. Years ago, on a mission…”
“For the Army?” she interrupted.
His cheek twitched. “No, more of a diplomatic venue. Nasty affair, one I’d prefer to forget. It was quite disastrous.”
The fear in her belly tightened. “You said you know my husband killed Richard. How?”
“Oh, dear Evelyn.” He reached across and held her knotted hands. “I saw the whole affair, by mistake I fear. My guide mistook the path, and we were on the outskirts of the village. I heard them talking, recognized Richard’s voice. But as we got closer, I saw the fight.” He shuddered. “And it was too late. Wrenworth’s blade impaled him.”
The image of Richard, the pale ghost in her dreams, with the white shirt and its hole on the shoulder, covered in dark red, came to her mind, clear as day. Though it was warm outside, the carriage basking in the sunlight, she was instantly cold. Her ears buzzed. No!
“But why?” she asked, her voice faint, even to her.
His features turned sad, and he looked downward. She heard him take a shaky breath. “I don’t know. My guide saw the people about them and uttered something along the lines that it wasn’t safe to be there. Despite my pleading to go and see if I could help Richard or at least retrieve his body, the man yanked me away.” He shook his head, unable to meet her blurry gaze.
At her sniffle, he handed her his handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry, Evie,” he whispered. “I wish we had gotten there faster.”
Unable to look at him, she dabbed her eyes and turned to the window. It still stabbed her heart to hear what she hoped was a mistake. “I know,” she whispered, the words broken.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dunsford suddenly smile. No, that couldn’t be, she thought and turned her head back in his direction. Instead, he’s eyes were laden in sadness. Being in the family way was making her mad, thinking Dunsford was anything other than upset.
In the back of her mind, Richard’s haunting voice came—Take care of the child.
***
Tristan walked into his study first thing upon arriving home. He’d been gone for two weeks—two long, extremely frustrating weeks. How he got released he wasn’t told. It couldn’t be by Livingston. It was spelled out completely when he transferred to the espionage division that the War Office considered them unknowns, acting on their own if caught. No association. Gave him the edge he’d desired at the time.
When he got to the house, he found the children napping and Evelyn gone. When he asked where she went, the servants hinted shopping or tea, but no one was straightforward, not even Stanfill. Tristan had work to do so he pushed no further. She’d be home, he was sure of it.
“Major Lord Wrenworth?”
He turned and found Smyth at the door. “Come in. What have you to report?”
The man shoved another stack of papers at him.
“Anything promising in this, or are we still doing the runaround?”
“Sir, I’m puzzled. So was your wife.”
Tristan frowned. “You realize I’m not happy she got into this. I had this locked for a purpose.”
“Yes, sir, but you were imprisoned. She is a determined woman,” he argued. “How could I not? She was on the verge of ordering the servants to rip it apart.”
He laughed. That is something he would have liked to see. “Do you have that list I asked for a fortnight ago?”
Smyth rummaged through his papers. “Yes, sir,” he said, pulling out a couple of sheets and handing them to Tristan. “Listing of all families of aristocrats and gentry families beginning with ‘d’ or ‘t’.”
Tristan sighed. The list was long–longer than he thought it would be. Dansford, Daniels, Danson…Dickerson, Dickson…Donner, Doston…Dunfield, Dunnington, Dunsford…He stopped. Dunsford. That one hit a mark. Wasn’t that the lord who aided Grifton in joining Livingston’s department? But there was something else, too, about this name. His head thudded. Dunsford. Wasn’t he mentioned with Evelyn before they were wed? If memory served, he was. The whole coincidence rubbed him wrong, though it was a string connecting them. More needed to be found.
“All right, Captain. Time to get to work on investigating these families. I want locations, occupations for the gentry class, any involved in shipping or trade, especially foreign.”
“Yes sir,” Smyth said, taking the sheets and backing out the door.
Christ, Tristan swore. What had they done while he was gone? Nothing! But then again, since he was leading this investigation, how could they do more?
In the background, he heard the front door open and a commotion in the front hall. He walked out and found Evelyn and Sarah laughing with three footmen following them, carrying boxes.
When she glanced in his direction, Evelyn stopped, her mouth closed. He couldn’t decide if she was unhappy to see the husband she’d kicked out of her bed or stunned he was free. Even if she wasn’t pleased he was here, he could not tear his eyes off her. She was stunning, dressed in the most vibrant blue silk dress he’d ever seen. Even in the gaslight, it turned colors. It made her blue eyes deeper in color, like true sapphires. And the style fit her well, draped on her, it hugged her breasts, her narrow corseted waist and her bustle to perfection. He was envious of the silk, wanting to change places with it and wrap her himself. His cock hardened at the thought. When she gave him a weak smile, it throbbed painfully. Not now!
“Countess of Martinwood, I must apologize for my abrupt de
parture from your wedding breakfast,” he said, taking a step closer, pasting a smile on his face.
Sarah smiled. “Considering the circumstance, my lord, all is well now?”
“Yes, my lady,” he replied, kissing the back of her hand. “You two have had the afternoon of it, spending my money?”
Sarah laughed while Evelyn still stood quietly, breathing deeply. He’d never known her to absent a jibe at him so now he worried.
“Of course, my lord. Evie will need….”
“Thank you Sarah,” Evelyn interrupted. “For going with me today.”
Her friend squinted at her but didn’t push. “Yes, well, I best be headed home. Harry will wonder. Good day, Evie, Tristan.” She left.
“That was abrupt, wouldn’t you say?” He walked after her as she set off for the nursery.
“You heard her. Harry will want her home,” she replied, barely looking over her shoulder at him as she walked.
He wasn’t sure what to say next. He wanted to pummel her for getting into his stuff, wanted her to volunteer she had and wanted to ravish her. “A new dress?”
She stopped at the door to the nursery. “I can’t get new dresses?”
“Of course you may. That wasn’t what I was implying. Actually, it’s quite stunning on you. Never seen that color before.” Now he was at the door. She smelled of roses–another stab at his cock that he was trying to dampen.
“Now you’re aware of ladies’ dress materials?” She asked with total shock in her voice.“Evelyn…”
The door opened and both children ran to it, screaming “mamma” in high-pitched volume. Evelyn laughed and reached out to hug both at once. But once she let them go, Nadir had a curious look on his face, his little fingers on her skirt, playing with the fabric. She didn’t seem to notice, resting Mary on her hip, listening, while Tristan focused on his wife.
“Evelyn, we should talk.”
“I see nothing for us to discuss.”
“You are mistaken. We should retire to the study and let the children play.”
Her head whipped around toward him. “So you can try to hide your indiscretion further from me? I heard what you did.”
“Whatever are you saying?” He needed to know how she’d heard about Grifton’s death. Realization slammed into his gut hard and fast. “Evelyn, I am serious. Put the child down.”
She glared at him but handed Mary to Lillian. The girl fussed, and Lillian made a fuss over her as Evelyn turned to leave, but it took another moment to free her skirts from Nadir’s grasp. Tristan helped pry his son’s hands free, then took Evelyn’s and walked away.
***
Once in the library, Evelyn sat on the settee, her nerves on fire. Tristan walked to his desk, fumbling with the pages there, as if looking for something. She noticed he was like an animal, caged and dangerous. Time locked away had made him a bit leaner, his movements more agile. Her stomach flipped, and this time, she wasn’t sure whether it was the baby or her own frayed emotions at play. Inadvertently, her hand went to rest on her lower stomach, but she quickly flattened the skirt there, trying to not give him any signs. She hadn’t told him about the baby and wasn’t sure that she wanted to. Silly to keep it secret. Before too long, it would be impossible to do that.
He threw down the pages he held and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
She swallowed. “Perhaps you might tell me why you murdered Richard.”’
He looked at her, and, for once, she saw the torment in his eyes. “Evelyn, I can’t. Not because I don’t want to but because it is dangerous for you to know.”
Anger flared inside her. “Truly now? He’s dead. By your hand. The danger here is being in your presence.” She stood up quickly, fueled by the injustice of her life. She wanted to scream. But her actions produced a reaction that took hold of her. The room turned fuzzy and her ears rang. She was going to faint.
“Evelyn!” Tristan’s voice sounded distant, as if he were across the house.
She lost her footing, strange because she hadn’t moved. Her descent to the floor came rapidly before she stopped midfall. Tristan’s arms wrapped around her tightly.
“My God, Evelyn,” he muttered, laying her on the settee. “Darling, are you ill?”
Evelyn focused on his beautiful green eyes, as she struggled to find her footing so to speak in the real world. Her hands held onto his arms, helping her feel secure. That made her laugh. Secure with Tristan, her husband, her lover, the murderer…more laughter came, but even to her ears, she knew it didn’t sound right. No, it leaned more toward hysterical,because if he found her with child…
“Evelyn, Evie, snap out of it,” he ordered, but even through her maniacal giggles, she heard his fear. Good, he needed to be afraid. She put her hand over her mouth to stop.
His brows knitted, confused. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”
Another snicker escaped before she could stop it. “No.” She sat up straight, trying to fix the odd bunching of skirt fabric. The dress was finished today, and with the soiree tonight, she had put it on at the seamstress for a final look and then worn it home. It was so beautiful, and, in her condition, the time to wear it was short.
Tristan’s frown hadn’t faded. He stared at her, or perhaps it was the dress. The brilliant hue amazed everyone who saw it. Even little Nadir, which she found amusing because it hadn’t impressed Mary.
He stood up and walked to the sideboard. Pouring two glasses of brandy, he returned to her, handing her one.
“Do you believe you are well enough to listen to me tell you what really happened?” He glanced down before he added, “As much as it is within my ability to do so?”
“Whatever does that mean?” She’d sat. Her stomach churned, but she willed it to behave–as if she had any control. A burst of giggles threatened, so she sipped the liquor to still them. “I know you were in the Army in India and Afghanistan,” she stated. “That you still work for them, though why astounds me. You are titled.”
Now he chuckled. “Yes, I’m told that daily.”
“I have no doubt. I met Sir Livingston.”
His gaze shot back to her, an eyebrow raised. “Something I believe he’ll inform me of on the morrow.” He exhaled and took a sip out of his glass. “I have been one of his agents for the last two years, investigating Russian advances into Afghanistan.”
She waited. He seemed to be fighting with himself over what to say next. She’d help him.
“Because of him, you killed Richard?”
“No, no,” he replied. “Viscount of Stauton, or Grifton as he liked to be called there, joined my team, so to speak, roughly a year ago.”
“How? Why, is more appropriate to ask. Neither of you look Eastern. I’ve seen the pictures of those people. Plus, you don’t talk like them. I don’t know what is spoken in Afghanistan but—”
“I pick up languages easily,” he shrugged. “Grifton, or Richard, could too. But that is beside the point.” He gulped another drink. “And there are ways to blend in, so to speak.”
Her eyes narrowed. His bronze coloring, the darkness of his skin when she met him, explained Tristan’s ability, but she knew Richard was too pale.
Then a thought stuck her hard. “Nadir’s mother. That is how you met her?” A sick feeling overwhelmed her, coiling in her stomach, not like the morning sickness that lasted all day but more like betrayal by her fiancé. “Did Richard find an Afghani wife as well? To fit in? Or for love?”
He shook his head. “No, he was true to you. He told me of you without ever disclosing your name. His dying breath was to ask me to watch over you.”
She snorted. “Truly? Somehow I doubt he meant by wedding me.”
“No…”
“Wait, in his dying breath? Therefore, it is true. You took his life,” she stood shocked. “I cannot believe he asked anything from you!” She spun on her heel, but he grabbed her arm.
“Evelyn, please, let me finish.”
She
didn’t want to turn. Her heart was split. Despite everything, the love that had begun for Tristan St. James hadn’t withered and died on the vine but still grew, like the child within her–his child. But there was also a connection to Richard. Her head started to ache again.
“I wanted to believe there was hope for us,” she sputtered, desperate not to fall to tears. Heaven only knew what’d happen then, like her uttering something about her condition. “I waited for Richard to return to me, like he promised. Now you tell me tales of a different man, one who used the name he despised, to sneak around harems supposedly for the Empire’s sake. He was a civilized man, educated, modern even, but he believed in service as an officer in uniform, leading troops, and you try to convince me otherwise? You who married me to ‘protect’ me? From who, my lord? From who?”
They stared at each other for a long time. Evelyn’s heart whipped wildly inside her chest. She loved her husband and hated herself for it. He was handsome, debonair, with a wildness to him, a man who didn’t like rules. A man who taught her the beauty of making love.
The same man who was a killer and a liar.
He stood, unmoving like the statue she’d seen of a Greek god. Not even a flinch. The tension in the air so thick a knife couldn’t cut through it. She couldn’t stand here longer, not without crying or screaming or retching. Her body tightened, like it had over the last two years around her father when they argued. Steeling herself, she took off toward the door.
“Evelyn, do not leave,” he called. When she didn’t stop, he added, “I am your husband. You will remain here and listen to what I have to say.”
She skidded to a stop. He played the only card he had left–his rights as husband. Her skin crawled, but she didn’t move. Clenching her hands, she turned toward him, raising her chin in defiance.
He walked toward her. “The commanding officer called him Grifton, and it stayed,” he said, his voice low and even. “It is a dangerous game we play, one I wouldn’t recommend for any man, not a nobleman and definitely not a man who has family or will have. He was good, though, learned the art of deception well.” He rolled his eyes up as he exhaled the breath he’d held. “But he was brass, like many of us. At any rate, we were investigating a possibility of troop movements when four men arrived, Afghanis not of our village. They told a story of English troops begging to live in the villages and then, once in and trusted, they’d take advantage of the people. Ravish their women as though they were whores, kill their sons and whatnot. They claimed to have truth to their accusations, that one of them saw a man in the village, an Englishman in disguise, taking a girl against her will.” He paused, anguished. “It wasn’t true. But the accusation against Grifton was heard. And as the village council met, another ‘fact’ was thrown into the pot of lies. That I was a British agent as well. It caused quite an outrage as I was the husband to the chief’s daughter. Because my wife, Aatifa, was the one he supposedly attacked, they came up with the perfect solution. To make me prove my loyalty to their village and my Afghani family, I was to fight and punish the accused.”
