Catching the fellow off guard, Tristan managed to deliver a barrage of blows, one to the face and another to his ribs, before Lucien and Tony could take hold of him to haul him back. Phoebe watched in horror until she noticed the thin trickle of blood seeping from Edward's mouth, from lips that had caressed hers so tenderly only hours before. Spurred forward by a keen sense of foul play where none was wrought, she caught hold of her brother's jacket, pulling him and spinning him about with a force borne of anger such as she had never experienced before and thus not quite anticipated.
“Tristan Avery St. Daine! How dare you attack him?” she demanded. Eyes flashing with anger, fired by the fury of her righteous indignation, she poked one dainty finger into his chest and insisted, “He has done nothing to you, and you will apologize right this instant for your rude, churlish behavior!”
Her brother had the good grace to look ashamed, but only for a moment. He straightened, jerking the lapels of his coat into place, and stood his ground. “I will not. There is nothing honorable about forcing a woman to wed against her will. It is blackmail, and I refuse to stand by and let it happen.”
Phoebe was already shaking her head in denial. “What are you talking about? No one has forced me to do anything, Tristan. I agreed to marry Edward of my own free will.”
“Under duress,” he pointed out. “You agreed because you believed I would hang if you did not—he told me so himself.”
Spinning about, Phoebe pinned Edward with a questioning stare. “You told him you were blackmailing me into marrying you?”
Wiping nonchalantly at the blood pooling in the corner of his mouth, Edward shrugged. “I told him what needed to be said to make him get up off the floor of that cell and talk to you, Phoebe. His senseless frolicking in the bowels of his own self-pity was making you miserable. I thought it high time someone put your misery to an end.”
Tristan scoffed at his explanation, but it was Lucien who spoke up, his voice stern. “A debt of gratitude is owed to Mister Claybourne and the earl, Tristan. Without them, I might never have known where to find you, never have reached you before it was too late.”
Phoebe's gaze moved between her brothers, noting the tension in Tristan's shoulders and the weariness in Lucien's eyes. Memories of the last night Tristan had been here, of his argument with Lucien before he fled flashed through her thoughts, and she laid her hand softly against her brother's chest where she had dug a finger in anger but a moment before.
“Please. Let us not do this today, Tristan,” she begged, pleading with her eyes as much as with her voice and tone. “You are home. You are alive, and we have all missed you very much. Can we not set aside our differences, at least for today?”
“Here, here!” Tony chimed in from the sidelines, raising his half-empty glass into the air. “You heard the lady. No more fighting, gentlemen. It is time to celebrate!”
“You may get knackered later, Uncle Tony,” Alaina interrupted, her tone barely below saucy. “Right now, I am dying for a peek at Phoebe's ring!”
Pushing her brother aside, she reached for Phoebe's hand to admire the thin circlet. Emily followed, and then Claire and Amelia, as well.
“Nicely done, Claybourne,” Lucien quietly muttered, drawing up by Edward's side. “I wondered when that particular piece of jewelry would show up, if at all.”
“And yet somehow I seem to have delivered mine before you recalled it would be necessary to present your own,” he pointed out, tilting his head in Claire's direction. “Best hurry, Duke. You are falling behind.”
Tony's heavy sigh brought both their attention swinging 'round. “All of this lovey mooning and sighing over jewelry is enough to make a man fear for the safety of his bachelorhood.” Rising, he sat his now empty glass aside in passing, and stopped to clap Lucien on the shoulder. “I do believe it is time for me to go.”
To Tristan, he said, “Welcome home, lad. We will speak again soon, but for now, enjoy the tender, loving ministrations of your family. They have missed you dearly. We all have.”
“To what end?” Tristan glared at Tony. “I will hang in any event, or had that tiny little detail slipped your mind in all the frivolous commotion of my homecoming?”
Edward's brow arched high. “In that case, perhaps you should simply hide yourself away in your chamber until the deed is done, eh? Wouldn't want to ease the hardship of your passing for your family by being a decent sort in the interim, now would we?”
7
Phoebe pushed herself into the center of the three men.
Having heard the tense by-play between her brother and her betrothed, she had excused herself from the ladies and now stood, arms akimbo, toes tapping and one brow arched high, as she glared at first one then the other male members of her family in turn.
“Lucien, Claire would like a word, I believe. Uncle Tony, thank you for helping to bring Tristan home.” She stepped forward to give him a quick hug before turning to face Edward.
“Will you be coming by tomorrow?”
“In the afternoon,” he promised.
Flashing him a smile, she leaned close to press a fleeting kiss against the uninjured side of his mouth. “I do believe I am looking forward to our outing.”
Then, she rounded on Tristan. “There is just one thing I would like to know before Tony and Edward take their leave, if you please.”
His brow rose, questioning, while his eyes once again shot glowing daggers of hatred at her betrothed.
“Why did you tell the King's men such a blatant untruth, Tristan?” Phoebe asked. “I know you. You would never harm a woman, so why do they still believe this awful thing about you?”
Her voice had gentled, but she knew the question continued to burn in her eyes, begging him to set the record straight, once and for all—at least among family.
His answer, however, was not what she expected.
Open, clear, empty, his dark gaze bore into hers. “Because it is true,” he gritted out. “I killed her, Phoebe. I killed her, and within a fortnight I shall hang for my crimes.”
His voice was so cold, his admission so absolute and final, it frightened her.
Terrible, dark emotions crept to the fore, tangling with the sense of calm she had felt earlier until, like a flame weak from lack of air, it smothered out, leaving nothing but a choking panic in its wake. Backing away in horror, she gasped, shaking her head in disbelief, unable to accept the words he had spoken as truth though they had spilled forth from his very own tongue.
“No! No, Tristan, say it is not true! You have to! I—” Her voice broke. Edward's arms came around her from behind, steadying her against him as he stilled her retreat, but such was her state of distress she barely noticed.
“I am sorry, Phoebs,” Tristan offered, his suddenly fierce expression anything but apologetic. “I apologize if the truth hurts you, but it happened precisely as I have said, numerous times. I shot and killed Lady Chelsea Hastings with my own hand, and there is nothing more to add except to recant the facts, yet again. Within a fortnight I, too, shall die for my part in her demise. Was that not what you wanted to hear?”
“I do believe another confession of guilt where it is believed none exists was something neither of us cared to hear at the moment, my lord.”
The room became almost awkwardly silent and Phoebe turned with the rest of her family and friends to stare agog at Lady Claire, the shock of surprise at her quietly spoken words clearly evident in the hanging slant of her jaw. Once her thoughts had time to catch up with her reaction, Phoebe knew she would gladly have added her agreement to Claire's statement, but it seemed the future Duchess of Rothwyn was not quite done.
Determined to have her say, her future sister-in-law swept toward the small group near the door. Back straight and chin high, she marched right up to Tristan, daring him with her eyes to question her authority to speak on behalf of the family. He did not, and Claire continued.
“Aside from the fact that your continued insistence of guilt has become tiresome in the face
of so many who have spoken on your behalf to the contrary, now is not the time to exercise your perverse desire for the morose and the macabre. Your family came together here today to celebrate your homecoming, to give thanks that you are whole and safe and alive, and you will not ignore their relief and happiness to have you home again.”
Casting a glance in Phoebe's direction, she said, “Your sister assured me some time ago that, despite the charges levied against you, my lord, you are not a killer, and I believe her. Not only that, but several of your own and your brother's mutual friends have suggested Lady Chelsea is merely staying with friends while her grandfather is away on business. If she were dead, I am certain her grandfather would have said something by now.”
Leveling a glare at him, she said, “You are no monster, Tristan St. Daine, and you will cease to torment your family—our family—with your wayward impulses in an attempt to make us believe otherwise.”
Having said what she intended, Claire immediately turned her back on the younger St. Daine and moved to take her place at the side of the elder, whom she favored with an adoring glance before turning to hold the rest of the St. Daine family within her stern, determined gaze.
“It has been a long day, for all of us,” she said quietly. “I personally would have preferred that it end on a happier note but I fear that has become quite impossible. Therefore, if you will all excuse me, and if you do not mind, Lucien, I should like to retire.”
Tony's chuckle was low, but Phoebe heard it, along with his quietly offered, “Well said, my dear!”
Claire acknowledged his approval with a tired smile and then slipped her hand into Lucien's who, immediately solicitous to her slightest need, led her toward the stairs, his eyes glowing with pride.
“Well well,” Edward murmured over Pheobe's shoulder, drawing her attention though he cast a pointed look at Tristan. “I do believe the future duchess has claws.”
Tristan glared at Edward, but Edward ignored him. Straightening, he released Phoebe and turned to Tony instead. “Now that the lady has cleared the path, old man, shall we take our leave?”
Still wearing a bemused grin of approval for Claire's unexpected daring, Tony nodded, gesturing for him to lead the way. “By all means, Mister Claybourne. Let us take our leave ere we find ourselves swept up in the drama that ever shadows those bearing the name of St. Daine.”
By the time Tony and Edward cleared the parlor, Amelia had already hastened the twins up the stairs, leaving Phoebe with her brother in the now awkward silence of the room.
“I forbid you to wed that odious man, Phoebe,” Tristan ordered the moment they were alone. He was still standing where he had been since rising to his feet to greet her earlier, though he was forced to turn his head when she moved, to follow her with his gaze as she circled the room to make herself comfortable upon the divan nearest the fire.
Easing first one tie and then the other, she slipped her tall walking boots from her feet, indulging in a blissful sigh of relief and wriggled her toes for a moment before tucking her legs up beneath her. Avoiding her brother's hard gaze, she busied herself with plumping pillows and tucking them behind her until she felt cushioned to her satisfaction.
She still felt so disconcerted, she could not even make herself look at him, but finally she said, “Edward is far from odious, and lest you forget, Lucien is the head of our family, Tristan. He has already given both his approval and his consent for this marriage.”
“Then he is a fool. Ignore him,” he demanded once again. Dropping down on the other sofa, Tristan turned until he was stretched side-wise along its length, uncaring that his booted heels rested upon priceless fabric—a beautiful floral design their father had imported especially to please their mother.
Hesitant, she slowly raised her gaze to meet his and then winced at the coldness she found there. Why was he being so obstinate? He must know her better than that. He had to know she had given her word. Like him, she was a St. Daine, and St. Daines never went back on their word.
But it was more than that, she knew. Even if he had committed such a heinous crime as that of which he had been accused, she knew in her heart she would never be able to bear knowing she could have saved him from his death and yet did nothing. “I will not.”
“Why do you refuse to see reason in this matter? Are you afraid?” He scoffed. “It is just Lucien, Phoebe. Defying his wishes never bothered you before.”
“Defying him never bothered you, brother,” Phoebe pointed out. She dropped her eyes to the thick carpet in front of the divan, counting each ripple and tuft before continuing in a much subdued voice. “If it were another matter, perhaps I would do so, but in this, I cannot. This is different. Besides, the decision to wed Edward was mine—not his.”
Lifting her chin, she boldly met his gaze this time. “Lucien put the matter before me as if I were his equal. He left the outcome to me.” With a shrug, she added, “I chose Edward.”
“To save me.” Tristan's tone was flat. Emotionless.
She nodded. “To save you, yes. And I would do it again, Tristan. I love you.”
Leaping to her feet, she entreated, “How can you not understand? If the choice were put before me a thousand times, in this, the outcome would always be the same.
Something flared in his eyes, something both desperate and desolate, before he glanced quickly away from her probing gaze. Shaking his head with finality, he said, “I cannot be saved, Phoebe.”
The certainty in his tone chilled her.
“You can and you will,” she snapped. “I refuse to let you die! I will not allow it. Not like this. And so I am going to marry Edward, no matter how harshly or how often you entreat me otherwise.”
There was such emptiness in the gaze he turned on her Phoebe felt tears prick her eyelids but she held her silence, giving the determination in her words and tone ample time to sink deep in hopes that he would begin to believe them. But he would not allow it to happen.
“Your sacrifice will be for naught, Phoebe.”
Swinging his feet around, he left his seat to pace the floor in front of it. After several moments of her counting off the sounds of his footfalls in the silence of the room, he said, “Do not do this, I beg you. I am damned already. Do not let me die with your fate a dark stain upon my conscience, as well.”
There was no artifice in either his expression or his plea. He genuinely believed her decision to marry Edward in order to rescue him from Newgate and thus the hangman's noose was for naught; he was prepared to die.
He was her brother and he loved her. She knew he did. Every action, every memory she had of him said he did. And yet, he had practically sworn before the entire family that he was a murderer.
To Phoebe, it seemed as if his soul, his entire reason for living had been sucked out of him, leaving behind naught but a sad, hollow shell of the charming, adventurous man she had known before and she could not bear it. “What has happened to you, Tristan?”
His short bark of laughter rang with a cynical coldness she was unused to hearing in his tone. “I became a killer, Phoebs.”
As if his revelation had drained yet more of his spirit, he dropped down on the settee once more, his head tight against the back, and closed his eyes. “Have to admit, pulling the trigger on a defenseless woman really does something to a man.”
“Stop it, Tristan,” she demanded, her tone crisp but edged by the raw grate of unshed tears. “No matter how you try to convince me, I simply cannot believe her death came about by your hand.”
There was simply too much confusion in her thoughts to broach the subject of the alleged murder once again. He had admitted it himself, declared to have killed Chelsea Hastings with his own mouth, and with such passionate vehemence.... There was no denying the bleak emptiness in his eyes, and yet, how could she doubt his innocence?
His eyes flew open, piercing her with their intensity.
“No? Then by all means, produce her. Fetch her here to Rothwyn House, Phoebe, and I shall
immediately recant my admission. Oh, but how remiss of me to forget,” he mocked, his tone sharp, filled with sarcasm. “To do so would be impossible because the only thing you could produce would be a corpse, as the lady in question is dead! She is likely cursing me, even now, from the depths of her watery grave!”
Though he tried to hide it behind a facade of nonchalance, Phoebe could sense the fierce, tormenting anger roiling inside of him. Quiet now, she watched him for the longest time, her thoughts in turmoil. There had to be a way to reach him, to bring him out of whatever dark and fathomless hell he had fallen into. She could not say why or how she knew, but she suspected his self-directed anger and despair was largely due to his feelings of guilt over his belief that he had killed someone—a woman, no less—and that guilt was eating at him, plaguing him, slowly destroying him from the inside.
“Tell me about her.”
Her quietly voiced request did not stir him in the least.
“There is nothing to tell.”
Lowering herself to sit gingerly on the edge of the divan once more, she urged, “There must be something, Tristan, or else the thought of her death would not haunt—”
His lids flew open, and again she saw the flash of fire ignite within his eyes.“I said there is nothing, Phoebe! Leave it.”
Affronted by his refusal to share, by his obstinate determination to shoulder the pain and anger and his guilt in harrowing solitude, to wade through the soul-draining darkness alone, her chin drew up and she got to her feet, her fingers clinched into tight fists at her side. “Very well. If you insist upon being a stubborn, pig-headed buffoon, I may as well retire with the rest of the family. Goodnight, Tristan.”
Through eyelids narrowly slit, Tristan watched her sweep from the room from beneath the cover of his lashes, her back straight and shoulders stiff, until she turned the curve at the top of the stairs and disappeared from his sight.
“And that is our Phoebe,” he drawled quietly into the empty room.
Sitting up, he leaned forward and propped his elbows onto his knees. Although Phoebe had left him, he could still hear her moving about in her chamber upstairs. First, the door of her wardrobe slammed. Next was the shutter slamming back—she had opened the window for a bit of fresh air, he presumed, as he was also fully aware of her belief that the chill of an evening breeze would cool the fire of her temper. Finally, he heard the low scrape of the chair from her dressing table being pulled across the floor and he knew she had decided to sit with her head against the sill, as she often did, to ponder the problem of her odious brother.
An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2) Page 6
