“I feel it is the best course of action. I merely think it best I disappear—just for a while. Until the rumors recede.”
Fisk nodded somberly, yet he looked oddly disappointed by the news. “I understand, sir. Now that news of your meeting with Her Grace in Hyde Park is being circulated—” He raised his hand in a placating gesture when he saw the dark look on Tristan’s face. “Don’t fret, my lord. I have no intention of informing Cal of your trysts.”
“Trysts?” Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Our single meeting at Hyde Park occurred completely by chance, I assure you.”
“Oh, of course. Unfortunate wording on my part.” Fisk looked down and flicked a piece of lint from his cuff, but his expression told Tristan he believed otherwise. Why had Fisk followed Sophie if he didn’t plan to tell Garrett what he saw? Tristan tapped his fingertip on the arm of his chair. “I hope you aren’t spreading untruths that might tarnish the duchess’s reputation.”
Fisk’s eyes widened to round brown pools as he met Tristan’s gaze. “Most definitely not, sir. I only wish to guard Cal’s fragile temperament from further… disruption. He’s been rather overwrought, and things are quite complicated now that his sister and aunt have arrived.”
Tristan forced himself to appear relaxed, and he nodded at Fisk as if in approval. “I am continually impressed by your level of compassion and concern for His Grace.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Fisk glanced aside, then looked back at Tristan with a self-effacing smile. “The duke was a fair and kind colonel. Knew each of us by name, and inspired each of us to be the best soldiers we could be. When I saw him in Belgium… Well, I couldn’t believe it. It affected me to see him that way. Deeply.” As he spoke, Fisk’s hand drifted from the arm of the chair to rest over his heart. “The days we spent together as the duke began to regain his memories—well, my lord, I must admit they were the most meaningful days of my life. To suddenly realize that I could help this gentleman, bring him home to the people who cared for him. To England herself, which had glorified him. I realized there was nothing more important I could do with my existence. I am honored that he has made me his friend, and I strive to continue to serve him to the best of my ability for as long as he allows it.”
Tristan sat back in his chair, less impressed than Fisk would have liked after such a fine speech. In fact, an odd suspicion niggled at him. It had taken root when he’d seen the expression on Fisk’s face outside, and it had grown with every word the man had uttered since. He nodded compassionately. “I understand. I cannot imagine how I’d feel in your place.”
“May I tell you something in confidence, my lord?”
“Of course.”
“I see His Grace at his worst.” Fisk leaned forward, and a flush bloomed in his appleround cheeks. “In all honesty, I fear he treads the fine edge of sanity.”
Tristan kept his fingers relaxed over the armrests. He wouldn’t reveal he was already familiar with the gossip regarding Garrett’s sanity, although it had spread through Town more quickly than the Fire of London. Why would Fisk bring this up now? Did he want Tristan to fear for Sophie? Did he wish to keep him close? If so, for what purpose?
What a mystery this man was. Tristan needed to delve further into his background. So far in London his efforts had revealed nothing. Not only had no one he knew ever heard of Fisk, but the secretary at the offices of the adjutant general wasn’t able to find any records containing information about him—in fact, all the records for Garrett’s regiment for the year 1815 were missing.
Still, Sophie and the other women in Tristan’s family came first. If there was any truth to what Fisk said, Tristan would be the first to address it and take action.
“That’s terrible news, Fisk,” he said after a long pause. “But whatever has he done to rouse such a suspicion in you?”
“He’s prone to… fits, my lord. I try to hide them from everyone—even the servants, but I fear they’ve seen some.”
“What kinds of fits?”
“He rants and raves. He suffers from visions—violent, frightening, spectral visions of the battle of Waterloo.”
“When does this happen?”
“In the middle of the night most of the time. I often stay up late, and my bedchamber is close to his, so I can hear it when the shouting begins.” Fisk gave a small shudder. “I immediately rush to his room and attempt to soothe him. I’m sorry, my lord. But it’s…
disturbing.”
It wasn’t difficult for Tristan to affect a façade of deep concern. “Do you believe Garrett is prone to violence?”
Fisk took a deep breath. “I’m not certain. However… you’re not the only man he has threatened with a gun.”
“Is that so?” Tristan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn’t inclined to trust Fisk, but was he a fool to leave his family at Garrett’s mercy? He’d known Garrett to be full of hot air and prone to ranting, but a true danger? It was difficult to fathom, especially after Sophie had so vehemently rejected the idea just a few days ago. “Who else has he threatened?”
“The butler, Connor.”
“Why did he threaten Connor?”
Fisk shook his head. Pulling out a gold-trimmed handkerchief embossed with his initials, he dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m not certain, but I believe it had something to do with him interrupting the duke at his work.”
Tristan rubbed his hand over his jaw. It was true Garrett seemed to have an aversion to the servants since his return from Belgium. Fortunately, Tristan knew exactly where he might find Connor on his day off—at his sister’s house in Cheapside. He’d seek him out.
“Do you believe he might threaten any of the ladies?”
Fisk shook his head. “It’s hard to say, my lord. Cal becomes… unpredictable when in the throes of one of his tempers. I think Lady Miranda is surely safe—they keep her away from him for the most part. And Lady Bertrice and Lady Rebecca will hardly be at home—
I’ve read their social schedule. But Her Grace—I cannot say.”
“Perhaps,” Tristan said slowly, “I should delay my trip until I can be more certain of His Grace’s sanity.”
Fisk’s shoulders slumped, and a crestfallen expression creased his face. “I’m so very sorry, my lord. I shouldn’t like to be the cause of any distress on your part. Never fear, I am keeping an eye on all the ladies, and should Cal… become unstable, I will certainly do whatever is necessary to protect them.”
“Don’t underestimate the duchess, Fisk. She’s quite capable of looking after herself.”
Fisk nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, I have seen that in her. We’ve become good friends—in fact, we have planned to attend the theater together in two days’ time.”
Tristan couldn’t conceal the suspicion that clouded his face. He rose abruptly and returned to the sideboard for the untouched glass of brandy.
Fisk continued blithely on. “We are going to see the new melodrama at Covent Garden.”
Could this have something to do with Fisk’s visits to the theater? Tristan didn’t like anything about it, and he’d damn well be there for Sophie should anything go awry. Tristan took a long draught and savored the burning sensation of the liquid searing a path down his throat. When he spoke, he managed to sound calm, even approving. “Sounds like a capital idea, Fisk. I’m sure Sophie is looking forward to it as much as you are.”
“I certainly hope so, my lord.”
As suspicion trickled through him, Tristan managed to make himself look grateful, even though a part of him wanted to grab hold of this presumptuous upstart’s neck and shake the exuberant innocence out of him. For the first time, it struck him as false, as a cloak for some sinister persona.
Either that, or Tristan was in such denial over the loss of his wife and his life that he had finally succumbed to suspicious fancies.
“I’m glad you came today, Fisk,” he pushed out. “And I’m relieved you are keeping an eye on my family. It wasn’t necessary, and I understand you have come onl
y out of true concern, and for that I thank you.”
“It’s true, Lord Westcliff. I was there at the beginning.” Fisk coughed into the handkerchief as the image of Sophie tied to their bed speared through Tristan’s mind’s eye. Hell. He hated, hated that this man had witnessed that moment between him and his wife. Fisk continued, “And I understand the upheaval all this has caused to you and your son.”
His son. Interesting touch, to add his concern for Gary. Tristan distrusted the man more with every passing second.
“Where did you say you were traveling, my lord?”
“Perhaps north to visit my family in Yorkshire.”
Maybe he’d be taking a trip away from London after all. But he rather thought he might journey somewhat to the west of Calton House, to dig up more information about William Fisk in Leeds.
First, though, he needed to see Sophie.
Dr. MacAllister was a small man with frost-colored hair, bright blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a friendly smile, and Sophie disliked him instantly.
At Mr. Fisk’s urging, Garrett had employed Dr. Mac-Allister to help fill in the holes of his memory. The doctor had first come two mornings ago, the day after Becky and Aunt Bertrice arrived. He’d prescribed a potently foul remedy that darkened Garrett’s mood and worsened his nightmares. Last night it had taken nearly an hour of Sophie holding Garrett and whispering to him before he’d awakened enough to recognize her. No sooner had he done so than he’d fallen into a deep sleep she couldn’t rouse him from. And this morning he hadn’t remembered any of it.
Sophie was absolutely certain it had something to do with the tonic Dr. MacAllister had given him. She’d tried to convince Garrett of it, but he’d brushed her worries aside, saying MacAllister was one of the most skilled doctors in the field of mental disorders in London. At the moment, Sophie stood at the side of the bed watching the doctor bleed Garrett. When she’d asked why he had prescribed this particular treatment, the man had pontificated for ten minutes about ill humors, but his speech didn’t make any sense to her at all. She didn’t understand what bleeding or ill humors had to do with Garrett’s memory. Garrett lay sprawled on his belly, the heavy burgundy counterpane turned down at his hips. Black leeches covered by small glass containers dotted his naked back, cheerfully sucking his lifeblood and growing fatter by the second. Her stomach roiled, and she looked away.
“Ah, very good, they’re starting to come off,” Dr. MacAllister pronounced jovially. “You may remove the remaining ones, miss.”
Sophie heard trickling noises as the maid dribbled water over the remaining leeches so they’d fall from Garrett’s skin.
Garrett groaned softly and then addressed the doctor. “Is there anything you can give me for the nightmares, doctor? My wife says I didn’t recognize her last night, I was so deeply in its thrall. I’m afraid I’m frightening her.”
Sophie turned to face him, and though his body was blocked from view by the maid scooping the leeches from his back, his pale face wasn’t, and he offered her a wry smile, which she returned. By now, he knew well enough he was incapable of frightening her. The doctor’s forehead furrowed as he thought. “Well, Your Grace, this is a common effect of war and battle, you know. The nightmares likely have little to do with your loss of memory.”
“Still, is there something that can be done about them?”
“Hmm… perhaps. Allow me to consult my books to see if I might find an appropriate prescription. You do understand that whatever I might give you for the nightmares will have to be taken in conjunction with the memory therapy tonic I have given you?”
“Of course.” Garrett sat up, but not before Sophie saw the raw red spots on his back. He swayed as he reached for his shirt.
Lord, how much blood had they taken? She ground her teeth. She had to convince him to stop this madness. His memories would return in time, or not, but surely they weren’t worth suffering for. And she was certain this doctor was a quack. Dr. MacAllister emitted a long sigh. “In truth, Your Grace, I fear your health might worsen before it takes a turn for the better.”
Garrett narrowed his eyes at the doctor. “How do you mean?”
“The mind is a fragile thing, Your Grace. Think of it as a child’s toy—as a collection of blocks, if you will. When you’re building a castle with your blocks, in order to create the most spectacular tower, for instance, it is often necessary to collapse a part of what you’ve created and rebuild. Sometimes this must be done again and again, until the result is as perfect as possible, given the limitations of the sizes and shapes of your blocks. The mind works in a similar way. We might have to tear part of it down in order to rebuild it into a healthy state.”
Sophie stared at Dr. MacAllister, and she knew her distaste for him resonated in her expression. He still made no sense. It was illogical to think that Garrett would get worse before he got better. Without the “benefit” of any tonic, Garrett remembered more and grew mentally stronger every day. And now this man proposed he take backward steps?
She wouldn’t let it happen.
“A note for you, madam.”
Grinding her teeth, Sophie took the piece of stationery from the silver dish the footman held out. The envelope wasn’t addressed, which told her without a doubt it was from her irascible husband. She’d spent the better part of the day arguing with Garrett about Dr. MacAllister. Finally, after a tense afternoon tea, he’d shouted to her that she was a shrew who clearly had no desire to see him heal. Too frustrated to express surprise over his testiness—no doubt also triggered by the quack’s poisonous tonic—she’d responded that he was an obstinate bully with no respect for her observations or opinions, so why should she bother to speak to him, much less look out for his well-being? At which point he’d stumbled out of the room and locked himself in his study for the remainder of the day. Of course, now that she was seconds away from leaving for the theater with Mr. Fisk and Becky, he decided to send her a missive when he could have come to speak with her hours ago.
After the footman closed the door, she opened the folded note. Very well. I will refrain from calling upon Dr. MacAllister as long as I continue to improve. And as long as my memory doesn’t fail me again.
He’d underlined each “as long as” several times for emphasis. Sophie sucked in a breath. Why did Garrett have so little faith in his own ability to recover when his recovery was so clear for everyone to see? Such a stubborn man. She looked down to read the final line. I predict I will be recalling him in a week or less.
She curled her fingers, crumpling the paper in her hand. If it came to it, she’d replace the doctor’s noxious tonic with a sleeping potion of her own. A gentle, harmless brew of chamomile, lemon, and spearmint.
That thought calmed her, and by the time Becky came to her door, Sophie was prepared to enjoy the evening. She straightened her pale yellow skirts and checked her bandeau in the mirror before opening the door to her exquisitely costumed sister-in-law. Becky wore a silver net dress over a blush rose silk underdress. Gold cording trimmed the neckline and hem, a gilded ribbon defined her tiny waist, and her maid had entwined a matching golden rope in the strands of her hair. She wore a gold link necklace that had belonged to her mother and tiny diamond teardrop earrings.
“You look beautiful, my dear.”
Becky’s grin lit her face. “So do you, Sophie. You don’t look nearly as old as you are.”
Sophie chuckled as Becky added, “And those pearls are exquisite.”
“Thank you, Becks.” She brushed her fingertips over the sleek strand of oriental pearls round her neck. A wedding gift from Tristan. Smiling, she took Becky’s arm in her own.
“Shall we?”
“Oooh,” Becky murmured as they stepped into the Duke of Calton’s box. She glided all the way in to gaze out over the balcony railing. The view was of the entire theater, blazing with gas lights and already filled to brimming with patrons eager to view the highly touted melodrama. It was going to be another of Covent Garden’s famous spect
acles, more pleasing to the eye than to the mind, but Sophie looked forward to the distraction. She smiled as Mr. Fisk led her to her seat, and she lowered herself onto the velvet cushioned chair in the center of the front row. From the corner of her eye, she saw groups of people in the audience hush and look up at them curiously, but she kept her focus on Becky. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Becky turned back to her, her dark blue eyes round. “Beautiful it might be, but I don’t doubt it’s a fire hazard of the very first order!”
Sophie chuckled. “The lighting is magnificent, isn’t it?”
Becky shuddered. “It’s almost frightening. So many lights… If there was a gas leak, this whole building would be a ball of flames in seconds.”
“It does take some getting used to,” Mr. Fisk said. “But I assure you, my lady, should a fire start, you shall be the first soul to escape.”
Becky raised a brow. “How’s that, Mr. Fisk?”
Her tone was almost flirtatious. Sophie brushed the wrinkles from the satin skirt of her gown and sighed. Becky was almost too breathtaking tonight. The flush in her cheeks matched the color of her gown, and her figure was voluptuous but so slender even a man as comparatively small as Mr. Fisk could probably span her waist with his hands. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring Becky and Mr. Fisk to the theater together. Mr. Fisk gave a sly smile. “I know a clandestine exit from this level.”
His use of the word “clandestine” disturbed Sophie. She gave him a sharp glance, but Becky had completely captured his focus, and he seemed not to notice.
“Do you?” Becky asked in surprise.
Mr. Fisk nodded sagely. “Indeed I do. I’ve taken it many times, in fact.”
“Well,” Becky said. “There is some comfort in that, at least.”
Sophie patted the seat next to her. “Come, dearest. Sit here.”
She watched Becky’s eyes slide toward the empty seat beside Mr. Fisk, but she obediently came to sit beside Sophie instead.
Within moments, the curtain rose to a lavishly decorated scene. “Peru,” Becky breathed, no doubt in response to the shape of the mountains painted on the backdrop. “Those are the Andes.”
A Hint of Wicked Page 19