“Backstage?”
Tristan nodded.
“Oooh, no,” said the vixen. “I doubt he’s back there, at any rate. He said he was late for a meeting, and he’s probably miles away by now.”
The actors all looked at him expectantly.
“Well, do you know where he resides? Or anywhere I might be able to contact him?”
“He spends the evenings here at the theater, of course, but—” The drunken man’s words were cut short as the vixen kicked his shin in plain view.
Odd.
Tristan would return. Not tomorrow night, because the Countess of Keene’s ball was tomorrow. But perhaps the night after.
“May I offer you refreshment, my lord?”
Tristan stood awkwardly in the small, shabby front parlor belonging to Connor’s sister the next afternoon. Dressed in gentlemanly street clothes, Connor stood across from him, clearly equally uncomfortable. Both men were out of their element.
“No, thank you.” Tristan tapped his hat against his thigh. “I am sorry to intrude upon you like this, Connor.”
“It’s quite all right, sir. I am at your service.”
“Thank you.” Tristan cleared his throat. “I’ve come out of concern for the duke’s household.”
After a short pause, the butler said, “We have been through some upheaval, as you yourself have. But everything is quite well, I assure you.”
“I have heard some… concerns. Regarding the duke’s sanity.”
Connor gave a fleeting look of distaste before his face returned to its standard impassivity.
“I have heard the rumors, of course.”
“Is it true that the gossip was begun by a member of the staff?”
Connor’s shoulders squared. “Absolutely not. Mrs. Krum and I have questioned each member of the staff, down to the scullery maids, and so has Her Grace. We are all satisfied that none is responsible for spreading these untruths.”
“You believe the accusations are completely untrue?”
“I have no doubt of the duke’s sanity, sir. It is true he is facing a difficult adjustment to his way of life, but if you are asking my opinion… ?”
“I am, Connor. You have worked in his household since before he left for the Continent. I believe you to be a trustworthy judge of his character.”
“In my opinion, he is perfectly sane, my lord. He is prone to periods of frustration, it’s true. But—”
“Did he aim a pistol at you?”
The butler’s eyes widened in surprise, then his gaze narrowed. “Why, yes, sir, he did. I didn’t know anyone but the duke and I were aware of that incident.”
“Why did he do it?”
“I surprised him in his study. His reaction when I walked in the door was instantaneous—
almost as if he were reliving the war and believed me to be the enemy.”
Tristan released a breath. “Damn it, Connor. What if he had aimed a gun at one of the ladies? What if his finger slipped on the trigger?”
“It was an honest mistake, my lord, in the first days following his arrival home. He meant nothing by it, and he discarded the weapon once he realized who I was. He is much calmer now. He no longer takes his pistol everywhere he goes.”
Tristan studied Connor. The man was nothing if not steadfast and trustworthy in the extreme. But at this point could Tristan trust anyone? He let his gaze drift toward the window as rain pelted against the panes.
“You would say the ladies are completely safe, then?”
“Yes, my lord. I truly believe they are safe.” In a rare movement contrary to his butleresque stiffness, Connor bent his head so Tristan saw the bald spot. Then he looked back up. “Where His Grace is concerned, that is.”
“What do you mean?” Tristan asked sharply.
All the man’s stiffness returned, and he gazed at Tristan. “You were asking my opinion, my lord?”
“Yes.”
Connor hesitated. “I’m hesitant to break the confidences of the household to which I belong—”
“For God’s sake, Connor. You know I wouldn’t do anything to put your position at risk. You know I only care for my wife—Her Grace—and Lady Miranda. And the rest of my family.”
Connor’s eyes flicked away, then came to rest on Tristan. “Yes, sir. I do believe your intentions are honorable.”
“Do you require money? How much—”
Connor held up his hand. “Of course not. Please, sir. I would not dream of taking a bribe from you.”
Tristan took a step closer to him. “Tell me your concerns.”
“They could quite possibly be unfounded.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s Mr. Fisk.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t trust him, sir.”
Tristan forced his gaze to remain neutral. “Why is that?”
“Just a feeling I have. And—” Connor blew out a breath. “—in truth, sir, I fear His Grace has placed too much trust in him. He has managed all the duke’s fiscal matters for some time. His Grace has given him the power of attorney.”
Tristan sucked in a breath. “I see.”
He knew Garrett had given Fisk too much power, but for him to place all his money into Fisk’s hands… That act gave Fisk power far beyond what his youthful imaginings had probably ever conjured.
God, Garrett was being a damn fool.
“Sir, I don’t see how you could have heard about the incident with the duke aiming his pistol at me, unless Mr. Fisk was lurking about somewhere and witnessed the scene. And frankly, sir, if that is so, it makes me uncomfortable that he didn’t make himself known.”
“Understandable, Connor. It makes me uncomfortable as well.”
***
A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and gilded wall sconces blazed with candles in Lady Keene’s ballroom. Garrett smiled down at Sophie, who tightened her hand over his arm. Though he had remained unfashionably close to her, the evening had gone passably well. He managed dinner without making any faux pas, and he miraculously survived an awkward quadrille with his sister without stepping on any toes. He could thank Miranda for that. In the past week, they’d taken to practicing the dances together, and the steps had eventually come back to him.
Sophie looked up at him, her smile warming him to his toes. “Are you ready for our waltz, Your Grace?”
Determined to counter the gossip of his insanity and her maltreatment, they’d planned to dance the waltz together. Displaying themselves in close proximity would be just the thing to show the ton that the Duke and Duchess of Calton were content. Even if it were not the case. Garrett knew she was suffering. She displayed a good façade, but he saw beyond it. She was pale and drawn, thinner and quieter than the Sophie he’d once known. Lines of strain had formed at the corners of her mouth. Most upsetting of all, the color of her eyes had changed from sparkling whiskey to a deep, sad brown. Perhaps in part he was responsible for that. She seemed determined to counter him, to argue with him at every turn. She thought he didn’t respect her opinions—but it wasn’t that at all.
He did respect her… but she couldn’t understand the extent of his fear. He hated feeling out of control. He hated the damned holes in his memory. He hated how he didn’t know how to respond when someone spoke to him. Every day, his frustration with himself grew, and every day it seemed his goal of becoming a normal English gentleman drifted farther from his reach.
Sophie didn’t see any of that. In that way, she was like the Sophie of their childhood. She only saw the positives… the one step forward for every ten steps back. He wanted nothing more than to make her happy, but that was yet another elusive aspect of his old life he grasped for so desperately but was never able to cling to. If only he could find a way to make her love him as passionately, as wholly as she once had. Garrett handed his empty punch glass to a servant and held out his arm. “I’m ready.”
He led Sophie out to the center of the dance floor. Aware of all the eyes
witnessing the scene, he clasped her small hand in his much larger one. Her fingers twined with his, and he slid his arm around her waist.
From their unobtrusive position on a balcony at one end of the room, the orchestra played the opening strains of the waltz. The music swelled around them, and as Garrett looked into Sophie’s eyes, he thought they lightened a little.
They swept into movement. When they were younger, they’d loved to dance together. He remembered waltzing with her once, back when the waltz was a forbidden, sinful dance, on the fields of Calton House. They’d spun round and round together, humming the tune as Tristan had sat nearby, chewing on a strand of grass and watching them. Finally exhausted, they fell to the ground beside him, laughing and sweaty, the hem of Sophie’s gown sopping wet from the puddles they’d danced through. Tristan had turned his nose up at them and said he abhorred sweating because it made his clothes dirty. In response, Garrett had jumped on him and they’d wrestled while Sophie cheered them on. By the end, they were all three muddy and wet to the bone. It had earned both Tristan and Garrett a birching when they’d returned to the house.
“Oh, Garrett,” she breathed, looking up at him with shining eyes as he whirled her round Lady Keene’s ballroom. “Do you remember how we used to waltz together?”
Christ, it was hard not to stop. Not to bend down and kiss her senseless. Right here.
“I remember,” he murmured, reveling in the curve of her waist beneath his hand. The feel of her fingers pressed against his own. Even through their gloves, he felt her warmth. She was a vision in silver silk and sparkling diamonds tonight. She took his breath away when he first saw her in her ball gown. It transformed her into an angel. His angel.
A surge of optimism welled from somewhere deep within him. This apparition, this angel, belonged to him alone, and he had all the time in the world to win back her love. Maybe someday they would have another child together, as beautiful and precocious as Miranda. He tightened his hand over her waist and pulled her an inch closer.
“I want you, Sophie,” he breathed.
Her expression didn’t change, and he thought for a moment that she hadn’t heard him. But then she smiled. “I never stopped wanting you.”
They neared the edge of the dance floor, deftly avoiding other couples. From the corner of his eye, he saw his sister’s twirling powder-blue gown. She was dancing with Fisk for the second time tonight. Garrett hoped Fisk had left more distance between himself and his partner than Garrett had with his.
He pulled Sophie closer still. A curl bounced at her cheek, and he wanted to wrap his fingers in the satin strand. “Let me make love to you, Sophie.”
She held him tight but didn’t break her gaze away from his. Her warmth swept through his body, leaving him hard. God, he hoped the waltz wouldn’t end soon—he’d risk half the ton seeing him in this state.
Although, he thought wryly, that might put to rest any doubt about his level of affection for his wife.
Her eyes drifted shut, and he led her in sweeping circles across the floor. What did it mean? Was she waging some internal battle over resuming marital relations with him? Or did she not want him to see the regret in her expression?
That thought cooled the inferno in his blood. They still drifted effortlessly over the dance floor—how was it she made him feel so weightless?—but the waltz was coming to an end. Slowly, he drew her to a stop.
“Sophie?”
She opened her eyes and gazed at him. They were still the lighter color, but maybe it was due to the blazing light from the chandelier just overhead.
“I want to, Garrett. I want to be yours again… in all ways. But… I need time.”
They had all the time in the world. Unfortunately, his body didn’t respond well to logic. Still, she offered him hope. He’d take it and hold on to it like a precious gem. Just then Fisk and Rebecca approached, and Fisk pressed glasses of punch into Garrett’s and Sophie’s hands.
“A lovely waltz, wasn’t it?” Rebecca’s cheeks flushed pink. Garrett downed his drink, watching his glowing, happy sister over the rim, noting the look of adoration she cast Fisk when he turned away to greet someone.
Sophie’s hand curled over his arm, and a warm, contented feeling settled in his stomach. But dark foreboding singed the edges of his contentment, and along with it came the disturbing thought that it wouldn’t—couldn’t—last.
Standing behind one of the regal Ionic columns that set the main floor of the ballroom apart from the conservatory, Tristan watched them, unease swirling in his gut. He hadn’t expected Garrett to be here. Worse, everyone was studying Tristan carefully, to see how he’d manage this more-than-awkward situation. He felt as if they all perused his body with quizzing glasses, searching for a way inside to analyze his soul. Worst of all was the way his elegant wife had responded to Garrett as they waltzed. Dressed in a shimmering silver that caught the eye of every person in the room, she gazed at Garrett, affection brimming from her eyes. A near-palpable heat swirled between the two of them.
Tristan ground his teeth. This was an impossible, hopeless situation. For the first time, as he watched Sophie speak in low, urgent tones to Garrett, he considered abducting her against her will.
Such an action wasn’t in Tristan’s style. Perhaps Garrett had rubbed off on him. But God…
there was nothing to compel him to action like watching the woman he loved with another man.
But it wasn’t what she wanted. It would be brutish and dishonorable. If he kept nothing else, damn it, he would keep his honor.
So he kept his face stone still and expressionless as they waltzed, and he didn’t allow himself to react as he witnessed the intimacy of their conversation afterward. As tempting as it was to call Garrett out and end it with pistols at dawn, or toss Sophie over his shoulder and escape from this place, neither would help him to win Sophie back. Or to regain Garrett’s trust.
For, as Sophie and Garrett glided toward the refreshment table, Tristan finally admitted to himself that he craved the close camaraderie he’d once shared with Garrett. As much as he wanted to deny it, he wanted Garrett’s friendship again. For almost all his life he’d loved Garrett like a brother, and to be at odds with him now felt like he was losing him all over again.
The music began again—a quadrille—and Tristan abruptly looked up as a man slapped him on the shoulder. He spoke congenially for a few moments, hardly paying attention to what his companion was saying. When the man wandered away, Tristan’s roaming gaze found Sophie and Garrett, along with Fisk and Becky, near a large potted palm, drinking, talking, and laughing as if everything were perfect in the world.
“Nephew.”
He turned to find his Aunt Bertrice looking like a butterball in her jonquil gown, and released a deep breath. Keeping his composure, he bowed, then took her hand and kissed it. “Aunt B. You’re looking well.”
She snorted. “Don’t lie to me, boy. My joints are on fire. I daresay I won’t make it to another one of these routs this year. They’re too late in the night for me. These days I prefer to be abed by sunset.”
He squeezed her hand before letting go.
She squinted up at him through pale blue eyes. “You look awful, too, nephew. Tall as ever, though.”
“I thank you,” he said dryly.
Her mouth quirked. “Well, I daresay there’s something to thank the Lord for. At least you haven’t developed a hunchback.”
His gaze wandered back toward where Sophie and Garrett stood. “I thank the Lord for that blessing every day.”
Her lips flattened. “Why are you here, Tristan? I rather think it’s a bad idea.”
With Aunt Bertrice, honesty was always the best policy. “I’m leaving London. I had to see her again before I left.”
She sighed. “You boys. Always pining over that one.”
He slid her a glance. She’d always been fond of Sophie. “Would you have had it any other way, Aunt?”
“No, Tristan. She took care of you whe
re I could not. I’ve done better with Rebecca, but she’s a girl, after all, and very docile. Unlike the two of you wild urchins. I was never very maternal, you know.”
“Yes.” Both he and Garrett had struggled without a mother’s love. Aunt Bertrice, while always a presence in their lives, offered little in the way of motherly affection. During their childhood, she had spent about as much time avoiding Garrett’s tyrant of a father as they had.
“But I did care for you both. In my small way.”
“I know that, Aunt,” he said softly.
“Good.” She thumped him on the back. “Now what’s this about leaving London?”
“I have some business to attend. I won’t be gone long.”
She released a breath through pursed lips, following his gaze to where Sophie and Garrett stood, their heads bowed together. “It’s odd having him back, isn’t it?”
What did she mean by that? He merely gave her an expectant look. She shrugged. “Something about it feels wrong. Off. Who’m I to say, though. I’ve only been here a few days.”
His breath caught in his throat. “Are you saying you feel he’s dangerous?”
She waved her hand. “No, no. Not at all. Garrett is a puppy. He has a loud bark, but he doesn’t bite like his father did. You, of all people, know that. Don’t be a ninny, boy.”
She was right. Garrett looked like his father, even sounded like him. But unlike the old duke, he never raised a hand with the intent to truly hurt anyone, even when he threatened to. Tristan cocked a brow. “What do you mean, then?”
“Him and Sophie.” She pierced him with her blue eyes, her wrinkled expression unreadable. “They’re not the same together. Not like how they once were. He’s not the same. It’s almost—” she fingered her chin thoughtfully. “Well, it’s almost as though they’ve reversed roles. Garrett was always the protector, the leader, but now it is Sophie who plays those parts.” Her eyes flickered away, and then lit up. “Oh look, there’s Lady Collins, and I haven’t seen her in years. Good-bye, nephew. Safe travels, and Rebecca and I will visit you when you return home.”
A Hint of Wicked Page 21