With that, she lumbered off in the direction of a lady of equally advanced years, and they engaged in much kissing and gushing over each other. Tristan nearly smiled. She’d never treated him with such affection. That wasn’t to say she didn’t care, because he knew she did.
Had she meant to give him hope with her words? Regardless of her intention, she had. A crash from Sophie’s direction drew Tristan’s attention. She stood in a wash of glass and punch, her mouth agape. Everyone around her froze, stock still. Only Garrett moved. He stomped to the nearby punchbowl, lifted a second glass, and sent it crashing to the floor.
“Good Lord, George, I told you he was mad as a hatter,” muttered a nearby lady to her husband.
“Sophie!” Tristan sprinted toward his wife. As he neared, Garrett’s blue gaze speared into him.
“You!” Garrett roared. A glass flew at him, but Tristan ducked, and it hurtled into the wall. Droplets splattered on his neck.
A part of him, the part always attuned to propriety and his reputation, realized that he was being seen by the most influential people in London bounding toward his ex-wife while he dodged missiles thrown by her husband, his cousin. God, they’d make a joke of this moment throughout the kingdom.
Crystal exploded at his feet. He leaped over it and kept running. When he reached Sophie, she grabbed his arm. “Tristan! Thank God you’re here. I don’t know what’s wrong with—”
Glass glanced off his arm. He thrust Sophie behind him to shield her from flying shards. She grabbed the tails of his coat and held on for dear life.
“Your Grace, cease this immediately!” he shouted. Why was nobody rushing to stop Garrett? The crowd seemed frozen, as if in a painting, agog and waiting to see what would happen.
Garrett raised two glasses, one in each hand, wielding them as weapons. Good God, was he frothing at the mouth? Just moments ago, he’d appeared the perfect gentleman. He swayed on his feet, collecting glasses one at a time from the serving table and slinging them randomly. A lady dressed in the same shade of gray as Tristan let out a muffled scream and ducked behind her companion as a glass soared past her head to crash somewhere behind her. Garrett spun around, raising a glass at a man nearly Tristan’s height.
Garrett dropped his hands, a bewildered look crossing his face. “Christ! He’s everywhere, and he won’t go away.”
Fisk took a step toward Garrett, but Becky grabbed his arm. “Be careful, Mr. Fisk,” she whispered. “Please.”
Another glass shattered as it struck the wall and rained down the wainscoting in a shower of pink champagne and glittering shards.
Fisk patted Becky’s hand. “Never fear, Lady Rebecca. I shall manage your brother.”
She hesitantly released him, and he stepped forward again, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “Cal, I’m here.”
“Fisk?” Garrett’s face twisted in confusion. “Fisk, is that you? I can’t see, Fisk. It’s like…
it’s like it was before…” He sucked in a wild breath.
“It’s me, Cal. Everything is going to be just fine,” Fisk said soothingly.
“Tristan… won’t go away. He’s everywhere.” Garrett blinked hard, but his eyes rolled backward in his skull.
“He’ll go now, Cal. We’ll take you home.”
Just as Fisk reached him, Garrett collapsed.
Tristan turned to Sophie, grabbing her shoulders. “Sophie, love. Look at me. Are you all right?”
She blinked. “Tristan? Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Perfectly all right.”
The ballroom came to life in a flurry of activity. Gentlemen swarmed over Garrett while ladies crowded around Sophie, pushing Tristan away from her. He watched her struggling to go to Garrett as the crowd overtook her. She didn’t have a scratch on her, thank God, but her whiskey-colored eyes were wide with shock. Words were being bandied about. Mad. Insane. Lost his mind…
Tristan was torn between thrusting aside the women and checking on Sophie, and going to see if Garrett was all right.
Fisk played the hero, with Becky at his elbow staring at him like a fawning pet. Men slapped him on the back and offered him congratulations on his handling of the madman’s outburst.
Tristan gritted his teeth. No, this wasn’t right at all. The crowd parted momentarily, and Tristan saw the same look of confusion on Sophie’s face he was sure reflected on his own. He needed to talk to her. But he couldn’t, not in this crush. What he most wanted to say was, “For God’s sake, don’t trust Fisk,” but he couldn’t even do that much. For now, it had to be enough that Sophie believed Garrett wasn’t mad, and that she was just as suspicious of Fisk as he was. Tristan trusted her implicitly, he respected her, and he believed her, even if what he’d just witnessed seemed in direct contradiction to her opinion. And if Sophie was right, it must mean the good Dr. MacAllister had given Garrett something that had altered him.
“Idiots,” Aunt Bertrice said in a low voice, coming to stand beside him. He looked down at the old woman. She seemed to be the only person in the entire room who hadn’t lost her wits.
“Look at them. They’re like a godforsaken herd of sheep. One mischief-maker shouts
‘madman,’ and they all fall into the spirit of it.”
He found the crowd a little easier to forgive, considering that Garrett had just behaved like a raving lunatic. But then Tristan caught a glimpse of his young cousin, who had gone quite pale and had wrapped her arms around herself. Fisk had abandoned Garrett and was leading her to a chair. “Even Becky,” he murmured.
“Even Rebecca.” Aunt Bertrice frowned. “Fools, the lot of ’em.”
“Will you deliver a message of warning to Sophie for me?”
His aunt snorted. “She hardly needs warned, boy. She’s as wound up as a watch, her claws are extended, and she’s prepared as ever to do battle for any one of us.”
Tristan nodded. “Just tell her to be careful.”
“Of course.” The old woman waved her hand in the air as if shooing him away. Then her face darkened, her expression reminiscent of Garrett himself. “This must take precedence over all your other business, Tristan. I insist you get to the bottom of this drama, and soon. Sophie is too deeply caught up in all of it, and Garrett—well, he’s too damn blind. But something tastes rotten.”
Tristan agreed. “I intend to, Aunt. That’s why I must leave Town.”
Chapter Fifteen
Cal?”Garrett looked up from his desk. “Oh, Fisk, I’m glad to see you.”
“The doctor’s returned.”
As if to prove Fisk’s statement, the jolly man peeked around Fisk’s shoulder, though at the moment, he didn’t look nearly so cheerful as usual. Garrett stiffened, and his throat went dry. Fisk had called MacAllister to his side once they’d brought him home from the ball, and the doctor had tended to him all night. When Garrett awoke feeling well except for a touch of a headache, MacAllister had said he suspected the cause of Garrett’s outburst, but he wanted to mull over the case before pronouncing a definite diagnosis.
“Dr. MacAllister,” he said softly. “Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Fisk smiled encouragingly at the man. “The doctor says he has a prognosis for the affliction that overcame you at Lady Keene’s ball.”
Exactly what Garrett feared.
He felt the sudden urge to call for his wife. With jerky movements, he took the golden bell from his inkstand, rang for a footman, and asked the man to summon her. Her presence would keep him calm.
Christ. He deluded himself. At the ball, even her solid strength beside him hadn’t prevented him from succumbing to madness.
“Are you sure you want the duchess to hear this, Cal?” Fisk said softly. His eyes were soft, full of compassion, and Garrett despised the pity he saw in them. Garrett moved his head in a brusque nod. “As my wife, she should know.”
“Even if the prognosis is less than ideal?”
He gave Fisk a sharp look. “I retain hope
for the most ideal outcome.”
“Of course.” Fisk’s voice was mild.
Moments later, Sophie entered, her emerald-green skirts lifted to reveal heeled leather shoes and a bit of white stocking. She looked harried, as if she’d dropped everything and run to the study. Garrett rose, and Fisk and the doctor followed suit. She released her skirts, smoothed the shimmering fabric, straightened, and inclined her head. “Good afternoon, doctor. Mr. Fisk.”
They both bowed and greeted her pleasantly.
Garrett reached his hand to her. “Come stand beside me, Sophie. The doctor is prepared to give his diagnosis, and I want you to hear it.”
She slipped her hand in his and squeezed reassuringly. He was still awed that she didn’t cringe away from him in fear after what he had done—he’d seen his sister in the hall earlier, and she’d looked as though she were about to faint. But Sophie said she believed in him, she’d stand beside him, and together they would find the solution. She steadfastly believed his condition was reversible. As misplaced as her confidence in him was, her words kept him from descending into dark panic.
Because after last night, a part of him—a very large part—truly believed he was going mad.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Given the new symptoms you’ve exhibited, I must revise your diagnosis, Your Grace. I fear you have a rare condition characterized by outbursts of lunacy and caused by severe trauma to the brain. Sometimes after an upsetting experience or injury, the mind continues to return to the trauma even when it occurred long ago. At those times, the victim is unaware of his true surroundings and behaves as if he is reliving the disturbing event. Essentially reliving his memories.”
“Are you referring to Waterloo?”
“Yes—that is the most likely event in this case, sir.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I never had an episode like this when I was living in Belgium.”
Garrett’s brow furrowed. “At least, I don’t think I did.”
“I believe this corresponds directly to your return to England and your recollection of your memories.”
“Will it happen again?”
“Yes, Your Grace. It is very likely.”
“Is there a way to control it?”
“No, sir. None that we know.”
“You say it is a temporary affliction?”
The doctor’s eyes flicked to Fisk, then lowered. “The fits are known to recur more frequently as the condition progresses, ultimately overcoming its victims permanently.”
Permanently? The word hung in the silence like a phantom.
“How sure are you of this diagnosis?”
“Completely, Your Grace.”
He was going mad. The doctor had just confirmed it.
He glanced at Sophie, who stood very still, a stoic expression on her face. But her fingers tightened over his.
Then he looked at Fisk. His friend sat frozen, tears shining in his eyes. Garrett squared his shoulders. He would not crumble before the people who meant the most to him. “How long?”
“Your Grace?”
“How long do I have before the madness controls me?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “It could happen anytime. It truly varies from case to case. You may or may not recover from the next episode.”
“I see. Thank you, doctor.”
“I intend to analyze this thoroughly and develop a prescription to contain your symptoms for as long as possible.”
Garrett slid into his chair and stared dully at the inkpot as Sophie moved to see Fisk and the doctor out. When the door closed behind them, she came to stand on the opposite side of his desk.
She slapped her hands on the polished wood surface. “I don’t believe him. I don’t believe a word that man says. Don’t listen to him, Garrett.”
He looked up at her. Her eyes sparkled back at him with intensity, glowing amber. “I know you don’t like him—”
“Don’t like him? I despise him! How dare he say such things to you! How dare he frighten you like that!”
“Sometimes the truth is frightening,” he said in a low voice.
“I can’t—I won’t believe you’re going mad, Garrett. I refuse to believe it. He’s wrong.”
Garrett heaved a sigh. “He’s a doctor, Sophie.”
“I don’t care if he’s the Lord himself come down from Heaven.” Again she whacked the desk with her palms. “He’s wrong, damn it!”
“How can you explain what happened last night, then?”
“There is an explanation,” she said stubbornly. “I don’t know what it is, but we’ll unearth it. It’s not madness, that much I know. Dr. MacAllister is a charlatan. He’s trying to upset you—to what end I cannot say.”
She walked around the desk with purpose in her stride. Then she took his cheeks in her palms and tilted his head up so he faced her.
“I’m not going to allow you to believe you’re mad, Garrett. You’re not. You’re honorable and sane. Don’t ever let anyone say you’re mad.”
Then she bent down and kissed him on the mouth. Hard. Shocked, he froze for a long moment, but then he came alive. He slipped his arms round her silky emerald bodice and tugged her to his lap.
Her lips were soft, luscious. When they’d kissed before, he’d been completely entranced by the moment, but this time, kissing her felt like coming home. Her delicate floral scent clung to her and wafted over him, along with his memories.
Kissing her under the stars. Behind the stables, in the stables. In every room of Calton House. This house, too.
Her lips clung to his, gentle and tentative yet with an underlying, insistent, powerful strength.
He felt sane when she kissed him. Life flooded into his blood, and desire replaced defeat. He smoothed his hand up the curve of her waist and cupped her breast, soft and supple, even through the many layers of her clothes.
“Your Grace?”
They broke apart. Sophie didn’t spare a glance at Fisk, whose voice had come from the door. She kept her warming gaze on Garrett instead.
Annoyed, Garrett turned to the doorway.
“Oh, forgive me,” Fisk murmured. “I’ve just come to assist you with the rents, Your Grace. I’ll return later.”
“No, please, Mr. Fisk. Do stay.” Sophie slid off Garrett’s lap. “I was just leaving.”
“Lord Westcliff is in the drawing room, Your Grace.”
Garrett’s head snapped up, and he gaped at the butler. “What did you say?”
Even Fisk, sitting across the desk from him, looked surprised. They’d spend the better part of the day untangling Garrett’s investments. He seemed to have a hand in every single financial pot in England, and it took a great deal of concentration to organize. Fortunately, he’d not lost money in the years since Waterloo, as so many other men of the aristocracy had. Fisk credited conservative investing, but Garrett knew that Tristan as his trustee had made wise decisions, despite his seeming lack of concern for the maintenance and care of his properties.
“Lord Westcliff is in the drawing room, sir.”
“And may I ask who allowed him to enter this house?”
“Lady Bertrice, Your Grace,” Connor said stiffly, his beaklike nose quivering at its tip.
“And where is Her Grace?”
“Her Grace is in the drawing room with them.”
Garrett heaved out of his chair, and Connor scurried backward. Scowling, Garrett pushed past him and strode toward the staircase, Fisk at his heels. Please, God, help me keep my sanity.
Fisk laid a hand on his arm as they walked up the stairs. “Are you certain you should go in there?”
Keeping his face stony, Garrett mounted the stairs. One foot in front of the other.
“Surely it was Lord Westcliff’s presence at Lady Keene’s ball that pulled you over the edge, Cal. What if it happens again?” Desperation edged Fisk’s words. Garrett paused just outside the drawing room door. He was afraid, so afraid, of losing his mind.
“I can speak with hi
m on your behalf,” Fisk continued in a low voice. Garrett stared at the white-painted door panels. Fisk’s offer was so damn tempting. But then he heard Sophie’s melodic voice coming from inside the room.
“No,” he pushed out. “I’ll do it.” Steeling his jangling nerves, he turned the handle and pushed open the door. Tristan, who’d been sitting on one of the silk armchairs, jumped to his feet, blocking Sophie from view.
Damn the man. Always so utterly protective of her. Wasn’t that Garrett’s job?
He glared at Tristan. “What are you doing here, Westcliff?”
Tristan took in a deep breath. After he exhaled, he seemed to relax a little, and stepped away from Sophie, who sat calmly, her hands folded in her lap. She gazed at Garrett as if willing her own serenity to transfer to him.
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” Tristan said.
Garrett narrowed his eyes. From the corner of his eye, he could see Aunt Bertrice, whose scowl matched his own, and Rebecca cowering in her chair.
“What might that be?”
“I’ve come to ask you to take Gary.”
That stunned him. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke. “Why?”
“I’m leaving Town, and it will be best for him to be in the company of his family.”
Garrett stared hard at his cousin, trying to discern an ulterior motive. “You saw what happened to me last night,” he said gruffly. “Why would you want your son near me?”
“I don’t fear you. You wouldn’t hurt a child.”
“At this moment, I wouldn’t,” Garrett said. “But—”
Tristan took a step toward him, raising his hand. “I would never doubt my son’s safety in this house. Are you saying I should?”
Garrett spoke the truth. “I don’t know.”
“The boy is a creature of habit. It has been difficult for him without Miranda and Miss Dalworthy. I only ask because I know it will be better—even safer—for Gary to be here with his family than with his new governess in unfamiliar surroundings.”
Garrett paused, stunned by Tristan’s show of faith. Did the man merely possess the same confidence in him Sophie had, or was he a damn fool? Garrett’s stubborn mind wanted to believe the latter, but something nudged his gut, telling him Tristan truly did believe in his sanity.
A Hint of Wicked Page 22