The Duke's Hellion

by Julia Sinclair

  Even at this late hour, Covent Garden was still crowded. The piazza was full of people, any one of whom could be her blackmailer. She looked into the faces of the people passing by, trying to figure out what motives they might have or why they might decide to do this to her.

  Somehow, despite all of her attempts at alertness, Georgiana was completely unprepared when a man stepped out of the shadows toward her, one arm around her waist and the other clapping around her mouth. She struggled but was dragged off into the shadows, her body flooding with pure fear and rage.

  “Now, now, princess. It doesn't do to be mean to the man holding the whip hand, does it?”

  She was off the main thoroughfare now, dragged into a tiny nook between two buildings. It was barely large enough for one person to pass. She was in this narrow place with a man who held her captive, one arm pressed painfully into the brick wall. She had never felt so vulnerable in her life, and that made her furious.

  The man's voice was a thick whisper. “You've not changed at all, have you? Same spoiled and willful bitch. Well, that's fine. If you weren't the way you were, I wouldn't have my money, and I do want my money. You have two weeks to get me five thousand pounds, and if you do not get it, well… You know what I'll do to you.”

  He freed her mouth, and Georgiana nearly spat at him.

  “What the hell do you think you have on me?”

  He spun her around, and in the darkness, she could not see his face. All she had was an impression of an enormous man dressed in plain clothes. Then he slapped her hard on the face, so hard she wondered for one terrible moment if he had broken her jaw.

  He chuckled.

  “You ought to know better than to speak like that to a man. If you had properly married your soldier, he would have taught you right. You ran off to Gretna Green with a man, and even if you were returned before word could get out, you're as soiled as a rag dropped on the street. I have proof, so do not test me, princess. Remember. Five thousand pounds in two weeks. If you don't have it when I come to collect, you're going to be in a world of hurt.”

  He released her as abruptly as he had grabbed her, spinning her around and thrusting her toward the mouth of the alley. Georgiana would have kept her feet, but then a hard boot lashed out, hitting her right where her knee bent. With a startled cry, her leg buckled, sending her down to the street as she heard thundering footsteps that receded in the distance.

  She was shaking from shock as she climbed to her feet. Her blood felt frozen in her very veins. Until this very moment, she had expected to find something that told her that this was all wrong, that the man didn't have any real information on her or that he was simply mistaken or a fool. Now it turned out that he was none of those things, and she felt as if she was going to be sick.

  Georgiana stumbled out of the alleyway, feeling as shaky as a newborn kitten on legs that didn't seem to want to support her. She had to get home. She had to get out of Covent Garden. She probably did look like a drunk or a whore.

  She was just beginning to try to get her bearings and to figure out what she needed to do when strong arms locked around her. It was too much. She wasn't going to let anyone manhandle her again. She refused.

  “Get the hell away from me! Don't you dare!”

  Georgiana lashed out with hand and foot, her fist hitting something that felt like a brick wall in a wool jacket. She was painfully aware of how small she was, suddenly, how very easy it would be for another man to simply take her off the street. She opened her mouth to scream, but then a voice cut through the madness.

  “Georgiana, it's me. I lost you. It's me. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise, only you cannot scream, you can't...”

  It was Tristan, and Georgiana felt almost faint with relief and shock. She sagged in his arms, and he hung on to her, refusing to let her fall.

  “We have to get out of here. Are you hurt? Do I need to carry you?”

  “No, I'm... I'm not hurt. Only please. Take me home?”

  There was only a moment of hesitation, and then Tristan wrapped her up under his jacket, pulling her next to the healing warmth of his body.

  “Yes. Let's go.”

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Georgiana did not realize until the hack pulled up in the rear of the Carrows' London residence on Grosvenor Street that Tristan had chosen to take her to his home. She had been silent along the ride, but now as they got out, she looked around wildly.

  “I can't go in there!”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn't be proper.”

  Instead of rolling his eyes, Tristan only laughed. There was a tired sound to it, but there was no malice or anger there at all. “First time I've ever heard a Martin say something like that. But don't worry. I've dismissed the servants for the night. We'll have the place to ourselves for what it’s worth. Come on. If you still need to go home, I'll take you after this. Right now, I don't want you out of my sight.”

  Georgiana was too tired to take exception to what he was saying. She felt as if she could drop and sleep for a week, but her nerves were still wound too tight from what had happened in Covent Garden. Without arguing, she followed him into the dim house and allowed him to lead her into a finely appointed drawing room.”

  “Sit down.”

  She did as he said, and she barely looked up when he placed a small cut-glass tumbler into her hand.

  “Drink that.”

  She did as he said and nearly choked. She supposed she hadn't thought to ask what was in it, but she would have guessed water or tea, even if he hadn't called for anything. Instead, there was a taste of smoke and burning, and it was everything she could do not to cough it right back into his face.

  “Oh, my goodness. Are you trying to kill me?”

  Tristan smiled a little from where he knelt in front of her. It was funny, but from this angle, he looked younger than he usually did, almost boyish.

  “Trying to revive you, more like. I'm sorry. I should have told you. Sip slowly. Think of it as medicine.”

  She glared at him but did as he said. The whiskey burned like fire on the way down, and she didn't think she would ever get the taste of smoke out of her throat, but in the end, she had to admit he was right. She felt calmer and warmer, even if her face felt flushed.

  “You needn't hover, I'm not going to fall apart.”

  Obediently, Tristan stood up, going to light a few more lamps. Soon enough, the drawing room was drenched in a warm comfortable light. She wanted to forget how she had gotten here and relax, but of course, that was impossible.

  “I lost sight of you for a single moment, I swear, and then you were gone.”

  Something in Tristan's tone made her look up. “He pulled me off the street. He was moving far faster than I would have given him credit for; it's not your fault.”

  “Still, I am sorry. I won't let it happen again. Now tell me what happened, please.”

  It was the please that pulled her back from an irritated diatribe. She reminded herself that Tristan was helping her, even if she had forced him into it, and she took a deep breath. In as much detail as she could remember, Georgiana told him what the man had told her. She left out the insults that had curdled her blood, because whether they were on good terms or not, she had the idea that they would only enrage Tristan further.

  “And then he shoved me back into the street, and you found me.”

  “Well, it appears that he knows something of the truth.” Tristan's voice was calm, but she could detect the simmering anger underneath it. For a moment, she was warmed by it, but then she reminded herself that it was simply his attention to his duty. Carrow outrage was a force for great good, but she mustn't let herself think that it was personal.

  “He does. I think he must be working for Marshall Stranding.”

  Tristan's eyes narrowed at the name, but Georgiana couldn't say that she liked saying it any more than he did.

  “That son of a—”

  “Save the swears, plea
se. If anyone is going to be swearing at him, it should be me.”

  Tristan hesitated and then nodded. “If anyone has the right, I imagine you do. All right. Yes, I agree. This must be Stranding. The bastard dropped off the map after what happened in Devon. I knew I should have kept track of him.”

  Georgiana found herself smiling a little. “It is not your responsibility to keep track of my lurid affairs.”

  The look that Tristan gave her was so sharp she could cut herself on it. “He wasn't an affair.”

  “But that's how Society will think of it, won't they? An affair. A black mark on my reputation. I'm going to be ruined.”

  Some of her emotions were coming back to her now that she'd calmed down, and underneath it was panic and fear and rage, all balled up into one. She started to shake, and she didn't even know that Tristan had moved until he came to sit down next to her.

  “Come here.”

  “Save me your pity. I know you don't want to be here.”

  “I'm in my house. I very much want to be here, and right now you are in it, so come here.”

  Georgiana warred with her pride for a moment, but then good sense won overall, and she pressed herself closer to him. Tristan felt good as she leaned on him, his arm around her.

  “Your blackmailer is not some kind of supernatural creature. He is a man, and he lives somewhere where people know him. We can find him. I am sorry we did not catch him tonight, but we have a good guess who hired him. We can go from there.”

  “You are being awfully comforting right now.”

  “Would you rather I shouted and ranted about good behavior and proper civility?”

  Georgiana giggled a little. “No, definitely not.”

  “Perhaps I should start fuming about how no one goes to church anymore and children no longer obey their parents.”

  “Tristan, no!”

  “Or maybe lecture you on morals and decency? That's always popular.”

  “No one would believe what a terrible sense of humor you have.”

  “No, it's one of the benefits of being Carrow, I suppose.”

  They lapsed into a silence that stretched out in front of them into the night. Georgiana, not for the first time, thought about how wonderful it might be if she could simply not speak when she was with Tristan. They seemed to get along so much better when they were silent with one another.

  Of course, it had to end, and Tristan was the one who ended it.

  “What the hell happened to your knees?”

  His sharp voice brought her out of her sleepy reverie, and she glanced down in surprise. Two small dark patches of blood soaked through her dress, and with a pang, she remembered the man in the alley pushing her down to the ground while he made his getaway. She remembered how her knees had stung when she was in the hack, but now, it was a dull and distant situation.

  “It's nothing-”

  “It's not nothing. Wait here.”

  She really didn't have much of a choice, so she sat and waited until Tristan returned with a small box.

  “Here, pull up your dress.”

  “My, Tristan, is that altogether proper?”

  He gave her a dark look. “Oh, good, I do not have to worry about your delicate sensibilities as you are recovered and well enough to be foolish. Do as I say, please.”

  It was easier to simply obey him then to fight, so she pulled up the hems of her skirt. She winced as the dried blood clung to the fabric, and when her skirt was settled around her thighs, a new trickle of blood started down.

  “Blast it, those were new stockings, too.”

  “Hush, I'll take care of them.”

  Georgiana would have said something tart in return, but it was simply too good to hear Tristan's voice gentled like that, without the rough edge that anger and accusation gave it. Instead, she let him lift her feet and place them on a nearby ottoman while he carefully removed her shoes and slid her stockings down her legs.

  “Definitely not proper.”

  To her surprise, Tristan laughed softly at that. He dampened a small square of white fabric, dabbing patiently at her knees. She hissed a little at the shock of renewed pain, but he worked slowly and carefully, murmuring to her as he might a fractious horse.

  “You're fine, it'll be fine. It looks bad, but it's mostly shallow. The dress might be a loss unless you get it taken care of soon though.”

  “I'm sure that is going to be my first priority.”

  Finally, Tristan cleaned her knees to his satisfaction and then neatly spread a cooling balm over them. There was no need for a bandage, given that both scrapes were relatively minor, but it came to Georgiana that Tristan needed to do this just as there was a small part of her that needed him to do this. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had ever sat down and tended to her like this, with this degree of attention and care. She wondered when Tristan had last been this close to someone and caring for them.

  So, she bit back the things she might have said and allowed him to care for her. Without thinking about it, she smoothed a few loose strands of his dark hair out of his face. He glanced up at her.

  “Your hair's soft.”

  “And I see you are not very used to drinking whiskey.”

  “Why in the world would I be?”

  “Point to you. All right. It's time for bed.”

  “Will you call the hack back?” The idea of going back out into the chilly night made her want to scream, but she was ready to do it.

  “No, I won't. You're staying here. We can decide what we're going to do in the morning.”

  Georgiana knew that she should argue with him, but honestly, that felt like something a Carrow would do, fight about proper behavior when they should properly be doing something else. She nodded, and Tristan looked a little relieved.

  “Come on. You can sleep in Blythe's old room.”

  He led her to bed, and Georgiana didn't even give in to the temptation to tease him about how inappropriate this all was.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  For all that he hadn't slept well for days, Tristan felt no need to seek his bed when he had seen Georgiana tucked in. He had almost followed her into her room to make sure that she was bedded down well, but he stopped himself.

  It''s like she was made for temptation.

  No matter what the ton said, however, he knew he was far from an angel, and that when Georgiana was around, he couldn't even really call himself a good man. His father had impressed on him that it was a damned poor man who blamed a woman for his own temptation, however, and he knew that Georgiana was mostly blameless for all of this.

  This didn't, of course, make anything easier when it came to figuring out what to do about the problem. In truth, he wasn't sure if she would make good on her threat. That she could make it and be believed were not in doubt. He imagined that the London scandalmongers would love to get something this sordid on him.

  However, he had known Georgiana far longer than anyone in the ton would have guessed, and no matter what anyone said of her or what he might be willing to believe in his darker moments, he didn't think she would go through with it. She might even think that she would do it, but he would have put a lot of money on the fact that at the last moment, she'd stop. It wouldn't be a matter of cowardice or doubt. It was simply that, in the end of everything, Georgiana was too honorable to go through with something like blackmail.

  So, if you really believe that, why in the world are you going along with all this nonsense?

  That was the question he had carefully kept from asking himself the entire time they were in Covent Garden. If he didn't think that Georgiana really would try to accuse him of something terrible, why was he helping her?

  The answer was far too complicated for him to want to even try to take apart. Tristan did not consider himself a contemplative man, and so he put it aside. There were more important things to think about. He had decided to help her, and so he would. Then they would return to their own corners of the world,
and they wouldn't have to deal with each other again.

  Why did that leave such a terribly echoing feeling in his chest?

  He shook it off. There was too much at stake right now to start questioning things. He would simply do what he had to do and what came next could come next.

  * * *

  “Thank you for coming, I know Georgiana will appreciate it. Of course, I'll make it worth your time.”

  “Oh, please do not worry about it, my lord. Only I was so worried when she did not come home last night. She told me not to wait up, but I couldn't help it.”

  Tristan grinned. “Nonetheless, thank you for coming and bringing her clothes.”

  The petite blonde maid Blythe had rescued more than a year ago had bloomed. She was surer of herself, walked taller, had lost that haunted look in her eyes. Now she bustled into the house on Grosvenor Street with clothes as well as a traveling bag for Georgiana, ready to do as her mistress needed.

  Tristan had ordered breakfast delivered from one of the clubs down the street, and by the time Georgiana was properly attired, bathed, and coiffed, food had arrived. When she arrived in the small private dining room, Tristan had a moment to think how lovely she looked in a morning gown of pale lavender muslin and soft silver ribbons.

  “So, at some point in the night, you seem to have imported my maid.”

  “Less imported, and more discreetly sent her a message asking her to come, but yes. She does good work. You look beautiful.”

  He expected her to fob off his compliment with a barbed jibe or to acknowledge it with a toss of her head and a smile, but she only gave him a narrow look.

  “No need to tease me, Tristan. What are you planning?”

  He was pleased in some private corner of his mind to see her sit down and eat with a healthy appetite. The events of the night before would have shaken anyone up, let alone a girl of the ton, but she was admirably steady.

  “I think we both need to leave London. We're not going to find our answers here.”