by Darcy Burke
The hair on his neck bristled. “Sir, she was not a material piece…”
“Yes, yes, I read of your request, of the stink you raised at the denial. No, my lord, you know a man of your position had no future with that delectable chit. Surely she knew it, too, and for that indiscretion, you both paid a price.”
Anger and hatred soared through Tristan. He clenched his hands low, on the far side of the globe. No, he needed to contain his lust to avenge her. Finding the traitor was his first mission, then the rest would fall into place.
“Assistant Secretary, you will refrain from those remarks about my wife.”
Livingston crossed his arms, his look astonished but not surprised. “Truly? Wife by whose standards? Certainly not the Crown or the Church of England. And most correctly, not by the will your father wrote. Oh yes, I know of that. It is my duty to know about the men who carry on dangerous tasks for the Empire.”
Tristan stood, seething on behalf of Aatifa. “Do not consider yourself worthy of her. She was well above you.”
Livingston chuckled. “My lord, you and I both know, even as your courtesan, if you could call her that, she could never be present here. Not in London. Oh, yes, I heard of her beauty.” He relaxed and sat in his desk chair.
Tristan still glared, but the inside workings of a spy never left him. He caught the man glancing at his desktop and then at the drawer that held the personnel files before he returned Tristan’s gaze.
“They are beautiful. Exotic and unlike any lady you’d find here,” the secretary continued. “Son, I know out in the field, with your life hanging by a thread if exposed, it is too easy to fall prey to such temptations. To make them more important than they are.”
The sentiment caught Tristan off guard. He frowned, his self-defense dropped a notch. “You were a spy once, Sir Livingston?”
The man shuffled the papers on his desk, as if too involved to answer. Tristan saw the twitch in the man’s right hand and the old scar, narrow and faded but noticeable. He should know. One like that ran on the back of his cheek, over the jaw and to the top of his neck. Knives can leave a wicked mark if the victim lived afterward.
“You say you wed. May I ask to whom?”
“I thought you kept on top of what your men did.”
The older man smiled faintly. “Enlighten me.”
“Baron Brimbridge’s daughter,” he answered slowly. “Evelyn Hurstine.”
“Ah, yes.” He sat back, his eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t she involved with your man? Reynard?”
Now Tristan’s cheek twitched. His shoulders tightened. “Yes.”
The head of the secret society within the War Office laughed. “Ah, yes, the web we weave. Tell me, lad, tell me, you didn’t marry her because of some regret? A payment to the man?”
He bit his tongue to keep from shifting on his feet. “No sir.”
“Good. That’ll be the first thing they’ll use to undo you.” He tapped his pen on the desktop, the rapping noise echoed off the walls. “I’d say, drop the investigation. Let your man Smyth finish it, or let me give it to another, so you can enjoy your new status.”
“I’m too close to let this lion go, sir,” he retorted. Good lord, he needed to keep at this. Spend time with Evelyn? His groin stirred at the notion. But he couldn’t. Not yet. How could he make love to the woman of the man he killed? The idea made him sick, the desire and guilt tying his stomach in knots.
“My lord,” Livingston interrupted the inner battle raging inside Tristan. “You are titled, not a man needing to sully yourself with this.”
No, but he did. For Aatifa. For Grifton. “I should have my findings finished soon.” He spun on his heels, eager to leave.
“Finish soon. The next ship to India’s posts leaves within a fortnight. If that bastard is still there, I want to know.”
A twisted smile came to his face. “I will find him sir.” And kill him.
Chapter Fifteen
Evelyn paced the floor, her nerves tightly wound. The house had maids to straighten up her room and a nursemaid to care for Mary, but she didn’t care. She needed to stay busy or she might…might…she didn’t know what the feeling was, but “explode” came to mind. The one thing she did know was her husband, Tristan, forced marriage down her throat, then brought her to his home and apparently placed her on the mantel like a piece of porcelain. No, maybe not that but simply forgot about her.
A moan of utter exasperation escaped her. She stopped her anxious pacing as another thought flitted across her mind. Did she want him to want her? To desire her? To touch her? Her heart skidded, missing a beat. She hadn’t wanted marriage because of the obligation of intimacy, but here she was, married to a man who had the looks of a rake. And a reputation to match if memory served her right. She rubbed her arms as a chill raced up her spine. Did he find her repulsive? Perhaps–she came to the marriage as a ruined woman. She swallowed hard. It was a strange feeling that built inside her. While she feared being touched, he had fanned a flame when he kissed her. A warmth that burned deep. Even the memory of it stirred her. To discover that now he didn’t want her threw her emotions into a battle of anger, fear, longing and terror, a war she couldn’t stop as the days dragged onward.
Good heavens! She’d followed through with this farce for Mary’s protection, not for her own bloody reputation!
She gripped the handkerchief in her hand, twisting it into a mangled mess when she heard the sound of little feet racing unevenly down the hall. Instantly, the noise distracted her wayward thoughts. Mary. She smiled. But as the peddling feet got closer, she frowned. There were too many, as if the child had grown another set of legs. And the laughter, it too echoed like two little children.
“Mama!” Mary screamed as she rounded the corner and ran to Evelyn, her arms out to be picked up.
The child’s happy face broke through Evelyn’s anxious thoughts, the little girl’s love tugged at her heart. How could Madeline deny such a gift? She lifted the child up into her arms.
“There’s my pretty girl,” she murmured, hugging her tightly.
Another pattering of feet stopped before her.
“Nada!” Mary cried excitedly from Evelyn’s arms.
Evelyn frowned as she looked at the little boy. He appeared about Mary’s age. His hair was jet black, skin a light olive and his eyes were the same stunning emerald color of Tristan’s. The little boy returned her gaze, his smile bright.
The nurse finally caught up to them, a little out of breath, as she took the new child by his hand. “I’m sorry, my lady. They got away from me.”
“That is fine, Lillian. Who is the boy?”
“Little Nadir, my lady. Lord Wrenworth’s son,” she answered.
He had a child? (And his name was unusual.) Yes, she should have realized this when she saw the brilliant green eyes. She lowered Mary to the floor, placing her at the same height as the child. “Hello, Nadir. My name is Evelyn, I’m Mary’s mother.”
The child hid behind the nursemaid’s skirts, though he never took his eyes off Evelyn.
“It is time for their naps, my lady,” Lillian said, taking Mary’s hand as well.
Evelyn smiled. “Of course,” she murmured as she bent to kiss Mary’s head. “Sleep well and I will see you after dinner.”
The children disappeared with the nanny, little chatterboxes, giggling as they walked.
So Tristan had a child. From the looks of it, the mother wasn’t English. Was the woman alive and here? If so, why marry her and not the other? Or was she dead? Married to another? Was that why he hadn’t consummated their marriage? She shook her head. Her husband had a secret, and she found it rubbed her wrong.
***
Dinner that night was another round of formal ritual. Just her and Tristan, alone, in the large dining room. Him at one end of the table, her at the other. Evelyn chewed her roasted lamb slowly, her gaze on him. He looked handsome in his black superfine with a green silk waistcoat and white shirt, with a white bowed neck
tie. It was a quiet meal, neither spoke much. She so wanted to find out about the child but wasn’t sure how he’d react. Gauging his emotions was difficult. He appeared tense tonight when he returned from wherever he had gone. Headed straight for his library and poured a rather large brandy before sitting at his desk, shuffling through the papers on his desk.
And now, he ate, rarely looking at her. He’d made a few comments, complimenting her on her dress, asking about Mary and their day. Short questions, but he didn’t seem to be listening to her responses. He must have felt she was thinking about him as he glanced up and smiled.
“Is something troubling you, my dear?”
She pushed some of the peas on her plate absently, not realizing she was doing so. “Oh, dear,” she stopped. “Excuse me.”
He nodded and went back to disregarding her. Why did that irk her?
Because it wasn’t the type of marriage she wanted? But of course it wasn’t. He could never be Richard. Instantly she chided herself. How dare she even think of equating the two? Then again, at least with Richard, she knew he wanted her, and she returned the feeling. An interesting turn of events, for her fear of intimacy seemed thwarted by this extreme abandonment by Tristan, leaving her be. As if she were a piece of furniture or porcelain. A lovely addition to his trophies in the study. She shook her head. It was vile to think that. He was giving her what she wanted, right? A name, a home and a place to have Mary. What more could she desire?
She knew what. And it was scaring her to death.
“Tell me about the little boy, what was his name? Nadir?” The questions fell from her mouth before she could stop them. Yet they were aired, and she looked at him straight, wanting them answered.
He stopped abruptly, a troubled expression in his green eyes and he frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
Her stomach churned. “Mary came to me today with this adorable little boy. Lillian told me his name and that he was yours. Since you hadn’t considered it worthy to notify me that my daughter had a stepbrother, I decided it was time you told me.”
He sighed loudly and downed the contents in his wine glass. “He is my son, yes.”
She’d already drawn that conclusion, but the fact was that with his cold stare, a stabbing pain wrenched her insides. She swallowed hard. His hard expression was too much to take, and she dropped her head. “I see. So I am to raise your son as well.”
He said nothing.
Somehow, this was wrong. Not that this was a marriage of love, but there was only so much a lady could accept. Lady…her thoughts muddled.
“Evelyn.” His voice was soft, sympathetic even.
“Did you love her?” Once again, the words escaped her. Silently, she berated herself.
He sat back in the chair, his eyes narrowed. It took a minute before he spoke. “Perhaps we should retire to the study for this discussion.”
A wave of panic raced through her. It seemed odd, since she was the one who started this, but she pushed the feeling away. With a gulp, she nodded.
***
Tristan’s insides clenched. He led her to the study, knowing he’d have to tell her about his life, but he wasn’t sure how. Way too long he’d spent keeping everything to himself—because of security for the Empire but also for himself. The skin on his neck prickled, but he shrugged it off. As his wife, she deserved to know about Aatifa, about Nadir, right? No, in reality, he didn’t have to tell her at all. His peers wouldn’t have, but something deep inside him fought that inclination. Perhaps it was Grifton. Or Aatifa. Whatever, whoever pushed it, he caved slightly.
She walked stiffly. The moment he put his hand on her back, she pulled slightly away, as if his hand was fire. That irritated him. He warred with himself over the argument he was about to present. She wanted answers. He knew he didn’t have to tell her anything. And that any other man would have abandoned his bastard. Bastard. He wasn’t a bastard except to British rules of society. His blood boiled.
Inside the study, she went to the settee and sat, her hands clasped on her lap. He closed the doors and walked to the sideboard, pouring two snifters. Handing her one of them, he sat across from her and took a sip of his own. He watched her façade of indifference, the one that fell over her when he admitted Nadir was his. She looked at the crystal stemware as if it was a piece of fine porcelain and she was afraid to drop it.
“It is brandy,” he stated flatly.
“I don’t drink…”
“Right now, I believe, is a good time to start.”
Tentatively she took a sip and shuddered. Good. He needed her to find that rigid backbone he knew she had, to rebel, because he feared if she gave in, eventually, he’d tell her what happened—long before he wanted to.
She set the glass down and turned back to him, her blue eyes on fire. From her own inner strength and not due to the liquor alone, he hoped.
“You were saying?”
Ah yes, the tone was there. Good, good. “You know I’ve been a part of the Royal Army.”
“Yes, yes.” Her voice was cold, hard.
He inhaled roughly. “Yes, I was stationed in India for a bit, then sent to Afghanistan. On my mission there, I met a lady. Aatifa.”
With a snort of disdain, Evelyn’s nose inched higher in the air. “Met. I daresay.”
He pushed to his feet and began to pace. The feeling that he had wronged Evelyn grew with each step, but that was impossible. He didn’t even know her until the last couple of months, one week of which was their first of marriage and still, she wasn’t his.
Her tone, cold as ice, drove his anger and guilt further. The many sins he had to pay for, he thought.
“Yes. My plans included being a guest in her village.” That was a polite lie. A guest, right. “Aatifa was very kind to me, very much the lady.”
The cold look didn’t leave her eyes. Deep inside, he knew this would be the case. That condescending look proper English ladies would have given Aatifa. They would have snubbed her as they invited him to their society events. She would have been treated no better than a servant or factory worker.
“I see,” Evelyn said evenly.
“So I married her.”
Evelyn picked up her glass and threw its contents at him, drenching him in the brandy. The liquor stung his lips and the rims of his eyes. It intrigued him that his ice queen, who acted as if she wanted nothing intimate from him, was outraged. He pulled his handkerchief out and wiped his face.
“I had no choice.” Actually, the situation was that he had no choice but to do so or ruin his cover. The fact remained that he married her to protect his ass and lost his heart to her.
“Of course,” she spat back. “So where is this paragon of virtue?”
What? “Evelyn…”
She stood, her face no longer pale but turning red. “So you are a bigamist.”
“No!” He ran his hand through his hair. He needed to just say it, but that damn self-defense wall remained impenetrable. “She is dead, Evelyn, has been for a year.” He slumped to his chair as the past gushed forward. “She died because I failed her.”
Evelyn frowned and sat down.
Darkness grew at the edges of his vision, the demons inside clamoring for release. His heart pounded loudly.
“What happened?” Evelyn asked quietly.
He strained to beat back the madness, to not succumb to its dark tendrils that circled his mind. When her hand touched his, the connection startled him. Even more amazing, it cleared the darkness some and quieted his demons. He breathed deeply, concentrating on her troubled face. A moment ago, she was the raging English lady, ready to lump him into the group of unfaithful husbands but now, she was sympathetic. It made no sense, but his spirit grasped at the chance to redeem part of his damned soul.
“Part of a mission that failed.” He shrugged. It was classified, but the true reason for not telling her was for her own safety. The traitor no doubt was involved in the raid that flew over the village right before they showed. Without knowing wh
o it was, he feared it could happen again. Another reason not to become involved with her. What a joke he was. Left to carry a title he didn’t want, to protect his family from miscreants of his own blood, to revenge for a fellow agent and friend, to keep Evelyn, Mary and Nadir safe and find the culprit. God, he was doomed.
“But you did not need me,” she said softly, withdrawing her hand. “You were a widower, with a son. Your need for an heir fulfilled.”
He laughed bitterly. “I wasn’t married to a British lady, nor was I married by the English church. It was by her people, in their way. Not recognized by English law. She died before I could marry her “properly,” he sneered. With a steady, slightly spiteful twist, he added, “You know she would have never survived here. No one would support her as my marchioness. And Nadir would never be seen as my legitimate son and heir.”
“The child, though, isn’t a bastard, if what you said is true.”
“No, but the Crown wouldn’t accept him. Neither would the Church. He is a bastard according to British rules and protocol,” he spat. “You know that as well as I do. And a bastard can never be my heir, regardless of who I could convince otherwise. Not even the Queen can change English laws on succession.” He closed his eyes. “He is my son. And your stepson.” By English law, he was right and he knew it. The question was, how would she take it?
She stayed still, her mind whirling. He was her husband, had saved her and Mary in many ways. And he had the means to take care of them, to protect them, but right now, the anguish he must have kept hidden at the loss of this Afghani woman and the love for his son that he kept instead of fostering him out back East, to his in-laws, showed clearly in his eyes. He noticed her features calmed, as if she had warmed to his plight, and then he saw the flash of understanding in her eyes. She’d told him of Mary long before he married her.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “But, Tristan, why didn’t you tell me of your son before now? Out of common respect, I would have liked to know.”