by Darcy Burke
The priest droned on. Sarah glowed in the presence of Harry, the man whose boyish smile endeared him to his bride even more. The sparkle in Harry’s eyes showed he, too, was enamored with her. Evelyn quelled the desire to have Tristan look at her that way again. She wondered whether he had ever viewed her that way? Or as the woman who, because of her position and marital vows, was expected to keep his secret hidden? Play mother to his orphaned son? Nausea assailed her again, as did the anger braided with sadness.
She gripped her and Sarah’s bouquets tighter. The love she had for him was strangled before she could ever tell him and just as well. But she refused to let him upset her, not here, in a church, during her best friend’s wedding.
Bells rang loudly at the end of the ceremony. As family stood in the pews, waiting for the couple to go down the aisle, Evelyn glanced at Tristan and saw the hardness in his eyes. Darting her gaze at the guests waiting for them to pass, she let Tristan take her hand and lead her down the stairs from the altar. Their walk down the aisle was long and dreadful, for he didn’t speak to her, did nothing other than lightly touch her arm.
Outside the church, a line of carriages waited for the wedding party to load and head for the elaborate breakfast at the Winston House. The bubbly talk of the families and handful of friends filled the air as they got into the carriages. Evelyn waited patiently, fighting against the urge to flee as the happily married couple boarded and everyone else followed, but something in Tristan’s grip kept her still.
“Evelyn,” he whispered softly, so quiet it was almost muted by the others. “Darling, I have missed you.”
The words curled inside her mind, her heart jumping at them. He sounded sincere. How she so longed for that to be true, but the image of Richard flashed before her eyes. She swallowed hard.
“It has been lonely,” she muttered, the control over her emotions teetering. They had stayed in the same house, or she thought he still came home at night. Not that she’d seen him in the last two weeks or so.
“I’ve been working,” he stated. “Evelyn, I…” He stopped as Harry backed away from the carriage door after settling his bride on her seat. He motioned Evelyn and Tristan forward.
Tristan took her to the door and helped her in, with the two men following. As she sat on the cushioned seat, across from the happy couple, she pasted a smile on her face and bit her tongue for Tristan to continue. The volume of his voice had indicated what he was going to say was not for everyone. But what could he say to her to alleviate her pain?
In an attempt to calm her churning stomach, with him right next to her, only inches away, Evelyn concentrated on the scenery outside the carriage window. The humming and giggles from the newly married couple made her happy for Sarah and groan for herself. But, she had to remind herself, her marriage was not a love match. It was one born of necessity, and, with that thought firmly in place, she straightened her shoulders, tightening her grasp on her bouquet. It was amazing the flowers remained in one piece.
The carriage came to a halt before the bride’s house, and all disembarked. Evelyn barely heard a word because of her resolve to not ruin Sarah’s day by falling apart.
There was a tug at her elbow, and she glanced up to find Tristan staring at her. “Evelyn, please.”
She stopped, waiting. Hope quickly surged inside her but died just as quickly.
“You need to let me explain.”
“How can you expect me to forgive you for what you did?” She wanted him to deny everything, proclaim his love for her, whatever it took to get her off this cliff of uncertainty.
The wedding party moved closer to the building, but they didn’t follow.
“You have to understand, what I did in the Army was during wartime.” He started to run his fingers through his hair but stopped, the gloved fingers impeding him.
“Therefore, killing another Englishman is fine?”
“No,” he answered immediately. “Evelyn, Grifton and I were under cover, working in Afghanistan. We had to keep eyes on the Russians, who look to invade India.”
“Let them,” she hissed. If they’d been in India, Richard wouldn’t have gone…
“That is unreasonable. India is vitally important to the Empire…”
“Posh!”
“Hear me out.” He stepped closer. The movement made it appear they were wrapped in their own contentment, him right next to her, hiding her livid face—she knew it was red with anger because her cheeks were hot. He tipped her chin up so she’d meet his eyes. “There is a man, an Englishman, who betrayed us. He is the reason for Grifton’s death.”
She stared at him, her brows knitting, waiting.
“Evelyn, Grifton, or Richard’s dying request was for me to find and protect you,” he started. When her lower jaw dropped in surprise, he paused. “I didn’t know she was you at first but…” He stopped as they suddenly were surrounded by the constable and his guards. Armed. The weapons aimed at Tristan.
“Marquis Wrenworth,” one officer standing off to the side called.
Sarah, Harry and all the rest heard the racket as they reached the doors to the house and stopped.
Tristan kept his gaze on Evelyn. At first he was silent then he said, “Yes.”
“My lord, I need you to follow us.”
“Whatever for, Constable O’Leary?” He had a look of annoyance.
Evelyn wondered what was happening. How did Tristan know this man’s name? Noblemen were rarely, if ever, accosted by the law, particularly a marquis.
“My lord, the magistrate has requested your attention due to allegations you are the one man responsible for Viscount Stauton, Lord Grifton Richard George Reynard’s death in the desert.” The man stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please, my lord, I have it on high authority for you to come with us.”
Tristan stood still, his gaze never wavering from Evelyn’s. Lost, she wasn’t sure what to do. Part of her wanted to scream, another to be violently ill, but in the end, all she could do was stand mute.
“What in the name of…” Harry raged and started toward them. The guests he stormed past parted but began talking in his wake. “You can’t arrest him.”
“It’s all right. I’ll go,” Tristan said. With that, he turned to leave.
“Stop him!” It was Sarah.
But as Harry took a step, one of the guards faced him with a loaded pistol.
Evelyn’s eyes blurred, her mind whirling. What was happening? Her stomach lurched loudly.
Tristan got into the carriage with the constable and a couple of guards, the rest on the floorboards and one on the perch next to the driver.
“Harry,” Evelyn whispered as she took a step, but he stopped her.
“Don’t worry, Evelyn, I’ll find out what this is about.”
But she didn’t hear the end of his statement as her world went black.
Chapter Twenty
Tristan sat on the raised pallet in the cell, looking at the plastered wall before him but not really seeing it. They’d taken him to Newgate Prison and escorted him to one of the larger “rooms”–still a cell but referred to as a suite by his captors. The constable told him he was accused of the viscount’s death, which hadn’t surprised him. After all, hadn’t he already condemned himself as the murderer? Truly, because he was. His hand held the hilt of the blade that impaled the man. He’d seen the blood pour forth, from the corners of Grifton’s mouth as he coughed up a mouthful. He stared at his hand, the impression of the hilt keenly felt.
He’d never forgive himself. The only thing that kept him alive was to find the man who betrayed them. And to fulfill a dying friend’s request. He did the latter–found the best way to “protect” her was to marry her. Now she’d have his family name and property. Plus, he’d given his son a mother, having cost the boy his own as well.
Livingston tried to convince him he wasn’t responsible for Grifton’s death. Everyone involved in the department of secret agents knew death walked hand-in-hand with them, but the b
oy, no man, was under his watch. And by the stroke of a hand, the man who was forced to end Grifton’s life to save others. All to promote the Empire. He leaned forward and spat onto the floor. To hell with them all!
His mind worked furiously. He’d been so close to finding the culprit when Harry interrupted him. A laugh escaped him. At the time, he had been a bit foxed, but he wasn’t now, and the field of suspects had narrowed. Anyone involved in the silk trade, and he also threw into the pot anyone whose last name or title started with a “d” or “t”—the sound was similar. His first inclination was “d” but—he needed Smyth’s report. There was a name he’d heard recently, one that made his skin crawl, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.
With a snort, he threw his head back to the wall and laughed. What did it truly matter? He got what he wanted, he guessed. She was protected, Nadir had a mother…what did it matter? His life for Aatifa? For Grifton?
No! No, he needed to find this traitor–not for the Empire but for the men in Afghanistan and India.
One thing for certain was clear. He’d lost Evelyn. Damn!
***
Evelyn woke, lying on the fainting couch. Inwardly, she laughed at that. She wasn’t prone to fainting, not even after the attack years ago, but one swoon in front of a crowd, and here she was. Her eyes were gritty, and it took a couple of blinks to clear them. Once they focused, she wished she’d stayed asleep.
At her side sat Sarah, her face tear stained. “Evelyn!” She took her hand and squeezed.
“I’m all right,” she said, pulling her hand back and trying to sit up.
“Wait until the doctor sees you, my dear,” Harry added, standing at the foot of the couch. Scattered around were a couple of servants and, thankfully, that was all. She frowned. “Really, I feel fine.” But as she sat up, a wave of nausea inched up her throat.
“Let me through,” a male voice came from the doorway. Evelyn glanced as the man, a doctor she presumed because he carried a medical bag, barged through. She thought she’d faint again after realizing the attendees for the breakfast loitered at the room’s edges, curious about her and the day’s events.
“Dr. Williams, I’m so glad you’re here,” Sarah said, meeting the man and pulling his arm toward Evelyn.
The doctor, an elder man, his hair salt and pepper colored with a matching mustache, wore wire-rimmed glasses. His suit, black with grey waistcoat and a white shirt and cravat worn as a necktie—something Evelyn hadn’t seen in years—gave her the impression of a well-received physician, but this public display, this spectacle ate at her fraying nerves. Reminded her too much of years ago, after the attacks, the doctors who checked her for injuries. The exams way too invasive for her comfort…
“My Lady Wrenworth,” he greeted, setting his case down. Over his shoulder he added, “Send these people away, Lord Martinwood.”
Immediately Harry sent the onlookers to the dining room, herding them out along with the servants.
“I’ll stay, Evelyn, if you’d like,” Sarah offered.
Evelyn’s eyes opened wide as the doctor came closer to her. She drew herself up, trying to bunch her legs up beneath her, but the corset with the bustle presented a hindrance.
“My lady, please,” the doctor insisted.
She ignored him. “Where is Tristan?”
Sarah frowned. “He was taken away by the constable. Remember?”
It came flooding back to her. “I need to see him.” She swung her legs over the side of the couch, but the doctor placed his hand on her arm.
“Wait one minute, my lady,” he said smoothly. “Let me take a look at you before you leave. We’d hate for you to faint again and perhaps hurt yourself.”
Hurt? Oh, she knew hurt–both in the physical and emotional sense. But fear still had its grip on her. It leaped up to make itself known in the presence of the physician. Her womb clenched at the thought of another man’s supposed “care” for her well-being. Anger flared. She’d not submit to that again. “I am fine, sir.” She spun to leave and caught herself as the room wavered before her. Shutting her eyes for a moment, she forced herself to focus.
As she stepped toward the door, she turned and looked back at Sarah and Harry. “I need to find my husband.”
“Of course, my dear,” Sarah glided to her. “Let us get you home first, so we can consider the options.”
“Options?” Harry queried, coming closer. “Sweetling, they’ve taken him to Newgate Prison, I’ve no doubt.”
“Newgate?” Chill swept through her.
“Yes,” Harry replied, his head tilted, amused. “It is where men of rank are…how does the saying go? Momentarily retained?”
It still made her shiver. Edges of blackness marred her vision. No! She refused to succumb to this weakness. She swayed before she caught herself.
“Lady Wrenworth, you…” the doctor started.
Sarah took Evelyn’s arm, giving her support. “Dr. Williams, I do thank you for coming so quickly. I think the lady will be fine. Good day.”
Befuddled, Williams snorted and grabbed his bag to leave. As he strode out the door, indignant, Sarah looked at Evelyn and smiled. “You will be fine. We will get your husband out.”
Evelyn grinned, her own self-assurance returning. “Harry, you are coming with us.”
“Wouldn’t dream it otherwise,” he said.
“Wait,” she stopped and turned to her friends. “You have guests.”
Sarah’s eyebrows shot up and her cheeks blushed. “I forgot. Darling?”
“I can be of aid,” a male voice from across the room announced.
Evelyn recognized the voice before she saw him. “Charles! I’m so thankful you are here. Please take me home. I’ll rest until Sarah can come by.”
Dunsford took her hand into the crook of his arm. “I propose to keep you company until such time.” His grin widened. “Though that may be a bit, considering.”
Oh dear, she’d totally forgotten not only the breakfast but Sarah’s wedding day…and night. “Sarah, Harry, please, don’t rush.”
They both chortled. Harry nuzzled his wife’s neck as she replied. “Have no worries, my dearest Evie. We will see you soon.”
Evelyn sighed, happy for her friend but silently thrilled to be leaving. The thought of merry-making while Tristan languished sent more chills through her. As she trembled, Dunsford squeezed her arm.
“Let me help you, my lady.” He helped her into the carriage and followed behind her. As they sat, he tapped the roof and she heard the reins snap as the driver urged the horses off.
The trip back to the Wrenworth mansion was short, and she was ever thankful. Granted, she was a married woman, and it was daylight, but it still was unseemly for her to travel with another man. Despite her married position, she knew her reputation, as flimsy as it was, could easily lead the on dit to claim she was having a liaison with him.
As the carriage door opened, Dunsford leaped out and turned to assist her. He was such a nice man, but trepidation rushed through her and she trembled, placing her hand on his. Both their hands were gloved, but, still, she could barely contain her fear. Angry with herself, she inhaled, lifting her head higher as she assumed her rightful title.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said steadily, stepping out of the carriage.
“Anything for a lady,” he said smoothly, escorting her up the stairs to her home.
At the door, Stanfill, the butler, opened it, but before she went in, she stopped and turned to him. “Thank you again. I’m fine. Please, you may go. I plan to rest, per doctor’s orders.” She smiled, hoping she sounded level.
His brows furrowed for a second, eyes narrowed, but they calmed. “Of course, my dear. I will call on you later, to check on your health.”
She smiled sweetly. “I will look forward to it.” And in a quick move, slipped inside the door. Stanfill closed the door and took her wrap, but she remained still, listening to the horses clip-clop down the street. She whipped h
er gloves off and pulled the hatpin out of her pillbox headpiece, handing both pieces to the servant. “Thank you Stanfill.”
“Shall I get you tea, my lady?”
“Yes, that’d be lovely.” She walked past him to the parlor, twisting her handkerchief in her hands over and over again.
The front parlor was wallpapered in cream silk colors, decorated with green ribbon lines and scattered pastel flowers and birds. The white enameled crown molding held the ends of the wire hangers attached to the oil paintings below. The wood floor was light brown, shiny in the sunlight, and the furniture in cream with blue, yellow and green trim and pillows. A very light, woman’s touch, though Evelyn hadn’t designed it. She hadn’t worried before how this room looked, but now she couldn’t stop the feeling of intruding on someone else’s house. She’d moved in as the marchioness of Wrenworth, but was she? Truly?
Her husband, Tristan…memories of him plagued her. He walked with purpose, confident, firm. Under his touch, she learned the joys of making love, how another’s hand, body even, could be wonderful and not destructive. He’d washed away her fear and made her think, hope, for more. Her body heated with desire, a flame deep, one that fanned at the thoughts of him, and her heart thudded wildly, craving him, wanting him. Loving him.
And then the knowledge he’d killed Richard almost destroyed her. Maybe it did, or had–she couldn’t tell anymore. She must be going mad—she’d loved two men. That didn’t necessarily upset her, but the accusation that her legal husband killed her first love did. Why would he do that? He said it was war, they work in a dangerous area, and Richard had asked him to protect her, but she knew he didn’t tell her all of it. More like was he hiding a piece of the story. But why?