by Darcy Burke
Armbruster shot him a look of dismay. “Or can be seen as taking her for lust.”
“That is absurd! It was his dying wish for her to be safe!”
“The informant claims otherwise.” He began straightening his files.
“And who the hell is the ‘informant’?”
“The one who talked to the authorities about this murder…”
Tristan threw his arms in the air. “There’s a bloody war going on! People are killed all the stinking time!”
“Granted, my lord, but the circumstances presented to the magistrates prompt further investigation into your involvement.” Armbruster stood upright, his collection of papers in his grasp. “Perhaps we should involve the War Secretary in this.”
“I can tell you now, the man will dissolve my association with the War Office in a heartbeat if it comes to exposing things neither the Crown nor the people should be aware of.” That included spies. He knew Livingston well enough. The man got to his position by who knew what and who didn’t—and he kept a tight lid on his operations. Besides, he’d argue with Tristan that he should have removed himself, but he wasn’t a lord then. That thought turned his thinking. “Armbruster, considering my status, this never should’ve been broached.”
“Ah, but my lord, you were not a marquis then, nor remotely considered close to assuming the role. But Stauton was in line.”
“And if he was, how the hell did he make it into the Army, into the Corps and far away from peaceful England?”
The barrister jammed his hat on his head. “That, my lord, is part of my investigation.”
As the door slammed shut and the tumblers fell into place, Tristan stood, staring, confused. He brought forth the daunting memory of that faithful day in Afghanistan–the blood, the arm-to-arm combat with Grifton, all for show that turned deadly with the arrival of the traitor and his clan. So the man he’d been searching for was here, had some sort of influence to persuade the courts to indict him.
But his biggest concern was Evelyn. Stanfill said she’d been ill. He needed his ice-maiden to rebuild her fortress of strength to withstand the coming weeks. And he? He needed to find a way out of here, to get to his files, get the incoming data from Smyth and find the bastard. And kill him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Evelyn was exhausted, and part of her begged sleep, but her churning stomach pushed her onward. Was it possible Tristan had eliminated Richard to have her? He didn’t seem to know her prior to a month or so after she met him. If she understood the tale, Tristan and Richard met in India. No, the thought was ridiculous. She paced the parlor. A plan. She needed a plan, which meant she needed to know more about her husband.
She barged into his study, barely getting past Stanfill, who kept insisting it wasn’t a fit area for her to be. Part of her found that amusing—it was a study for land’s sakes, not a gentlemen’s club! Tristan locked himself away in here for hours, particularly after their heated discussion that night. All right, it wasn’t a discussion. She kicked him out of her room and, she thought, her life. But there was no way to miss the smell of him, a mixture of sandalwood, leather and man wrapped into one delicious body. Even now, she flushed at the thought, and her lower abdomen tightened in anticipation. Oh bother! Come to grips with yourself! She admonished herself. Tensing against her own wayward musings, she refocused–Tristan. She had to find a clue about him and Richard. With that determination, she went straight to his desk and jimmied the drawers.
Missy brought tea and an assortment of petits fours and sponge cakes for her as the afternoon waned, but Evelyn was too busy to pay attention to the setting sun. Instead, she battered at the desk in sheer frustration.
“Ma’am?”
She threw herself back into his leather chair. “He’s locked all the bloody drawers! How can I find out anything if I can’t get in there?” She didn’t expect an answer, and, when Missy’s color returned to her cheeks, the maid dashed from the room. With a disgusted sigh, she went and picked up a sliver of cake. The first bite tasted good, fabulous really. She took another and finished it, only to realize she was starving. Her hand darted for another, but after the first bite, her stomach flipped. Slowly, she put the piece down, praying her tummy would calm, and for a moment, it appeared she’d won. But that was only a second of peace before it churned and twisted and bile escaped. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she raced to the doorway that led out to the patio, but a hesitation at the French doors kept her from losing the contents of her stomach.
The study’s door was open, and Mrs. Peabody stood there, watching. Evelyn shrugged, but the cook took that as an invitation to enter, holding a small basket in her hands. She placed it on the table next to the tea, left it to pull Evelyn over and sat her in the chair.
“My lady, you’re as pale as marble. This is not the sort of thing for you now,” she waved over the sweet tray. She poured a fresh cup of tea and handed it to Evelyn plain. “For now, drink this as it is, and you may have one of these.” Yanking the covering linen off the basket, she presented her an assortment of dry bread pieces.
Evelyn pulled one stiff slice out and frowned. “Day-old bread?”
The cook stood straight, her arms crossed. “Yes ma’am. Best way to calm a child’s stomach. Clear that bile straight away.” She smiled broadly.
The plain tea actually had a warm, soothing effect. The dried bread at first tasted odd, all crisp and stale, but a touch of the original taste remained. Oddly, her stomach stopped fighting her after she finished the piece.
“Ah, yes, my lady. Your color returns.”
Tea and stale bread. True wonders, she decided.
“My lady,” Stanfill called from the door right as a young man, dressed in military colors, came flying into the room with a bundle of papers under his arm. He stormed into the room so quickly, he seemed to miss the lady of the house being there and strolled straight to the desk.
Mrs. Peabody snorted loudly, bringing the young man to a complete stop, surprise written clearly on his face. His mouth fell agape as he took in the cook and Evelyn sitting in the chair.
“Oh, excuse me…”
“And who might you be?” Mrs. Peabody demanded.
He swallowed nervously. “Captain Smyth, ma’am. Major Marquis’ man.”
Evelyn raised her brows. “His man of what?”
“I’m sorry my lady, I can’t…” he started, but she stopped him.
“Oh, but I believe you can. She halted, tilting her head. “Major Marquis is detained for the time being. I am his wife, the Marchioness Wrenworth.”
Instantly, he yanked his hat off his head and bowed. “My lady.” He smiled, but it failed to go beyond his lips.
What was he so nervous about, she wondered. She put her cup down and stood, taking a step closer to the damn locked desk. It still irritated her. “And what did you bring with you, captain?”
“Papers, my lady. Ones the Major ordered.”
“I see. I will take them for him.”
“No,” he uttered quickly and stepped back. “These are for my lord, the Major, only.”
She tapped her foot, annoyed. “Captain, please. Your major, my husband, is in gaol on drastic charges of murder in the East. You’ve been working with him for some time. I know he’s buried himself in here with stacks of papers, and now you appear, looking to add to his pile. While you may choose to be evasive, I, on the other hand, will not be. I must find a way to clear him of said charges. I think a clue to my dilemma is here, in this chaotic system of papers, but I can’t discern a stitch of it.”
Smyth didn’t move. Didn’t even bat an eyelash. Her jaw tensed as she walked around the desk to the side with the locked drawers. “Captain, I understand your need to obey orders and all that, but I must find the information to get him released. These drawers are locked. Do you know where he keeps the key?” She ended the question lightly, almost like a flirting miss but discovered how uncomfortable that was. Not only had she never been the flirt like Madel
ine had, his uniform also frightened her, though he showed no tendencies to come close to her, let alone attack her.
Smyth eyed her carefully, as if gauging whether he could trust her or not. He glanced toward the door, but in his path was Mrs. Peabody. His eyes narrowed when they returned to Evelyn, but she kept her mind set to the task at hand. She noticed a tick in his jaw before he set down his delivery with an angry snort.
“I think he has the key, my lady.” He walked around to the drawers.
Immediately, she jumped out of his path and went to the side of the furniture but never took her eyes away. She watched in utter surprise when he reached inside his jacket and withdrew from it two long, thin metal strips. He inserted both into the locks and wiggled them. The lock’s insides rattled. He pushed one strip down and in deeper, pressing to the right. She heard a number of clanks and then the drawer shook. Withdrawing the tools, he grinned while he pulled the drawer open.
Amazed, she glared at him. He must have noticed her change in attitude. With a shrug, he gave her a sly grin. “I haven’t been in the Army my whole life, my lady.”
Excited to have access, she whisked him aside with a wave of her hands and sat on the leather-bound chair. She pulled the drawer open further and found a scattering of more pages. Thumbing through them, she thought they appeared more like estate bills and drafts. She shoved that drawer back in and opened the deep drawer to the right. Inside was a stash of standing files, filled with papers. She dragged one out and opened it on the desktop. Inside were various lists of names, dates, cities and supplies. Evelyn dismissed Smyth and Mrs. Peabody and began her task. After a couple of hours, she discovered the names were of boats and their crew lists, and some of passengers and manifests. Most reported carrying war goods or foods and spices plus a couple of luxury goods like silk and leather. She frowned. Tristan had a list of destinations for these goods and a list of people with surnames beginning with the letters “d” or “t.”
But there was nothing on Richard or on Afghanistan.
Frustrated, she threw herself back in the chair. Her back hurt, as well as her neck and shoulders. Rubbing her tired and gritty eyes, she realized she was exhausted and starving. And that she wasn’t getting anywhere with this information. What was he doing with it?
Smyth returned, eyeing her suspiciously. Evelyn wanted to laugh, which would be deemed inappropriate. It must be the babe having this effect on her, for she was way too giddy to be filled with rage, only to want to dissolve into tears. Seven more months of this and she would be insane.
“Yes, Captain?”
He cleared his throat. He’d been rummaging through the papers in the cadenza, searching for a reason Tristan could be accused of murder, but his exhausted look gave her the answer before he spoke. “I find nothing relating to the East outside of his tour in India, and I don’t find much of that.”
With a heavy sigh, she rose and went to the bell pull. “Who did you say he reports to at the War Office?”
The captain shifted on his feet. “Assistant Secretary Livingston, my lady.”
She nodded as Stanfill arrived. “The carriage, Mr. Standfill; it is time to make a call.”
As the butler nodded and backed away, enlightenment came to Smyth’s face, and Evelyn smiled broadly. “Time to meet the lion, so to speak, in his lair.”
***
Sir Alfred Livingston sat, so engrossed in the latest report, full of unrealistic orders from the Secretary of War, contrived by demands from Parliament, that he didn’t hear the entourage coming down the hallway to the door of his office. In fact, he barely looked up as the door flew open.
“My lady, you can’t just…”
“Are you the man in charge of my husband?” The question was more of a direct assault by the tone of voice of the auburn-haired beauty standing before his desk.
Livingston sat up, his brows furrowed. The woman in front of him had dazzling blue eyes, deep like rare sapphires, that glittered like ice as she glared at him. He saw she wore a royal blue silk dress, trimmed in white with matching lace. The blue pill hat adorned with a white feather sat on top of her piled hair. She was a beauty, he thought, and the air about her made him assume she was the infamous Evelyn St. James, Marchioness Wrenworth. The woman who had refused to back down to Society’s laws on propriety and station. Christ, he should have made the man either marry some brainless chit or forced retirement on him.
He leaned back in his chair, knowing he, too, broke one of the rules of class distinction by not standing in her presence. His position here, at the War Office, taught him very well how to break those rules. “And who might your husband be?” She wasn’t announced but simply barged into an office not open to visitors; therefore, etiquette was not required in his playbook.
Her nose wrinkled. “Marquis of Wrenworth.”
“Ah, yes, St. James,” he murmured. “He’s in a bit of a pickle, I understand.”
Did he see steam rise out of her? Those blue orbs narrowed.
“He’s in Newgate Prison. I am also aware of your connection to him and that you could get him released.”
He pursed his lips. “My lady, he was in the Army, perhaps did one or two errands for me, but regardless, I have no means with which to get him free.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “I have gone through his papers. I know you’ve commanded him while he was assigned to you. Your name is clearly shown on reports. I do not see how a man in your position could be unable to get him out.”
Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, elbows on the chair arms, he studied her. He knew she was going through her husband’s study–the report came to him a couple of hours ago. “What did you discover that he did in the army?”
She turned red with anger. He so loved a woman with her emotions in play—dangerous to the enemy and at times, her own side. “I’m not exactly sure. He was in Afghanistan. I know some of what happened there. From what I’ve come to understand, he killed my original fiancé, the Viscount of Stauton, who, I’m told, also worked for you.” She leaned forward on the desk. “What I want to know is why. Why did you allow that to happen? How?”
He continued to watch her, trying to find a way to defuse her powder keg. “War is a deadly beast, my lady. It takes many in its wake.”
“You, sir, are avoiding my questions,” she seethed. “I want Tristan released. At least he’ll tell me.”
“My lady, in this great game we play with the Russians, many are involved, many with no resources to save them. Nor can I save them. I’m sorry, Marchioness.”
Her blue eyes burned with indignation. He watched her tense under the answer. While it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, he wasn’t lying. Spies lived dangerously close to the edge every day, knowing what they did helped the Empire, but the price was high—death or being caught, which the Empire had to ignore, as it often involved little in the standard war procedures. Men like St. James were invaluable to the service, part of the reason why he didn’t force his resignation on marriage, as well as up and coming Stauton, but the fates had other plans. No, too many men remained engaged in this world of intrigue for him to throw everything away for one man. While inwardly cursing, he sat still, keeping his façade relaxed, even as she fumed.
“I demand you do something!”
He sat still, holding his breath. Frankly, he deserved a medal for this, he thought. If Tristan found a way out, Livingston would have to kill him over all this.
With a sigh of bitter frustration, she spun on her heels and stormed from his office. Smyth stood near the door, a questioning look on his face.
“Remain here.” Livingston listened, hearing the click of her boot heels as Evelyn walked briskly away. After the slam of the door at the end of the hallway resonated back to him, he looked at the captain. “Care to explain what just happened, Captain?”
“As you can see, sir,” he started. “There’s no way to stop her.”
“So she got into his papers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They must have been locked away,” he stated. “Tristan is far too meticulous to leave any sitting out.”
“Yes, sir, his desk was locked.” He shifted, tugging at his collar. “I did open it for her. If I didn’t, she might have had the servants axe it apart otherwise.”
Livingston tilted his head, still glaring at the officer. “Of course,” he murmured, but he reckoned the man had volunteered to help her. She was quite a force, he decided. “And apparently, her intelligence isn’t lacking. By chance, did she find out anything else that her husband failed to discern yet?” He, too, wanted to know who the traitor was. There was too much at stake to have a loose cannon running about the place. The disaster in Afghanistan cost the Empire dearly, he discovered, as they had lost another foothold in the great game. It’d take months to rebuild their position—that is, if they could without being exposed by this traitor.
“No, sir, not that I’m aware of.”
“Then go to her, offer her your services. Use whatever skill you have in this.”
The captain nodded and left. Livingston sat back, pondering. What little he knew foretold that the future for St. James could be deadly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Evelyn tapped her fingers impatiently on the tabletop. That man, Sir Livingston, was of no use, but she didn’t believe that he couldn’t get Tris out. That also raised another question inside her. Was it that she wanted her husband freed to be with her or to simply find the truth about Richard? She needed to know what happened. This also troubled her deeply. She was married to a killer but carried his child. The child should have been Richard’s, and she should have wed him, not Tristan. Her heart clenched at the issue.
“My lady, please stand still,” the seamstress said.
She sighed, took a deep breath and stood still. The woman took the tape measure and continued writing her numbers. The new dresses had to give room for the growing babe, plus she needed new gestation corsets made as well. Still flat, Evelyn had a hard time imagining her size increasing, but when a wave of hunger swept through her like wildfire, she started. Her appetite was growing, and she’d need a larger wardrobe quickly or be in her chemise for ages!