by Darcy Burke
Evelyn couldn’t move. This was a tragedy unfolding before her, and she needed to hear the end, even though she knew the result. “Go on.”
He laughed. It was guilt-laced and harsh. “We figured if I could ‘win’, because it was outsiders making the accusation and of course, she wasn’t accosted, it would suffice. But it didn’t. The visitors demanded justice. To not follow through would expose us. We had two others there with us. But the traitor, the one who turned on us, sat with the other three visitors. He was British, I’d swear on my mother’s grave. But in the robes and head scarfs, I couldn’t see him to tell you who he was.”
“So, to save yourselves, you had to kill Richard?” Her voice was weak, bordering tears.
“No, I refused,” he looked at her with eyes devoid of emotion. It shook her straight to her heart. “So he took my sword, the tip of which touched his skin. He begged me to watch over you and then,” he stopped, his façade turned to stone. “He rammed the blade into himself.”
Pain and grief wrapped themselves around her tightly. He seemed so detached from the tale, indifferent even, so why attempt to carry out a dying man’s wish? And what was she to him in the long run? The thumping in her chest, her heart, skipped a beat. She’d fallen in love with him. She hated him. And she carried his heir, her own child. Behind him, a whisper of a vision hinted. Richard. Pale, gaunt, with ruby red lips and a blood-stained shirt. He too stared at her with a hard glare. She couldn’t breathe, struggled to, fighting the corset stays and her emotions that swirled inside her, faster and faster, whipping around her like a poisonous vine. But she refused to succumb to it, fighting it.
“Evelyn,” Tristan whispered.
“No! Stay away from me!” Her vision blurred, the tears only increasing her anger. She grabbed her skirts and made for the door only for him to catch her.
“Evelyn, this is why you’re in danger,” he insisted as he stopped her. “I haven’t rested since I returned. I need to find this traitor. He knows I’m close, I’m sure of that. The arrest and such. How I got out, I’m not sure because Livingston and the Department deny my membership in their corp. Whoever he is, he is deadly, and I fear he may come after you, especially since you’ve become my wife and your tramping through my papers, going to Livingston and such.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? You can’t stop him?”
“I’m working toward that. I have men still in Afghanistan whose lives are in danger because of him.”
“Well, not as much so, since you’re here,” she sneered.
The implication that they’d be safe because she considered Tristan the guilty party and he was here not in Afghanistan, was as bold as if she’d said the words. The accusation stood between them like a wall, impenetrable.
Chapter Twenty-Four
His wife hated him.
He’d broken the code of spies and told her what happened to her beloved Richard. How could he expect any less than for her to think of him as a killer?
He hadn’t married for love. Never sought the emotion. But he did love her. That recognition hit him while he was locked up with way too much time on his hands. His thoughts returned to her over and over again, a tug his heart he couldn’t deny. Now, when he acknowledged it, thrived on it and hoped maybe she felt it too, he came home to a house filled with guilt and shame. Correction–he was guilty and carried the shame poorly, apparently. In answering her question about the incident, he’d hoped telling Evelyn what truly happened, since she seemed to believe she knew, would clear his conscience, but it failed.
Once again, his ice queen stood regally before him. Elegant, righteous and cold. He shivered, which amazed him. But there was something else this time about her. He just couldn’t place it.
“Evelyn,” he started. “Life as a soldier is filled with a possibility of death. A spy more so. Telling you the tale was a serious breech, as it were, but you asked, and it was time you knew. As my wife, you cannot repeat any of this.”
She glared. The bottom line was simple. They were stuck together. Married. Divorce out of the question. The ultimate trump card was Mary’s safety. She’d stay as his wife for that alone. That rubbed him wrong. He wanted her with him because she longed to stay there, not to honor an obligation.
Her jaw tensed. “Of course. For the good of the Empire, I suppose,” she said bitterly.
It was like he was stung by a scorpion–the venom evident in her tone.
She reached the door when a commotion upstairs started, followed by a loud boom against the floorboards. The squeal of the children echoed through the halls, along with the high-pitched reprimands of the nursemaid.
Without a word, both Evelyn and Tristan took to the stairs. She bunched her skirts in her hands to race up the staircase, crushing the silk, but still she couldn’t move fast. Tristan cupped her elbow and gave his support as they climbed.
He wasn’t ready for the mayhem greeting them at the nursery. Nadir and Mary screamed at each other, Mary throwing little wooden building blocks and anything else she could grab, while Nadir stood firmly, holding some object close to him. A pillow? And Lillian frantically tried to pick up all the small toys within Mary’s reach, talking calmly to the loud children, but her voice rising to be heard.
“Miss Lillian, what on God’s green Earth is going on?”
Evelyn went straight to Mary, bent down to her level and took her hands into hers. “Mary, Mary, you don’t throw toys at your brother.”
“Mama,” she cried, throwing herself at Evelyn, tears streaming down her face.
Evelyn glanced at Tristan, a questioning look on her face. He went to his son. The boy clutched something to him, his look the type his dear mother had when she was determined. It struck a chord deep inside Tristan. Whatever he held, he refused to part with it.
“Son,” he started softly, like he used to do to the boy’s mother. It usually worked with Aatifa, but, then again, she was a woman. “Mary just wants to see what you’ve got.”
The boy shook his head adamantly.
“How did all this start, Miss Lillian?” Evelyn asked as she rocked the sobbing Mary.
The nursemaid fretted for a second. “I’m not sure, my lady. After you two left, and they settled into play, Naddy pulled that pillow out of his chest. I’ve never seen it before and neither had Miss Mary. She wanted it too, and a struggle began.” She shook her head in dismay. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, my ladyship, my lordship, but they got a bit into a struggle over it, causing all the mess.”
The room was a disaster. Well, Tristan always considered it so–it was a nursery for God’s sake. But now, it did appear as if a cyclone had blown off the Channel through it. His brows furrowed.
“Nadir, was this your mother’s?” he asked gently.
The little boy nodded.
“May I see it? I’ll give it right back.”
The little chubby hands released the wadded up blanket. It was a small piece–one he remembered Aatifa had started. The beginning of a larger throw, it was made of fabric pieces intricately sewn together. This one was blue silk, a color brilliant in hue that seemed to change just by his touch. His frown grew. A quick glance at his wife confirmed it. It was the same fabric Evelyn’s dress was made of. How did a piece from Afghanistan resemble the one sold here? Soldiers don’t carry fabric to be sewn…
Evelyn noticed it too and walked over holding Mary, who fidgeted in her arms. Evelyn’s expression also questioning.
“Mine, mine, mine!” Mary chirped, trying to wiggle herself close enough to reach for the piece.
Tristan held it out of her reach but gazed at his son who stood quiet, so typical of how his mother had been. The boy had grown so much in Tristan’s weeks in the gaol, he mused. But one thing was for certain–his eyes were fixated on Evelyn’s gown.
Evelyn, though, paled. Mary wasn’t a wee child any longer, small enough to still be held but too large for Evelyn’s grasp. Especially when she began to swing her chubby little legs, trying to free
herself.
“Miss Lillian,” he called. “Please relieve my lady of Miss Mary.”
The nursemaid came and took the child, murmuring to her cries as she carried her away.
Tristan turned back to Nadir. “Was this your mama’s?” At the boy’s nod, he added, “Did she give this to you?”
The little boy’s eyes glistened, his lower lip quivering. “Gran’mama.”
Evelyn breathed deeply, holding her waist. Interesting gesture, one he hadn’t recalled seeing her do before or being so short of breath, but he ignored it and the memory it provoked. Instead, he held the fabric up to her skirts. It matched. Evelyn gasped.
“Darling, are you all right?” He couldn’t help but see her distress now.
“I’m fine, truly.” She didn’t sound it.
He handed the piece back to Nadir and helped his wife sit. His son, though, stayed. Tristan noticed he looked as if he stayed to say something. “Nadir? Do you know where or who gave your mother that pretty piece of material to make that with?” He strongly doubted the child would. The lad was only two.
But crumpled in the boy’s hand was a crinkled linen square. It had blue stitches on the border. Tristan looked at it and at the blue silk. At one time, they’d been sewn together.
“Mar’ took off,” Nadir stated.
“The stitches look ripped.” He stared at the linen. In the corner was an elaborately embroidered D. Hooked on the lower scroll of the D was a C and S intertwined. He stood dumbfounded, unable to place it.
“Let me look,” Evelyn called weakly.
He handed it to her. “Evelyn, what is wrong with you? You look as white as a sheet.”
“It will pass,” she said, her fingers tracing the insignia. “Oh dear.”
“You recognize it?”
She bit her lower lip as she reached into the hidden side pocket in the precisely formed folds of the overskirt. In her hand, she held another white linen square that she shoved at him.
Confused, he looked her, then at the handkerchief. The corner held a neatly white-embroidered D with a lower C and S hanging off the lower curve of the D.
“Evelyn?”
“It is Charles Silvers, Lord Dunsford.”
Deep inside him, jealousy reared its ugly head. Vaguely, he recalled Dunsford, some snide creature from the Sussex area. Evelyn had his handkerchief? Aatifa knew of the bastard? What the hell? Fury of a type he hadn’t seen since Grifton’s death breathed fire. “Do you care to explain yourself, madam? Why in God’s name do you have this, this man’s linen?”
She swallowed visibly. “He gave it to me when he found me crying,” she offered.
“Crying? Pray tell, over what?”
“Richard,” she whispered, her voice wavering.
What the hell did Grifton and Dunsford have in common?
“Do not use vulgar language at me,” she snarled.
Stunned, he barely kept his mouth closed. He had no idea he’d muttered those words out loud. “I apologize. But answer the question,” he prodded.
She bit her lower lip, clenching her hands together. “They knew each other, as friends.”
He frowned, walking away. Dunsford and Grifton? He and the boy had shared many interests and memories, but Dunsford he would have remembered, wouldn’t he? Dunsford, Dunsford…He twirled the name in his head, trying to find a footing. It meant something…
There was a thud behind him, and he turned quickly. Evelyn lay in a heap on the floor.
He raced to her. “Darling! Evie!”
She didn’t stir. He picked her up and carried her to her room. Stanfill came. “Call the doctor immediately.” As the man raced off, Tristan took her to her bed. Missy appeared at his side. She wet a rag and laid it over Evelyn’s forehead.
Tristan sat on the side of the bed and took her hand. It was cool to the touch. He rubbed it, worried. She’d paled back in the nursery. Whatever she was sick with, he’d have her taken care of.
“Get out of me way,” a harsh, Cockney feminine tone announced, pushing past the servants that had gathered to Evelyn. “Me lor’ship, I needs ya to move yur pretty ass.”
Astounded at her manners, he moved before realizing he’d done so. “Who in blazes are you?”
She lifted Evelyn’s hand and touched her forehead and earlobe, stating, “Sammy.”
“Well, Sammy, get away from my wife.”
The poorly dressed commoner laughed. “I’s be thinkin’ not, me lor’ship. But, I’s be needin’ you all outta here.”
Missy motioned for all out, but Tristan stood. “I want to know who you are. Now.”
The vile woman stood and glared at him. “I be a midwife, me lor’ship. Didn’t she tell you?”
“Tris,” Evelyn said from the bed. “She’s fine to be here.”
“Tell me what!”
The woman hit his arm like he was on the docks with her, a commoner and friend. How dare she…
“Her lady be expectin’ yur heir, that’s wha,” she chuckled.
Tristan’s mouth fell agape as Missy pushed him out the door.
***
Sammy told her to rest, to drink more fluids and eat better. Fair enough, but her nerves were strung tight over Tristan. This wasn’t the way to tell him. Frankly, she wasn’t ready to tell him.
He’d told her the circumstances of Richard’s death. Between him and Dunsford, she knew the story. She should be satisfied. Richard died for the Empire. God save the Queen! But even that felt empty. Tristan claimed they were betrayed, and he’d been trying to find the culprit. And her delving into this investigation placed her in danger. Now that he knew her condition, he’d be more protective. She couldn’t stand to be under scrutiny again, not even if it was to save her life. Wasn’t that what the last time was? Being sent out to the country to “recover from her injuries?” She sighed and got off the bed.
In front of the cheval, she peered at the blue silk dress she wore and wondered how a piece of this got to Nadir’s mother. And the handkerchief as well. But her mind was crowded with confusing thoughts and feelings. Tristan. She loved him and hated him.
She left the room and headed straight to his study. He sat at his desk, a glass of brandy before him. Slumped back in the chair, his jacket off, waistcoat unbuttoned, necktie hanging limp around his collar, the shirt open at the neck. He sipped the amber fluid as his eyes studied her.
“Interesting development, aye, my lady?” He gave her a devilish smile laced with whiskey.
“I was going to tell you about the baby,” she started.
“Truly? What, when you were going to give birth?” His mocking tone held no humor.
“Tristan, please,” she paced.
“So, is it mine or that bastard Dunsford’s?”
She stopped, shocked. Where had he dreamt up that? “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, as I gather, you dismissed me from your bed nigh on a month or so ago, stayed clear of me thereafter, and then, I was locked away …”
“You knew you’d never see a courtroom,” she countered, her wits leaving her.
“Hmmm, perhaps,” he muttered. “But answer the question.”
The air went cold in the room, like an ice storm. She shivered.
Take care of the child. Richard’s warning.
Standing straight, steeling her shoulders, she tightened her jaw. “Don’t be absurd. You know it is yours.”
“Really?” He slammed the glass down, the liquor spilling on the papers beneath it as he stood. He circled the desk to her. “I’m not as sure, my dear. I taught you the enjoyment of seduction. You may have practiced it with him, now that I’ve convinced you to conquer your fears.”
Pure, intense anger shot through her. He accused her of being a whore after teaching her the beauty of lovemaking. As if she was that shallow to commit adultery. Before she could stop herself, she slapped him hard across his cheek, the sound of the impact loud and clear, as was the handprint on his cheek.
“How dare you?”
Ice wasn’t how her blood flowed. And she thought she loved him…
“That blasted man seems to be after my women,” he muttered, slumping back into his chair.
Still angry, she leaned across his desk, her hands fisted on the papers resting there. “We are not your harem!”
He met her gaze and laughed. He was drunk. Her view lowered to the desktop and the various stacks of papers there. The set wet from liquor intrigued her. The ink was smearing but she caught a list of names, all beginning with a D in one column and a T in the other. She tilted her head, trying to read the names. Dalton, Dawson…Denton, Dennyson…
“What is all this?”
“None of your concern,” he said, downing another gulp.
“I beg to differ,” she shot back. She’d never seen him drink much. A memory of the night he had that rousing nightmare crashed into her mind. Heavens knows, memories of her attack had kept her awake many nights, so probably Richard’s death did his as well. She taught herself quickly that wine only made matters worse…