An Unexpected Passion (Unexpected Series Book 2)

by Leighann Dobbs

  But the thought of reprieve terrified him.

  An entire lifetime of nightmares was not a future he wanted, and those cruel and torturous dreams were largely the reason for his confession to begin with.

  Neither Tony, nor his brother, or even any of his friends knew about the night terrors he had been dealing with since the day of the shooting.

  No one, not even dear, sweet Phoebe, knew how deeply those dreams tormented him, night after night, leaving him restless and full of dread throughout every waking hour of the day, for within every minute of his waking hours he knew night would too soon come again.

  Aye, he would welcome death, he quietly admitted to himself, for he could not abide what would be required of him in sleep.

  Worse, however, were the waking memories—those terribly vivid recollections forcing him to hear, to see, to watch again and again his beloved Chelsea tumbling forward, falling into him in shock from the impact of a wound he himself had inflicted; to repeatedly experience the agony of realization that he alone was the cause of her suffering. Then came the soft murmurs which haunted him, the achingly poignant whispers that fell from her lips as she confessed her undying love while she lay bleeding in his arms.

  Turning away from his view of the crowded chamber lest one of his acquaintances somehow see the writhing pain within him, tearing him up inside, Tristan lowered his head, closing his eyes in an attempt to shield them all and to snuff out the horrible memories that had haunted him for so long. His family and friends would never understand, for he had told no one of his misery but death truly seemed his only escape, and he just wanted the pain to end.

  At his back, murmurs rose, tempting him to hear, to listen, but he ignored them. It mattered naught what his peers said about him now. He had made his confession, entered his plea of guilt before the magistrate and his most trusted councilmen, and in less than a matter of minutes he felt sure his fate would be decided. Finally, the whole horrible nightmare he had been forced to endure would be over.

  For him, he realized, but not for his family.

  Too late, he thought of Phoebe, and the terrible burden his silence would force her to bear. A blistering stream of curses flashed through his thoughts and he bit them back as yet another wave of piercing guilt threatened to break him from the inside. She would go to her grave believing her efforts to save him had been for naught—precisely as he had warned her they would—and that she had fought for him in vain.

  Too late, he questioned his decision to squash her hopes that he might live. What evil could possibly have lain in allowing her faith in him—misplaced though it were—to hold her upright as she faced what must surely be the most wretched day of her life since their parents had died? What harm could there have been in sharing his reasons for an unspeakable longing for death? If she could only have known the true circumstance of his piteously miserable existence, perhaps she, too, would have understood how he could eagerly welcome this end? Aye, she would have—and her conscience would have known ease when he left them.

  Lucien, however…

  Behind him, the crowd shifted as restlessly as the doubts swirling in his thoughts but Tristan knew it was far too late. Too late to explain to Lucien, to beg his forgiveness, or to let him know how much he really cared. Too late to explain to Phoebe. Too late for so damned many things—and now it was far too late to care, for the time had come for the proceedings to begin.

  A young messenger appeared in the doorway to the chamber facing the main hall and now he hurried across the floor to the magistrate's chair. Leaning down, he whispered low into the man's ear and the judge straightened, his narrowed gaze suddenly peering toward an antechamber along a short hallway at the back of the room to his right. Turning to the boy, he nodded once and the boy dipped his head in acknowledgment before hastily disappearing from the room in the same manner in which he had come.

  Curious, Tristan kept his eyes on the antechamber, trying to peer inside as the magistrate had done, but the area was far too shrouded in shadow for him to see. Like the rest of the assemblage in the now crowded courtroom, he shifted anxiously in his seat. What were they waiting for?

  His answer came a few seconds later when Tony, or he should say the much distinguished Duke of Ambray, as Tony had seen fit to outfit himself in full ducal array, strode boldly forward. He stepped from the shadows in full, regal dress, not stopping until he stood practically face-to-face with the magistrate. With nothing but the width of the low wooden table between them, he leaned down to speak, as if to whisper to the magistrate as the boy had previously, but his voice carried easily throughout the room.

  “Your Honor, if it pleases the council, I should like to address the members and yourself regarding the matter of the alleged murder of Lady Chelsea Hastings, and also the alleged disappearance of the Marquess of Glenwood.”

  14

  Murmurs arose from the assemblage, growing louder until the magistrate lifted his head and peered, aghast, at Tony, one silver brow arched high in question. “Alleged, Ambray?” he blustered. “We have a signed confession of guilt directly from the hand of the murderer!”

  “Aye,” Tony agreed, “but no body. Furthermore, the confession was submitted erroneously, Your Honor. The gentleman was lacking a great deal of pertinent but classified information which, if you will allow me to submit, may well change your—and the council's—decision regarding his punishment.”

  Turning, he offered a quick wink in Tristan's direction before continuing with, “Or the lack thereof, as the case may be.”

  Tris merely returned his gesture with a cold, unaffected stare. Ignoring the lad's ungrateful demeanor for the moment, he turned back to monitor and judge the reaction of the council to his opening comments.

  “Pertinent information?” The magistrate's shrewd gaze pinned Tony, making him yearn to squirm beneath the man's cutting regard, but the duke refused to buckle beneath his piercing stare. “This investigation has been in progress for some time now, Ambray. Are you telling me you have been withholding evidence?”

  Serious now, Tony shook his head and murmured quietly, “Nay, Your Honor. Merely giving it ample time to heal. But before we get to the question of murder, I should like to speak upon the charges levied most recently upon the accused regarding the alleged disappearance of the Marquess of Glenwood.”

  His expression set, Tony once again turned to face the crowd.

  “As most of you likely already know, thanks to London's well-tuned gossip mill being very much alive and thriving, Oliver Hastings did, indeed, leave England for a time on what unexpectedly became an extended business trip. His granddaughter, Lady Chelsea, was left in the care of family until his return. Today, I am pleased to inform you the Marquess has traveled here with me, both hale and hearty of constitution. Yes, he is very much alive and well.” With a glance toward the same antechamber into which the magistrate had peered, narrow-eyed, only moments before, Tony called, “Glenwood?”

  The marquess strode from the chamber to face them all, his expression stern. Gasps and murmurs of surprise rose from the crowd, but when his gaze fell upon Tristan, he turned a sharp glance to Tony, one brow arched in dubious askance.

  “This is the boy who supposedly arranged for both my granddaughter's and my disappearance?” Shaking his head at the shameful conjecture which was too much to be believed, he said, “What hogswollop. This young fellow is my—”

  Tony held up a hand, forestalling whatever comment he had been about to make. “Later, Oliver. There are other matters yet to be discussed, I am afraid. The charges of kidnapping, for one, and of piracy...”

  With that, he turned back to the magistrate. “Several weeks ago, the lovely Lady Chelsea did, indeed, go missing, Your Honor—a fact to which several captains of the Royal Navy have fully attested to within these documents.”

  Holding up a sheaf of papers, he shook them lightly. “The family from which the marquess's granddaughter was abducted made utmost haste to contact Glenwood immediately, r
ight here in London, to inform him that a nasty band of pirates had stolen into their home and made off with Lady Chelsea.”

  Lifting a hand toward the marquess, Tony continued. “Being a man of action, Glenwood went immediately to the Royal Navy.” Gesturing with the papers he held once again, he said, “You will find reports of this within their files, which are attached.”

  Pausing for the space of several breaths, Tony waited while the councilmen searched the papers before them for the missing reports. Once he was satisfied each member had at least cast a cursory glance over their notes and had concluded they had received no such notices, he continued yet again.

  “A special force was, of course, assembled and assigned to locate and retrieve Lady Chelsea. This man,” he said, turning to motion to Tristan before slapping his hand down hard upon the table behind which the council sat. “This man was the head emissary of that force.”

  Straightening, he said, “So you see, all of you have, in essence, accused a representative of the Royal Navy of murdering his charge. The Royal Navy. Perhaps the Prince should be made aware of your accusations ere we continue?”

  The question earned him yet another glare from the magistrate. Now seemed the perfect time to pace, and so he did, back and forth within the space in front of the council. His fingers itched to slip beneath the crisply tied cravat at his throat but he resisted—barely. “On orders issued directly from the Royal Navy, Tristan St. Daine personally infiltrated the band of pirates who abducted Lady Chelsea from her family, and for several months did, indeed, sail with them as one of their crew. He was biding his time, you see, under orders—until the moment came when he could safely free the young heiress and bring her home again.”

  Certain he had at least cast a suspicion of doubt upon Tristan's guilt at this point, he went to the council, placing dockets of information before each man, including the magistrate, and then waited quietly while those were read.

  One of the council members uttered a derisive snort. He glanced up from the documents he had been scanning and pointed to the papers. “An amusing thing seemed to have happened while your so-called emissary was merely biding his time aboard that ship. What is the meaning of this, Ambray?”

  Tony speared him with a speaking look before correcting his obviously intentional error. “Tristan was the Royal Navy's emissary, Burkhardt. As to the other, however, who can say? 'Tis an odd thing, indeed. Many a poet have attempted to ascribe its vast depth and breadth across a veritable multitude of years and yet the scope of it continues to remain elusive to us all.”

  He cast an apologetic glance at Tristan before turning back to the magistrate, shaking his head as if to say, what a shame. “What Burkhardt has neglected to explain aloud, Your Honor, is that our undercover emissary located and promptly fell in love with his charge.”

  From the corner of his eye, Tony noted Lucien's shock at those words. His brows rose in acknowledgment, and then he nodded, his attention returning once more to the clearly disgruntled magistrate and councilmen before him.

  “Despite this—” Tony started, waving a finger in the air in front of him while he waited for their attention to turn to him once more. “Despite this, my lords, Tristan St. Daine knew he had a job to do, and so he did it, despite the fury and animosity of the pirates—a ferocious crew of bloodthirsty men who would slay their own mothers in their sleep for the promise of gold.”

  Clasping his hands before him, Tony steepled his fingers together, tilted his head to the side as if looking back upon events as they played out upon the ceiling. “In the end, shots were fired and Lady Chelsea was regrettably caught in the crossfire. The shooter responsible for the bullet jumped ship.”

  He had told no lie. Tristan did jump into the ocean but only because he missed the damned dinghy waiting to collect him and Lady Chelsea. Fighting the wry grin that threatened to twist his lips, he waited yet again for the murmurs to settle before waving toward the documents now spread upon the table before the magistrate once more. “Several members of the Royal Navy gave statements, Your Honor. They also gave chase and most of the pirates tiny crew were killed. The rest have obviously gone into hiding, but we will find them soon enough. As for the true blackguard responsible for the kidnapping of Lady Chelsea Hastings –a body was recovered, Your Honor. Members of his crew attested to the man's identity as captain.”

  “This man, however,” he turned to point at Tristan once more, reminding the assemblage of where their attention should lie, “not only infiltrated and is solely responsible for the Royal Navy's removal of the band of pirates who have been freely looting and wreaking havoc along our coasts for decades, but also the saving of one of our own—Lady Chelsea Hastings. For this, I was moved to make an appeal to the Regent himself, to ask that he be commended for he is, indeed, a hero.”

  At this point, Tony was standing right in front of Tristan. There was little chance he could miss Tristan's reaction to his words, and he did not. Tristan's eyes had gone dark. Stormy. And the look in them quite pained.

  “Stop it, Tony,” he pleaded quietly but the anguish in his gaze spoke volumes. “Chelsea is dead. Don't do this.”

  The magistrate seemed to share Tristan's opinion because he said, “Ambray, if the lady was indeed rescued—saved, as you appear to wish for us to believe—why, pray tell, has she not come forward? Would a lady so cavalierly reclaimed not be willing to speak out on her rescuer's behalf?”

  Leaning close, Tony whispered—again in an overly loud tone—to the magistrate. “A technicality, Your Honor. A wife is not allowed to speak in trial, either for or against her husband.”

  As he had intended, his words carried and soon the murmurs of the crowd became a cacophony of harsh whispers followed by several loud demands for answers. Tony shushed them all with a quelling look. “Lady Chelsea was gravely wounded, Your Honor, and so was this fine young man's heart. In his fear that his love would leave him ere they had a chance at life, the ship's captain was called upon to perform a ceremony.”

  Tony did not mention the captain in question was himself, or that the ceremony had actually been conducted without the presence of either the bride or groom for both had been parted for days when he'd finally hit upon a solution to their dilemma. Instead, he motioned to the documents yet again, “The papers are in order, Your Honor. Dates, times—you will find that all pertinent information has been duly recorded.”

  While the councilmen peered at the various records, searching for that of a wedding having taken place on the high seas, Tony laid yet another packet of specific import in front of the magistrate. These were signed by the Regent's own hand, complete with his royal seal, so he knew the man would not protest. Still, his brow rose.

  “I see information for a wedding, yes, but what of the death certificate?” Disgruntled and clearly annoyed by what he was now reading in the new set of papers Tony had set before him, the magistrate said, “You have alluded to a number of things but resolved precious few of my concerns and those of this council, Ambray. I submit that you are wasting my time and the time of this council with your romanticism and nonsense and that simply will not be tolerated a moment more. Therefore, I pronounce that you immediately produce proof—living proof—of the lady's health and well-being, or I shall hereby declare this man guilty of murder, as charged.”

  Hesitant now, Tony looked at Tristan, his gaze hard. Scrutinizing. Tristan stared back with eyes dark and empty. Just tell him, they seemed to say. Finally, Tony nodded and turned back to face the magistrate.

  “Very well.” Striding toward the antechamber from which the Marquess of Glenwood had earlier emerged, Tony held out his hand. “You may join us now, if you please...”

  From his seat below the magistrate's table where he'd had a clear, unobstructed view of Tristan St. Daine's profile throughout the entirety of the proceedings, Edward Claybourne was suddenly stricken. It was a fleeting thing, really. So brief Edward could almost believe he had imagined it. Indeed, it might well have been naught
more than a figment of his imagination, but for the sheer magnitude of it all.

  Edward found his entire opinion of Tristan immediately changed, for it was as if, for that one brief, fleeting moment when Tristan realized Lady Chelsea Hastings was alive and well and standing a mere hand's breadth before him, he could read the boy's soul, and what he saw there was profound.

  Surprise. Relief. Delight. Confusion. Fury. Each new emotion slashed away the layers of Tristan's previously callous demeanor, revealing a softer, gentler—aye, even emotional side—of Phoebe's brother that Edward would never have believed the man possessed had he not witnessed the moment for himself. But there it was, in the most glorious transformation of a man Edward had ever been gifted the opportunity to witness—the true spectrum and wealth of emotion hidden away in Tristan's heart—and Edward suddenly understood why Phoebe had been so single-mindedly determined in her pursuit of his freedom.

  He loved.

  He loved Lady Chelsea.

  And he loved his family—there was no doubt about that now.

  While it came as no surprise, given their antagonistic history to date, that he'd found nothing to admire, nothing of beauty in the younger St. Daine—nothing worthy of committing to canvas, anyway—this one singular moment would forever be etched in his memory as the instant when everything he once believed he knew about Tristan St. Daine had changed.

  Stupefied by the moment of revelation, Edward found himself suddenly eager to return to his private chambers at Vykhurst, where his oils and brushes waited. He remained still, determined to commit each minute detail to memory—a memory from which he would later transfer the transformation he had witnessed to canvas.