“Over here!” he called in a hoarse whisper.
“What is it?” The Sheikh asked.
Tristan pointed to the tangle of rags. He dropped his stallion’s reins and started forward. “Cover me,” he said.
The click of the hammer being drawn back on The Sheikh’s pistol was only mildly comforting.
Tristan poked at the pile with the toe of his boot and got no response. The density and weight of the rags drew his memory back several years. To Tunis. To the Algerian affair. Swallowing the bile that rose to his throat, Tristan knelt on one knee beside the heap.
No pulse, and the body was still warm. His fingertips came away sticky and dark. He turned the man’s head to see his face. The man’s face—eyes still opened in surprise, mouth agape in a silent scream—was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He passed his hand over the man’s face, closing the eyes.
“Too late,” he said. The Sheikh’s footsteps came up behind him. “Look at the knife work. Remind you of anything?”
Easing the hammer back into place, The Sheikh knelt beside Tristan. “Tunis. The Turk.” He turned the dead man’s face toward him. “Kauffman?”
Kauffman? Where had he heard that name before? Eyes fully adjusted to the dark corner, Tristan made out a second shape in the pile of rags. Leaving his comrade, he inched forward, to find another, smaller form.
The Sheikh’s attention was riveted on the dead man. “Good God! It is Kauffman! He’s Constance Bennington’s footman. What can he have to do with this?”
Tristan lifted the second body out of the formless heap. Building fury took control of him. A primal growl rose in his chest. “Christ…!”
Dark red hair tumbled over his arm. A light violet gown was blotched with blood, and he gathered the slight form against his chest, his howl echoing off the buildings around them.
The Sheikh came to his feet, pain and incomprehension registering on his face. “No. No, Tristan.”
Tristan groaned, “I cannot credit this. It makes no sense.” Annica! he thought, fighting a sudden panic. Dear Lord, is she safe? Is she in danger, too?
“Constance…” The Sheikh’s voice held an audible ache as he took the limp body from Tristan’s arms and held it in his own. He dropped to his knees, laid his cheek to hers and closed his eyes, rocking the woman’s body back and forth. He turned his face upward and shouted for the heavens to hear. “Damn you to hell, Turk! Damn your mother and damn your father!”
“I’ll summon the night watch.” Tristan reached for the reins of his horse.
“Go home, Auberville. Look to your lady. I will handle this,” the man said, his voice now cold and calm. “The night watch will be on the way after the noise we made.”
“The questions—”
“I will handle it. I want to stay with her, Auberville.”
The wild gallop home in the darkest part of night seemed endless. Tristan’s imagination played havoc with his emotions. After what he’d just seen he could not help but wonder what he would do if Annica had been harmed. How could he live with that?
He thought of her as she’d been that morning—soft, warm and sweet-scented, lying against his pillows, dwarfed by the massive four-poster bed, her delicate beauty luring him from duty with nothing but a soft plea. Tristan, stay. God, how he wished he had! Now her veiled threat took on monstrous proportions: Perhaps I will not be here, Tristan.
Was Annica somehow tangled in this morass of violence and intrigue? Was she in danger? Was this what she had wanted to discuss this morning? If she came to harm because of his inattention or negligence, he would never forgive himself.
He dismounted in the courtyard and threw his reins to a sleepy groom who’d waited up for his return. Chauncy, fully clothed and upright, sat dozing in a chair by the back stairs.
“Go to bed, Chauncy,” Tristan growled on his way by, not wanting a witness to his humiliation. Because if Annica were gone…
He took the stairs two at a time, anxiety rising with every step. Letting himself into his room, he went directly to Annica’s door. Dim light from her fireplace shone along the bottom edge.
Her bed looked empty. Cold settled in his stomach, an emptiness more devastating than any he had ever experienced. It gave rise immediately to a barbaric anger. The betrayal, so basic to every hurt he had ever endured, was doubly cutting from Annica.
His steps took him to her bedside. There, nearly indistinguishable beneath a feather comforter, lay Annica. He felt the tension and anxiety drain from his strained muscles.
Her tangled hair curled around her oval face, and her long lashes curved in a delicate sweep against the flawless cream of her cheeks. Slightly parted lips looked deliciously soft and inviting. One hand lay on the pillow beside her face, the fingers curled toward her palm. The other arm was flung across the empty space beside her, as if searching in her sleep for the reassurance of an absent mate. As if searching for him…
He experienced a fierce swelling in his heart, a primal passion for which there were no words. As he stood studying her, his hunger grew, even while his fear sharpened his need to affirm life, to celebrate the senses, to honor love.
He gripped the canopy post and tightened his hold. The bed moved as his muscles tensed, and the wood groaned in protest. A smoldering log dropped in the fireplace, sending up a small spray of ash and glowing cinders. Annica turned at the sound, her lashes fluttering as she came awake.
An apparition dressed in a dull, formless garment with a pointed hood hovered in the darkness beside her bed. A long dagger in a sheath hung from his waist. Dark smears soiled the front of the robe, and Annica smelled blood. She shivered. The apparition stood absolutely still, as if carved from gray marble, one hand gripping the post at the foot of her bed.
The other hand came up to brush the hood back. Her husband’s face emerged, looking like an avenging angel fresh from a fight, and intent on some divine purpose. His hair curled over his forehead and the scar across his cheekbone was a pale gash in the dim light. His features were impassive, unreadable. But his eyes! Dear Lord! They shone with a hunger and need that she could not hope to understand.
This was Tristan, yet somehow not Tristan. And he was waiting, every muscle strained and tense, for a sign, an acknowledgment.
Excitement danced along her nerves. Her breasts tingled beneath his bold, possessive study. When she exhaled a shaky sigh from breath held too long, his gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth.
“Tristan?” she whispered into the stillness.
He fell upon her with a hungry moan. His fingers tangled in her hair and one hand cupped the back of her head while his lips cherished hers, then traveled to her eyes, her ears, her throat.
She melted against him, plucking at the ties of his robe. “Tristan,” she whispered again. For all her intentions to punish him, her need was far greater.
The sound of his name cut the invisible threads of restraint still remaining, and Tristan became filled with an exquisite urgency. He yanked the covers away, annoyed by the layers between them. That done, he turned his attention to her nightgown, ripping it down the center to lay her bare to his eyes and touch. He parted from her long enough to remove his own clothes. Then he was beside her again, stroking and kissing her.
He laced his fingers through hers and held her hands against the pillow. He wanted—no, needed—to command tonight, surrounding her in a vortex of ecstasy where he teased, tempted and denied her until she cried out from the deepest wellspring of her own need.
“Now…”
Consumed as he was with the compulsion to fuse into one flesh, his first thrust—sure and strong—caught her off guard. Even as he reveled in the deliciousness of burying himself deep within her, the sultry eyes fluttered open. He held her gaze, an odd mingling of triumph and reverence filling him when she flushed with pleasure.
Deeply rooted within her, he thought he would explode with the building need. Need that made him relentless as he continued his tender assault, drawing her in
to his world of danger and desire. She matched him measure for measure, and when the pleasure became too intense for her to keep pace, she wrapped her legs around his hips, refusing him withdrawal. He was glad—nay, eager—to bear such a sweet burden.
“Yes, sprite…surrender to it…to me,” he moaned.
His passion poured into her at the same instant she cried out and arched, gasping with the power of her own rapture. He could not hear above the thundering of his own beating heart, but her lips moved and he thought he read, I love you, Tristan.
He released her hands and rolled aside, dragging her with him. She nestled against him and sighed sleepily, one small hand resting on his chest. His breathing steadied and slowed. He stroked her and buried his face in the fragrance of her hair.
“That was an eloquent apology, m’lord,” she sighed. “I accept and tender my own. I am sorry we argued this morning.”
His arms tightened about her instinctively. “I thought you might not be here.”
She glanced at the mantel clock. “Where else would I be at this time of night, Tristan?”
Where else, indeed? He rested his cheek against the top of her head in the darkness. Where had Constance gone?
Constance. “Hush.” He laid one finger over Annica’s lips to still her words and then applied his mouth to hers to silence her. He could not talk about her friend now. Could not tell her, after what they had just shared, that Constance had been murdered. Nothing could be accomplished by saying words that would rob Annica of her last few moments of blissful innocence. He would let her have this short respite before the approaching day destroyed her peace.
Chapter Eighteen
Charity dabbed at her eyes with a silk hankie and her shoulders shook as she gave in to another fit of weeping. Grace patted her back in a motherly fashion and poured another cup of tea before bursting into tears herself. Sarah seemed to have melted into one corner of the sofa, staring expressionless and dry-eyed at the unlit fireplace. She had said very little since arriving at Clarendon Place in response to Annica’s summons an hour ago.
Annica knew this devastating event could immobilize them with fear and guilt. She straightened her spine and swallowed the lump in her throat. She had to be strong enough to hold them together and to find the villain. She could never give up now! Constance’s murderer would pay if it was the last thing the Wednesday League accomplished! If it was that last thing she accomplished.
“When did you hear, ‘Nica?” Grace asked.
“Mr. Bennington’s valet came before we had risen. Constance’s mother is not accepting the news. She sent him to inquire if Constance had spent the night here. She is certain there must be some mistake. Mr. Bennington had gone with the authorities to…to identify her. I sent word to all of you immediately.”
“We must go to Mrs. Bennington,” Grace sighed. She took a fresh handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her tears.
Annica closed the draperies, finding the sun too bright for eyes swollen with weeping. She sniffled and shook her head. “Tristan has gone to see what he can find out from the authorities. Perhaps they will know who is behind this. He swore he would be back soon. I cannot credit this,” she murmured.
“Murder. I cannot comprehend…” Sarah agreed, her soft voice barely above a whisper.
“She said she would call upon me this morning to begin our inquires into Frederika’s disappearance,” Grace explained to no one in particular. “What could she have been doing in that part of town in the middle of the night?”
Annica thought of her own forays into predawn London to gather information or meet an informant. Could Constance have had a lead? About what—or whom? Was it mere coincidence that Constance had been murdered scant hours after she had begun an investigation into missing women?
Annica removed her copy of Mansfield Park from the bookcase and withdrew the bloodstained note from the leaves. “I cannot help but think Constance was a victim of our investigations.”
“Oh!” Sarah wailed. “What have I done? Because of me, Mr. Bouldin and now Constance—”
“Do not say it.” Annica held up her right hand, palm outward, tears filling her eyes again. “Do not even think it, Sarah. We have all made the choice to take whatever risks are necessary. This may not even pertain to your case.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Aside from Wilkes’s ruin, we are finished dealing with your misfortune. The problem with which we have begun grappling is the fifth man—the man in the garden—and the abductions.”
“Wilkes! It had to be Wilkes,” Charity pronounced in a low, angry voice. “He followed her and then attacked her.”
“But her footman was with her,” Grace said. “Could that little weasel have killed them both?”
“Perhaps he had help,” Grace suggested.
“Who would help him? It isn’t as if we have left him with a single friend,” Charity sneered.
“There is a question to ponder,” Annica said. She refolded the note and slipped it back into the pages of her book, leaving it on a corner of Tristan’s desk. She went to sit in a chair facing Sarah and Grace. “The murderer could have been the fifth man. Wilkes and he may be involved in abducting women, as well as attacking them. And we were not regarded a threat until we uncovered this kidnapping scheme.”
“Then why did they not kidnap Constance? Why kill her?” Sarah asked.
“I cannot guess that, Sarah.”
Hodgeson knocked softly and opened the doors, admitting Tristan. His expression was grave as he came to kneel by Annica’s chair and take her hand. She looked down to where their hands were joined, startled by how much such a small gesture could comfort her. The warmth of his touch reached clear to her heart and brought fresh tears to her eyes.
“What did you discover?” Sarah asked. “Was it Connie?”
Tristan nodded. “The constable will want to question you in a day or two, Annica. They will want to talk to all of you.”
“Why?”
“They will ask…” Tristan stopped and shook his head. “I cannot allow them to put you ladies through this. If you can talk to me, I will relay the information to them.”
Annica looked at the three other women. Each of them gave her a tiny nod of agreement. “Very well, Tristan. You may ask whatever you wish. We will answer you to the best of our knowledge.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the hovering servant. “Hodgeson, brandy for the ladies. Tea will not be fortification enough.”
Charity began to cry again.
Hodgeson poured out the requisite number of brandies in small crystal glasses and brought them on a silver tray.
Tristan gave the ladies a moment, then asked, “Shall we begin?”
“Yes,” Annica sighed.
“Do you know why anyone would want to hurt Miss Bennington?”
Annica shuddered and a little prickle of fear went up her spine. “Tristan, who would want to strangle Constance?”
“Strangle? Did I say she had been strangled?”
Not strangled? Mr. Renquist had said that all the other missing women who had been found had been strangled. All but…She glanced toward the corner of Tristan’s desk, where her copy of Mansfield Park lay. She blushed and stammered, unable to meet his gaze. “I cannot remember. That is, you must have…Perhaps I assumed.”
“She was not strangled, my dear.”
“Then how…?”
“Annica, I do not think—”
“How, Tristan?”
“A knife.”
“To her heart?”
“Her throat.”
A quick glance at the others told Annica they had caught the importance of the method of Constance’s murder: it linked Constance to Mr. Bouldin’s murderer. Charity and Grace both looked as if they had been turned to stone. Sarah, though still pale, had an unfamiliar look in her eyes. In another, Annica might have described it as the light of battle.
“I see,” she said. She glanced down again, masking an
other sudden rush of tears. “Well, the answer remains the same. We do not know why anyone would want to kill Constance.”
“Chauncy informed me that Miss Bennington was here late yesterday afternoon for your weekly meeting. Did she mention what her plans were for the evening? Or discuss anything unusual?”
Annica bit her lower lip. “We discussed our usual subjects. She mentioned that she had plans for the evening, but she did not tell us what they were.” She disengaged her hand, swallowed her brandy, winced as it burned its way down her throat, and handed the empty glass to him.
“‘Nica, she seemed a little restless,” Sarah interjected. “Perhaps nervous would be a better word.”
“Did she say why?” Tristan asked.
“No, but I recall thinking that she might be hiding something, or holding back.”
“Do you know what?”
“‘Twas only a feeling.”
Tristan nodded. “Thank you, Sarah.”
Annica nodded in agreement with Sarah’s statement and waited for the next question.
“The authorities believe this incident may be related to a case currently under investigation. Did Constance ever mention anything like that?”
“Like what?” Annica asked. She held her breath, keeping a tight rein on her fears.
“Did she ever talk about…missing women?”
Dear Lord! The authorities knew. They were aware women were missing, and they had gathered enough details to suspect a connection to Constance. How long before they discovered the rest? Annica’s nerves jangled. Tristan had to know before he ran afoul of trouble, too. “Tristan, we have been—”
“Missing women?” Sarah interrupted with a guileless look. “Oh! I believe she did mention that her abigail, Frederika, had disappeared. She had not come back from her day out.”
“When was this?”
“Just after ‘Nica began keeping company with you, Lord Auberville.”
“Had Constance made any new acquaintances?”
A Wild Justice Page 21