SIXTEEN
16
T ristan alighted from his carriage, motioning for the footmen to remain in their high perches behind the coach.
This was his final stop of the day—the last clue from his newspaper advertisement to hunt down. This particular reply was intriguing. Some informants came to Gilbert House in person with their information, but this one had simply included an address and a terse message written in a crude hand.
I know what happened to Mr. Adam Ledger. I will tell only if ye promise that the bobbies won’t be called.
The note was the first to lack obsequious words and fawning promises. Instead, the tone sounded careful and even a mite scared. If this person was afraid that the police would be summoned, it meant that whatever they had to reveal was not precisely legal. All of which, naturally, amplified Tristan’s concern. If this was a legitimate source, what nefarious thing had occurred?
Of course, like every other missive, this one could simply be a dead end, as well.
The address had led him to a ramshackle boarding house on the fringe of Seven Dials, the grimmest rookery in London. Though not within the rookery itself, the townhouse had certainly seen better days. Its shutters hung loose at ungainly angles, and refuse gathered in murky heaps beside the front stoop.
Tristan climbed the dirty steps and rapped the grimy door with the head of his walking stick. The proprietress answered—a middle-aged woman with hair pulled into a severe bun and an equally severe expression upon her face. Unlike Ledger’s sister, this woman looked Tristan and his gleaming carriage up and down with wary disdain.
“Can I help ye, sir?” she said in a thick Northumberland accent.
“I am Kendall. I received a summons from this address.” He waved the battered bit of foolscap in his gloved hand. “Someone here claims to have knowledge as to Mr. Adam Ledger’s whereabouts.”
The woman licked her lips. “I never said nuffin’ about knowing Mr. Ledger’s current location.”
“You are the sender of this then?” He tipped the foolscap in his hand.
“Aye.”
“But you do not know Ledger’s whereabouts?”
“Nae. I said I know what happened to him. Not where he is right now.”
Tristan ground his teeth at the woman’s semantics.
“Any information you can supply would be appreciated. If I deem it valuable, there will be a reward.” He fished a half-crown from his pocket, the metallic coin catching in the light.
The woman looked at it with hungry eyes.
“I need your word of honor as a gentleman that ye won’t be calling the bobbies to my door.”
His eyebrows rose. Again with the police.
“Have you yourself harmed Mr. Ledger, madam?”
“Nae!” She shook her head vigorously, eyes darting again to the gleaming coin in his fingers.
“Then you have nothing to fear.” He rocked the coin between his knuckles, letting it glint in the sunlight.
The woman licked her lips.
Tristan fetched a second half-crown from his waistcoat pocket.
Her breath caught.
“If you are innocent, then there is no fear in telling me what you know. Mr. Ledger is a good man. I am his friend and wish to locate him.”
Wringing her hands in her dirty apron, the woman looked to the house behind her.
“Ye have to understand that my man, Richard, he’s not a bad person. But times are hard, and we have many mouths to feed.”
A chill chased Tristan’s spine.
“What occurred?”
“A well-dressed lady found Richard begging along Piccadilly. My man does that sometimes to earn an extra coin.”
Tristan nodded, heart a thunder of hooves in his ribcage. “What did the lady say?”
“She promised Richard two quid if he pushed a man named Adam Ledger, secretary to the Duke of Kendall, under a carriage or into the Thames. ‘Make it look like an accident,’ the lady said. Richard agreed to do it. We needed the money, and the lady didn’t specify that Richard had to kill this Ledger fellow. So my man figured he could do the deed without causing Ledger no serious harm. He does have a decent heart, my Richard. He wouldn’t kill for money.”
Tristan’s blood turned to ice. He knew of only one lady in Ledger’s orbit who might have something to hide. Only one lady who possessed the arrogance to demand a servant be hurt for countermanding her.
What the hell was Lady Lavinia trying to conceal?
“What occurred?” Tristan asked. “What did your man do?”
“Richard followed Mr. Ledger. He stayed a night at a house near St. Paul’s Cathedral. The next morning, Ledger visited a bank close to Westminster Abbey. After Mr. Ledger left the bank, he walked across Westminster Bridge and strolled along the embankment of the Thames there. Richard saw his opportunity and nudged Ledger over the edge and into the river, no one the wiser.”
Numbness spread down Tristan’s arms, setting his fingers to tingling. Did Ledger know how to swim? Panic momentarily paralyzed Tristan’s tongue as he didn’t know the answer to that question. “And Ledger? Did he survive then?”
“Richard didn’t stick around to see. He had done his bit.”
Swallowing back the knot of frustrationconcernanger in his throat, Tristan nodded. “Thank you. This information has been most helpful. If you do happen to hear of Mr. Ledger’s current whereabouts, please send word to Gilbert House once more.”
He offered the coins.
The woman snatched them both from his fingers.
Grimacing, he turned for his coach, ordering his coachman to return home.
Damn Lady Lavinia to hell and back! He could only surmise that Aubrey had been part of this plot, too, as he had been the one to sack Ledger.
The marble columns of the Covent Garden market passed outside Tristan’s window, but he scarcely saw them.
His thoughts roiled.
Assuming Lady Lavinia and Aubrey were the culprits, why had they wanted to harm Tristan’s secretary? Petty revenge? Or something more sinister?
Worst of all, what had become of poor Ledger after he landed in the Thames?
Tristan breathed past the ball of emotions lodged in his throat. The fear that his one and only potential friend had perished before their friendship had truly begun.
The coach had barely rolled to a stop before Gilbert House when Tristan threw open the carriage door and took the front steps two at a time. He burst through the front door, intent on hunting down his cousin and beating him bloody until he confessed all he knew.
Tristan relished the prospect.
But he had scarcely crossed the threshold when Fredericks accosted him. The butler looked, in a word, frantic .
“Thank the Lord you have returned, Your Grace.”
“Whatever is the matter?” Tristan shucked his hat, overcoat, gloves, and walking stick, handing the lot to a waiting footman.
Fredericks placed a palm over his heart. “There has been an incident, Your Grace.”
Isolde finished braiding her wet hair—still warm from her bath—tying off the end with a ribbon before crawling into bed. Her impromptu swim had heightened her nausea and fatigue. At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to sleep through to tomorrow morning.
She heard Tristan’s footsteps racing up the stairs a few moments before the ducal bedchamber crashed open.
Her husband stormed through the doorway, brows marshaled like a thundercloud.
“What the devil has happened? Fredericks told me there had been an incident.” He shut the door and instantly crossed to their bed. “Are you hurt, my love?”
“I am well,” Isolde sniffed, instructing her overwrought emotions not to react, but she feared that her pregnant body might have other ideas.
Tristan’s frown deepened. Tugging off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, he immediately joined her in their bed, pulling her into his arms, wet hair and all.
“Forgive me, but you do not appear well,” he grumbled against her temple. “What has happened?”
Isolde opened her mouth to tell him about Lady Lavinia, being pushed into the lake, the crowd that gathered to witness her humiliating swim to the bank, and Ethan helping her—dripping wet and shivering—out of the water.
Instead, a hiccupping sob emerged.
“Ah, love.” Tristan pressed a kiss to her forehead and gathered her even closer.
He let her cry for a moment and then propped himself up on one elbow, so he could look down at her and smooth the damp hair from her brow.
“Who put these tears on your cheeks?” he asked, expression dark and serious. A curl of his gray hair slipped from its pomade to tumble across his forehead. “I need to know so I can turn their lives into a living hell.”
His words made her cry harder. Damnation. Such an outburst was so unlike her normal self. The babe would likely rule her emotions for next year at the least.
“I’m w-with ch-child,” she stammered out.
Tristan stilled. “What did you say?”
Isolde peered up into his dark eyes. Reaching for his hand, she placed it on her abdomen. “I’m p-pregnant.”
If Isolde had harbored any concerns over his reaction, the incandescent joy on Tristan’s face removed all trace of worry.
He looked between her face to his palm on her belly and back again. “Truly?”
“Aye,” she smiled through her tears. “I consulted a physician earlier today, just to be sure. But yes, we are going to be parents.” She swiped at her damp cheeks. “ Och , this bairn needs to stop making me greit . I fear I shall be forever wiping tears.”
“Permit me.” Bending, he began kissing the tears from her face, murmuring endearments against her skin. “My love. My darling. Amore mio .”
Though he spoke fluent Italian courtesy of his Italian mother, Tristan rarely lapsed into it. But in this moment, he released a string of melodic words, the only ones that Isolde understood were bellissima for most beautiful and la mia inamorata for my lover.
Finally, he pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers. “So if you are currently growing our daughter—”
“Or son,” Isolde interrupted. “We truly do need a son.”
“Yes, in due time, darling. But this one—” He put his large hand on her stomach once more. “—this babe will be a girl. A daughter as bonny and wild as her mother. I will settle for nothing less.”
“Absurd,” Isolde laughed through the tears that continued to fall. Was this the reality of pregnancy? Crying the day long?
“But I must ask, if you are merely incinta , as the Italians say, why are you sopping wet? What is the ‘incident’ Fredericks mentioned?”
Ah, that.
Well . . .
Isolde sighed, her lip quivering once more. “Lady Lavinia pushed me into the Serpentine.”
Tristan went terrifyingly still beside her.
“I believe I am going to need you to repeat what you just said, Wife.” He said the words innocuously enough, but the deathly quiet in his tone and murderous glint to his gaze sent a chill down Isolde’s spine.
“Just that.” Isolde relayed their stroll into Hyde Park and what had occurred, trying to keep her tears at bay. “We all turned to leave, and I stopped to let the children race by. That was when someone pushed me in the back with two hands and sent me tumbling into the lake. It had to have been Lady Lavinia, as she was the only person behind me.”
“That damn harpy is fortunate you didn’t crack your head! I would have seen her hang for such an offense.”
“Fortunately, I am no stranger to near drowning, as well ye know. I swam to shore easily enough, and Ethan helped pull me out of the water.”
“I should never wish you to revisit the horror of a near drowning, Wife. Did Lady Lavinia offer an excuse?”
“Of course not. She declared herself innocent. However, two of the children and their nurse saw what happened and kept saying, ‘The lady pushed her’ and pointing at Lady Lavinia. But, naturally, Lady Lavinia claimed the nurse and children were lying to cover their perfidy. The Duchess of Andover believed her daughter.” Isolde swallowed, lifting a hand to cover her eyes.
It was just . . .
She was so tired. It was exhausting spending every day with an eye fixed over her shoulder, fretting about what awful thing Lady Lavinia would contrive to do next. Surely, the termagant would find a way to sabotage the ball.
“Lady Lavinia has been making your life a living hell,” Tristan said.
“Aye,” Isolde sniffed. “Your cousin has terrible taste in wives.”
“Another example of Aubrey’s imbecilic nature.”
Isolde managed a gasping laugh. She simply wanted off this Catherine Wheel. She wanted peace and harmony restored to her life.
But that wasn’t quite the hand she had been dealt at the moment.
She took in a stuttering breath and, once again, wiped her face. “I will confront Lady Lavinia about this tomorrow—”
“No.” Tristan’s voice held a sharp finality.
She met his gaze.
Oh!
Gracious.
Jaw tense, teeth clenched, eyes chips of ice—
Italian mercenaries battling the infidel hordes to the death had likely appeared less fierce.
“I can fight my own battles, Tristan,” she said, but the quivering wobble in her voice belied her words.
He bent down, their noses nearly touching. “I know you can, love. It is one of the kaleidoscope of things I adore about you. But in this, I. Do. Not. Care.”
“Tristan—”
Lifting a hand, he cupped her face, tilting her chin until she peered deep into his soul.
“Believe me, Isolde Gilbert, when I say this.” He bit out the words with chilling enunciation, eyes burning with a holy fire. “I will burn this god-forsaken country to the ground for you.”
His words sent gooseflesh skittering across her skin.
He meant it, her glorious Tristan.
Hand at her cheek, he continued, “I will eviscerate anyone who dares harm or threaten you. I will take that damn ferret of a woman and turn her life into a wasteland of regret and horror.”
“Tristan, but—”
“No buts . I know you can fight this battle, my love, but I can no longer remain a passive bystander. I will tear this realm apart with my bare hands before permitting anyone to harm one more hair on your beautiful head.” He leaned down, his forehead pressing to hers. “Understand this simple truth—I am your sword, cara mia . You have only to point the blade.”
His declaration was simply too much. How could she ever have believed this man would not be the most devoted of husbands?
Sobbing, Isolde wrapped her arms around his neck and collapsed her head on his chest. The warmth of his large body instantly surrounded her.
He let her greit , bless him.
“I have come to a decision,” he said once her weeping had quieted. Gently, he shifted to look down at her once more. “We have both been concerned about me retreating into my haughty Kendall self or imploding due to a lack of purpose. I have even been having fantasies of a simpler life, one where I am not hemmed in by ducal duties and am free to spend every minute with you.”
“I w-would adore that life.”
“As would I. But I have realized a different truth just now—I am Kendall. And at times, it is useful to be Kendall in order to protect those I love. I will never stop wielding the might of the dukedom to secure your happiness. That—” He dropped a soft kiss on her lips. “ That is my purpose.”
Isolde pressed a hand to his chest, tears threatening once more. How she adored him.
His dark eyes stared deeply into hers. “Moreover, I am eternally tired of attempting to adhere to the rules of the ton . To hell with them. We are not followers of custom, you and I. We make the custom, Isolde. If we decree that husbands and wives should revel in one another’s company, then others will follow. If we wish duchesses to be scandalously educated and outspoken, then so they will be. We set the rules, and others hasten to observe them.”
“Oh, my darling!”
“This is what is going to happen, my love.” His head dropped to her ear. “You are going to stay here, safe and protected in my bed, growing our babe and recovering your strength. I, on the other hand, will don my fiercest Kendall face and lay waste to my cousin, his wife, and likely the Duchy of Andover while I am at it.”
Never had she adored this man more.
“I-I love y-ye,” she hiccupped.
“Not as much as I love you, cuore mio .”
My heart.
She knew those words, too.
“C-can you lay waste tomorrow?” she asked, burrowing into his chest. “This is n-nice, and I w-want to cuddle m-more.”
“Hush, my love. I’m not going anywhere until you release me.” He kissed her again. “But then, I will attack with brutal savagery. That, my darling, I promise.”