Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Your Grace, a letter has just arrived for you,” Tristan’s butler stated, appearing at his bedroom doorway.
Tristan shrugged on his blue and silver accented jacket, and shook his head.
“I am running late for a party, Mr. Ives,” he replied, swiping his matching mask from his bed, “Place it in my office with my other correspondences. I shall read it tomorrow.”
He breezed past his butler out into the hall.
Alistair had been right. Though he had been hesitant to take the sleeping tonic at first, he’d recovered greatly after finally getting some rest. Doing so had not only recovered his body, but his mind, and he had decided on quite a few things.
First and foremost- finding Ophelia tonight and having a serious conversation about his feelings.
After what Alistair had told him, he was sure that her affections matched his, and he was determined to find out for sure.
“Your Grace, I must insist you read this one,” Mr. Ives urged, following Tristan as he made his way down the stairs, “The messenger that brought it said he was not allowed to leave until he was able to confirm that you received it.”
Tristan paused on the staircase, turning to give Mr. Ives an odd look.
“Did the messenger say who sent him?” Tristan asked.
“Just a first name,” Mr. Ives replied, holding out the letter, “Christopher.”
A jolt moved through Tristan’s body as he snatched the letter from Mr. Ives hands and ripped it open. He read through the contents, ice freezing his veins as one sentence in particular jumped out at him.
Perley is Lord Abraham Blackwood, Viscount Weavington.
There were other sentences, explaining the link between him and Tristan’s late father, but the only thought that entered Tristan’s mind as he focused on the glaring piece of information. Ophelia.
“I have to go,” Tristan said, dropping the letter as he raced down the stairs.
“Is all well, Your Grace?” Mr. Ives called after him.
“Alert the constable,” Tristan shouted as he reached the front door, swinging it open with urgency, “Tell them to search Lord Weavington’s estate!”
Tristan heard Mr. Ives begin to shout something else, but he was already outside, racing past Christopher’s messenger who was leisurely smoking a pipe. The man startled as Tristan ran paced him.
“Shall I alert my employer you received his letter?” He called after Tristan.
“What do you think?” Tristan barked over his shoulder.
“Unharness that horse immediately,” he commanded as he approached his carriage.
The driver gave him a startled look, but climbed down to do as he was told. Too impatient to wait, Tristan helped him, and leaped on the horse’s back as soon as it was free.
“Your Grace! At least spare a moment to let me fetch you a saddle!” The driver cried.
“There’s no time,” Tristan gathering the loose leather straps into his hands, “Gather some stable boys and head to the Viscount Whitbridge’s estate. Check on a Miss Wexley. If she is not there then I want you to stay and protect her father.”
Tristan lashed the reins, not waiting to be asked any more questions, and took off toward Amelia and Dominic’s London estate.
Tristan pushed through the crowds of masked and finely costumed nobles gathered around the bonfires in the garden, looking for his friends and Ophelia once he arrived at the party. He grit his teeth in annoyance, for once hating the idea of disguises.
“Tristan!” He heard a familiar voice shout through the music and hum of conversation.
He swung his head toward the sound, and found his friends unmasked and gathered in a tight circle close to the white and black checkered dance floor. He made a beeline for them, trying his best not to shove at those surrounding him.
“Where have you been old boy? We have been waiting all night for you,” Alistair said as Tristan approached them.
“Where is Ophelia?” He demanded, ignoring his friend’s question. “Is she here?”
His sister’s worried expression was all the answer he needed, and his hammering heart somehow began to slam even harder in his chest.
“What happened?” He demanded.
“She was here with Abraham only a few moments ago,” Theo replied, taking a quick glance around them. “One minute she was dancing him, the next they were gone.”
Theo stepped toward him and gripped his arm.
“Tristan something is wrong with that man. Ophelia was acting most unlike herself tonight,” she went on, then let out a sound of annoyance as she shook her head. “I still cannot believe she agreed to marry him!”
Tristan’s hammering heart dropped suddenly to his stomach, and his world began to spin.
“She did what?”
Theo gave him a confused look.
“You did not read about it in the papers?” Theo asked, searching his eyes, “The announcement was released a few days ago.”
Tristan shook his head. He’d been either catching up on sleep or contemplating what to do with the Devil’s Masquerade. Without Ophelia there, the allure of it had vanished.
“She cannot…she could not-But they were barely even courting!” Tristan stammered, losing whatever composure he had left.
“We know,” Theo said quietly. “It took us by surprise as well. And Ophelia’s answers toward our questions tonight did nothing to appease our worry.”
Tristan pressed his eyes shut, willing himself to overcome the sudden sense of loss and panic.
Even if Ophelia did love another, he could not allow her to be with someone so dangerous.
He’d find her, tell her the truth of his feelings, and whatever she chose, he’d force himself to accept it.
After all he’d hidden from her, he deserved no less.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Alistair giving him a steadying look.
“Let us start from the beginning,” his brother-in-law urged, “You came racing in here like a wolf on the hunt then demanded where Ophelia was. Why?”
Tristan ran a shaking hand through his hair then shook his head.
“I received a letter from Christopher,” he said tersely. “Perley is Abraham. I knew he was pursuing her but I did not know they had become engaged. I thought she would be here! She needs to know!”
His words came out clipped and scattered, but his friends seemed to need no other further explanation that that.
“Hugo, come with me,” Dominic barked, “Let us check the carriages. See if we can spot Weavington’s.
We’ll keep it there if we do. Everett, check the house.
Tristan, Alistair, comb the gardens. Ladies, have the orchestra stop playing and get our guests inside, see if Ophelia and Abraham are among them.
If they are, do not make a scene. Just get Ophelia upstairs and away from him. ”
Tristan moved to follow Abraham as their group dispersed, but then he felt a tug at his arm. He turned around and found Theo still standing there, her eyes filled with fear.
“Why Ophelia?” She asked. “Why would he go after her? Is it because she worked as a painter at the Masquerade? Is that why he is blackmailing her?”
Tristan drew in a deep breath, praying for calm, and shook his head.
“No, I am sure that is not the reason,” he answered. “I have another idea as to why he chose her but we need find Ophelia first. This man is dangerous and we have to get her away from him.”
“When this is over you will tell me everything,” Theo demanded, rage taking over the fear in her eyes. “No more secrets!”
“I swear it,” Tristan promised, “But first we need to find her, now go!”
Theo and Tristan flew from one another. In a matter of moments he caught up with Alistair, and together they searched through the dark gardens.
Tristan felt a painful twist of his panic when he and Alistair found shreds of familiar fabric clinging to some rose bushes.
That pain grew worse when he pulled one particular piece off of a thorn, and found it stained with blood.
Ophelia was hurt.
“Tristan, look!” Alistair barked.
Tristan’s head shot up as he rubbed the small piece of ruined fabric, and found Alistair pointing ahead.
“There’s more up here. It is a trail!”
Pushing his fear away, Tristan tucked the bit of ruined fabric into his pocket, and together he and Alistair followed the rest of the tattered pieces. The trail led them to the gravel drive, where they met up with Dominic and Hugo.
“None of these carriages are marked with the Weavington Crest,” Dominic stated gravely. “I fear he has already left with her.”
Tristan rode up slowly to his estate, his mind and heart in worse condition than ever before. Ophelia was gone. Hurt. After the search at Amelia and Dominic’s came up empty, he’d ridden to Weavington’s London estate only to be met by constables.
They’d told him the estate was empty, not even a servant had been left behind.
They demanded an explanation from him and after he gave it, he was at least promised that they would continue their search by moving onto the Viscount’s country house.
Though, Tristan already surmised they would find it in the same state as the man’s London residence.
After leaving Weavington’s, he rode to Ophelia’s father’s home, where her grieving father broke down with grief and worry the moment Tristan revealed why he’d sent men to the house.
He did his best to comfort John, assuring the ailing man over and over that he was determined to find Ophelia.
It did little to help, and eventually John’s staff had to take him upstairs and give him a tonic to calm down.
He’d made one last stop at Christopher’s. He briefly thanked the man for the information but implored him another favor: helping him find any clues as to where Abraham might have been able to hide Ophelia. Christopher assured him he would put men on it straight away.
With not much else to do but wait for more information, Tristan decided to head home. Luck thus far had not been on his side, but he was hoping that Abraham, who had posed as Perley, might have sent something with a return address that he could investigate.
“You the Earl?” A deep cockney accent broke through the silence.
Tristan’s head snapped up as he heard the voice, and saw a man standing outside of his estate gates.
His muscles tightened with wariness and pent up aggression as he measured the man outside his gates.
It was clear from his accent he was no noble, and given his disrespectful smirk, it was obvious that he had a clear disdain for them.
“I am,” Tristan stated, dismounting from the horse.
“What business do you have with me?” He demanded. “I am in no mood for riddles.”
“No riddles here, Lord,” The man snickered, swaggering up to Tristan as he pulled an envelope from his breast pocket, “Just a message.”
Tristan eyed the man suspiciously as he accepted the letter. The man moved to leave, but Tristan grabbed his arm and threw him against the gate.
“You are not going anywhere until I find out what this is,” he commanded.
The man’s eyes were wide with surprise, as if he had not expected a noble to be capable of such strength.
“I- I am just the messenger,” he stammered out. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“We will see,” Tristan bit out, staring the man down as he removed his hand from his arm and drew open the letter.
Inside was a note, along with a Transfer of Ownership contract.
You want your precious painter? Sign your spirit business over to me. Force your friends to give me sole ownership.
If not, not only will I have a new wife, but your secret will be revealed to all of London.
What will it be, Lord? Love or reputation?
You have one day or proof goes to every printer in England.
A
Tristan slowly crumpled the paper in his fist as his rage reached new heights.
His other hand shot out, wrapping tightly around the messenger’s throat as he once more shoved him against the iron gates.
The man let out a strangled cry as his arrogance drained from his body, and he looked at Tristan with wide, pleading eyes.
“My Lord!” He choked out, clawing at Tristan’s hand, “Please!”
“Oh, now you have manners?” Tristan snarled, squeezing the man’s throat tighter. “Let us see if you have wits too. Where did he send this from?”
“Who?” The man choked out.
Tristan growled as he pulled the man forward, then shoved him back into the gate.
“You know who!” He barked. “The man that gave you this letter! Where. Is. He?!”
“I do not know,” the man choked out, starting to turn purple. “I swear, I do not know. I was just picked up from Bow Street by a man in a gold mask. He gave me this and a hundred pounds to deliver this to you. I swear!”
“My Lord!” Tristan looked up as two of his best guards, Marc and Tobias, ran up from the other side of the gate, pistols drawn. “Has this man attacked you?!”
“Me?!” The messenger gasped, still struggling in Tristan’s tight grasp. “I am the one being attacked, not him!”
“Shall we take him to the constable, My Lord?” Marc asked, ignoring the man’s gasping words.
Tristan kept his gaze on the messenger, studying him intently for a moment as his complexion shifted from purple to blue. Then, deciding that he was telling the truth, Tristan let him go and watched him drop the ground.
“No,” Tristan replied as the messenger gasped for air and coughed. “Let him go.”
He waited, letting the man get himself up onto wobbly legs, then as he began to stagger off, Tristan opened the gates.
“Follow him,” He demanded to Marc and Tobias. “If you see him meeting with a tall noble with white hair, one of you come report it to me at once. The other stays on that man’s tail.”
The two guards nodded at the command, and disappeared after the messenger. Far too enraged to try to go inside and sleep, Tristan mounted his horse, and made his way for Bow Street.