Chapter 23
twenty-three
After Tristan stormed out of the house in a cloud of rage, Effie stood still for a while in the drawing room. She wasn’t sure when Mr. Fleet had left.
Papa sat on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees.
With legs seemingly made of lead, she walked over to him and sat next to him. “Papa.”
Talking hurt her throat.
“I swear I had no idea.” He rubbed his face hard enough to redden the skin.
She swallowed a few times, trying to understand what had just happened. “You lied about visiting Colin.”
He nodded.
“How did you get so close to the anarchists to hear rumours about their activities?”
“Many of the workers in my steel factory are Russians and share some ideas with the anarchists. Their representative meets me on a regular basis. We often discuss workers’ rights.
Not every anarchist uses bombs. The majority believes in peaceful protests.
One evening, I met him at this club, which happens to be the place where workers from every part of London meet.
There were violent anarchists among them, and I heard their plan. And that’s all.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you warn the police?”
“Even you accuse me!” He stood up. “I hear rumours about riots and organised, armed strikes every week, and they never come true. There aren’t only Russian anarchists in London, but also Fenians, Luddites, and anti-monarchists.
If I went to the police every time I heard about a possible threat, I would live at the police station, and the police would no longer take me seriously. ”
“But a bomb is another matter, and you certainly were concerned enough to suggest I go to Colin’s.”
“I was simply relieved that you wouldn’t be in London just in case.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “That doesn’t make your situation better.”
He rubbed his face again. “I didn’t stay silent on purpose to punish Montcrest. Did I benefit from what happened?
Yes. But I didn’t think, not for one moment, that the threat was real.
When it comes to your safety though, I’m extremely careful, but I didn’t seriously believe a bomb would have exploded.
I would have warned the police otherwise.
If you don’t believe me, then we don’t have anything else to discuss.
” He shot up and walked out of the room.
“Papa!”
He ignored her and slammed the door shut behind him.
She sagged on the sofa. Papa sounded honest, but at the same time, he had his responsibility and had profited from the tragedy. She’d been at Aldersgate Station. The horrible scene was still fresh in her memory. And Rowan had risked dying.
What worried her the most was Tristan. He’d been furious when he’d left, understandably so. She hoped he wouldn’t do anything reckless.
It was past two in the morning when Tristan returned home from The Octagon. Even to his standards, he’d overdone it that night.
He’d been knocked out twice by hitting the floor with his head, and while his face didn’t show the signs of his fight, the rest of his body was a map of bruises and sore spots.
Painful bumps had swollen on his knees and back.
His ribs hurt, too. Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt.
But a couple of thoughts kept swirling in his battered mind.
Winchester had known about the attack and done nothing to stop it. Effie and Rowan could have died.
He’d played a fair game with the earl, always honest. Not anymore.
He’d made the mistake of underestimating him and paid the price.
During the years he’d spent working with his father, he’d learnt a few dirty financial tricks. It was time to use them.
He dragged himself up the few steps to the front door, guilt and pain weighing him down.
George was right. He should stop going to The Octagon.
His addiction to pain wouldn’t end well.
Sooner or later, something would happen to him.
A punch too strong, an opponent too violent, a fatal mistake, and he would be permanently damaged or worse.
But what was the alternative? Opium wasn’t healthier than The Octagon, and liquors didn’t attract him.
He chuckled at his own pathetic excuses. Guilt often came after a session at The Octagon. It would go away, as many other things did, and the cycle would start again.
He rang the bell to his house, but to his surprise, George welcomed him. Although ‘welcomed’ wasn’t the right word.
“Where’s Harris?” he asked, annoyed that George had seen him.
George stood there staring at him, battered and bruised as he was, with his mouth hanging open. “Bloody hell.”
He brushed past him into the warm entry hall. “What have you done to Harris and my footmen?” He staggered on his feet.
George held him up. “I sent them to bed hours ago. Harris wanted to stay up, but I convinced him to retire. Your servants don’t have to pay for their master’s foolishness. I’ll fetch Dr. O’Neil myself.”
“No need.” Besides, the doctor would give him opium, which would numb the pain, and Tristan’s work would be pointless.
“You aren’t well.”
“I am. Trust me.”
George helped him up the stairs, seemingly more in pain than Tristan, judging by his strained expression. “When will you bloody stop?”
Had it been any other situation, he would have told George to mind his own business.
Staring into the dark eyes of the man who had been with his family for decades, he didn’t find the courage to lie. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can.”
The conversation was nothing new. But George would usually lose his temper and tell him to go to hell, and Tristan would ignore him and carry on with his miserable life.
But that night, George’s expression softened with pain and pity. “I must apologise. I didn’t mean to make you suffer like that when I decided to confront Winchester.”
“The way I am isn’t your fault.”
It was the first time he’d had a normal conversation with George about his addiction.
“I promised your father I would protect you.” George’s voice cracked. “I’m not protecting you.”
Tristan gathered his strength to squeeze George’s shoulder. “You helped me build an empire.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re getting sentimental. You must be tired.” He leant against the wall, surprised by how easy talking with George was. Not that he was opening himself completely, but he wasn’t as cold as he usually was.
He noticed a piece of black fabric on George’s head. “What’s that on your hair?”
“What?” George touched his head until he found the piece of fabric. “Oh, this.” He showed him an eye patch.
“Is there something I need to know?”
George smiled. “I played pirates with Rowan. He asked me if he was going to have a wooden leg like Long John Silver. I told him I would buy him a parrot, and one thing led to another.”
He laughed. “You’re really good to him.”
“He’s a great boy.” George wiped his eyes. Rowan was a delicate subject.
“Why don’t you find a bed and sleep? I want to see Rowan, then I’ll collapse in my bed.”
“We should talk about you.”
He shook his head. “Not now. I’m tired.”
George sniffled. “If you can manage on your own.”
“I can. Go. Take the blue room. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
George nodded and patted Tristan’s shoulder.
When he was alone, he took a moment to collect himself. He seemed to feel everything too deeply those days. Effie was the reason for the constant turmoil inside him. Her happiness was like an earthquake cracking his defences and making him vulnerable to every emotion.
He opened the door to Rowan’s bedroom and entered as quietly as he could. The crutches were propped against the wall, and Rowen was asleep with a thick cushion under his foot.
Rowan might not be able to walk without a limp ever again, because Winchester hadn’t done the right thing. He was as guilty as those who had planted the bomb.
The gas lamps in the corridor lit the bedroom, but there was enough light to make out Rowan’s head.
Tristan pulled the quilt up to cover his brother’s shoulders.
“You’re back.” Rowan’s sleepy voice came from under the layers of covers. “You’ve been gone for hours. Uncle George was worried.”
“I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“I sleep lightly these days.”
“Why?”
“My foot hurts and itches.”
Tristan sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry.”
Rowan rolled on his back. “The physician said it’s normal. It means the foot is healing. Not your fault.”
“It is. And I’m sorry for having been a terrible brother.”
Rowan was silent for a long time, and Tristan didn’t expect him to contradict him. “You’re busy,” Rowan said in a grumpy voice.
“That’s not an excuse. I’ll try to be different from now on.” If he couldn’t change his addiction to The Octagon, the least he could do was be a better brother.
Rowan slid a few inches down the covers and gazed away.
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
Rowan didn’t answer.
“You know you can tell me everything. I won’t get angry. I promise.”
“All right.” Rowan’s voice came muffled.
Tristan wanted to talk more, but Rowan was tired, and it was the middle of the night. Maybe he couldn’t always have what he wanted.
He caressed Rowan’s head until the boy fell asleep again.
Yes, from today, he would change.
He would change many things.