Chapter Thirteen
Tristan returned to his rented rooms in the early morning. He should feel elated, satisfied, smug even. He should feel sated, with the taste of her fresh in his mind, his hands now familiar with every intimate corner of her body. But what he felt instead was loss. He was going to lose her.
Hugstead had to go and be the perfect match for Flick.
Tristan didn’t have to ask the widow what was spinning through her diabolical mind when she made this match.
He knew. It was obvious, even with his limited acquaintance with Hugstead, that he could offer Flick a comfortable, secure life.
He was likeable, damn him. One of the better men Tristan had met in his work for the widow.
Hugstead wasn’t one of them—the hordes of nobles who flocked to the Den. He came to do business. He didn’t gamble, didn’t drink to excess, and he didn’t mask his intentions. For a lord born to privilege, he chose to use his power for good. He and Felicity would get along well.
Tristan lit the oil lamp on the entry table then set it down quickly before he decided to throw it against the wall and burn this damn building down.
Rage pumped through his body, his stomach churning like the ocean in a storm.
His thoughts crashed out of his control against his feelings, and he didn’t know what to do.
He was lying to himself. He sat on the small, worn sofa and hunched over his knees, holding his head in his hands.
The right thing to do was obvious. Let her go now and tell her to marry the honorable, wealthy, respected man and carry on her life in comfort.
That was what he’d tell any other woman to do.
He’d tell his own sister to marry a man like Hugstead over a penniless, selfish blackguard like him.
His feelings didn’t matter. What he wanted didn’t matter.
Yet he couldn’t let her go. Every minute spent with her felt like his last. And he clung, fingers digging into the razor’s edge of this cliffside, knowing eventually he’d fall fast, hard, to his death, for her.
Then he’d climb back up. Broken, bloody, and in love with her still.
He knew love. His mother and father gave an example every day of their lives.
Tristan was born into a home with love soaked into the walls.
Lark Hall was the beating heart of his family, built on love.
From generation to generation. That is why his great-grandfather, grandfather, father, and now he, would fight to his last breath to keep it.
But would it be worth it if he didn’t have the woman he loved to share it with?
Tristan pushed to his feet. He reached for the bottle on the sideboard and yanked out the cork.
The whisky burned, swallow after swallow, drowning his heart in fire.
He gasped as he finished the bottle, putting his hand over his chest. He’d done worse things, hadn’t he?
In pursuit of claiming his home he’d forsaken his moral code, lied, cheated, stolen.
But he couldn’t just take Flick, toss her over his shoulder like a barbarian and carry her back to Lark Hall.
He had to have the home first, then he might have something worthy to offer her.
What would she say? Did she care for him enough to give up on her quest for a powerful husband and safety? Would she leave everything she’d fought for behind for him?
Tristan threw the bottle, glass shattering across the floor. He stumbled toward his bed and tore off his jacket and shirt. He fell onto the bed, not bothering with his breeches and boots.
He had nothing to offer her but his heart and that wasn’t enough. She deserved so much more. She needed so much more.
Tristan woke when a piercing beam of sunlight poked at his eye, drawing him from the depths of a restless, black, whisky slumber.
He rolled over, flopping on his back as he dug a knuckle into his temple where pain pumped through his veins in a steady beat.
He pushed himself up, staggering to his feet and finding his basin and pitcher empty of water, because he didn’t waste coin on a maid.
He leaned over the stand and looked at the man in the mirror’s speckled reflection.
He looked like he felt, and he felt like he’d died, been buried, and just dug himself out of the grave.
Minus the dirt. The dirt was metaphorical.
Tristan shook himself awake, then dressed in clean clothes. He got water from the pump outside and returned to his room to clean himself up. Once presentable, he checked his watch. He was late. It was already half past eight and he usually arrived at the Den by seven.
Tristan walked four blocks before hopping on a series of carts to reach the Den.
He walked in the back door, feeling a decade older than when he went to sleep.
He snuck through the kitchen and pilfered a scone.
Having something in his stomach helped catch the tea and whisky he got from the bar on the main floor.
Just as he finished his tea and his faculties were coming into focus, there was a disturbance at the main door.
Raphael, a member of the wolf pack, hurried past.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan asked. The man stopped, turned to Tristan, and sighed in relief.
“There are two men at the door demanding to see a Miss Brandon. I told them repeatedly there is no one here by that name, but they refuse to leave. One of them is clearly a priest or something, and he’s calling on God to smite this evil refuge of demons.”
Tristan went cold. “A priest? Who is the other man?”
“He has not given a name.”
“What does he look like?”
“A fair-headed man. Built like a barrel.”
Tristan nodded. “Tell them if they wait a moment, Mrs. Dove-Lyon will meet with them shortly.”
He raised both brows. “Will she?”
“I have a feeling she will.”
Tristan headed up to the second floor and through the servants’ door, arriving swiftly at her parlor. He knocked once and waited.
“Enter.”
Tristan entered, relieved to find her alone, and closed the door.
“Are you only just arriving?” she asked.
He skipped the preamble. “Her father is here, and I suspect her fiancé as well,” he said with derision.
“Ring for Milly,” she said.
Tristan pulled the bell cord and Milly arrived promptly.
“Fetch Miss Brandon.”
“She is still asleep, ma’am.”
“At this hour?”
Milly shrugged. “She sounded sleepy. Maybe she is ill?”
“Wake her. This is an urgent matter.”
“Does it have something to do with the priest waving his book around and calling for our salvation on the street?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sighed heavily. “Fetch her. Now.”
Milly darted off. Tristan went to grab his hat from his head and squeeze the rim until he felt some semblance of control but realized, when swiping at air, that he wore no hat. He’d forgotten his bloody hat. He cursed himself and started pacing.
“Calm yourself, Mr. Chase. She is still safe in our care. I can’t imagine how they found her. This is concerning.”
“Someone from her village saw her the night Lucia burned her ear.”
“Why did no one inform me of this?”
“I looked for him afterward, but he was gone.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon huffed. “What unfortunate timing. After Miss Brandon’s and Lord Hugstead’s meeting last night, I’d hoped an agreement would be forthcoming but not this quickly.”
Tristan bit his tongue before he said something stupid about Hugstead marrying Flick.
“You seem rather flustered, Chase. Stop pacing. You’re making me dizzy.”
“If you knew how terrified she’ll be . . .”
“I do know. She was brought straight to me.”
He paused. “I’m sorry. She’s my friend.”
She harumphed in answer to that.
Milly returned with a bleary-eyed Flick beside her, hastily dressed in a blue day dress.
“Is someone sick?” Flick asked.
The icy vice around Tristan’s heart melted at the sight of her. All his angst, rage, and worry fell away. She hesitantly met his gaze, and her cheeks bloomed with color.
“You’re dismissed, Milly. Close the door.”
“You have unwelcome visitors, Miss Brandon. What would you like me to do with them?” the widow said from her chair.
Flick blinked and then switched her focus to Mrs. Dove-Lyon. That beautiful rosy blush faded. “It couldn’t be.”
“I’m afraid so. Mr. Chase informed me there was someone who recognized you the other evening?”
“Yes, outside Lucia’s room.” She paled further. “He thought I was working . . .”
Tristan touched her shoulder and took her elbow. She looked ready to faint. “Why don’t you sit.”
She nodded, her eyes watering as she briefly glanced at him. He led her to the settee then moved away.
“What would you like me to do?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked again.
“What can you do?”
She snorted. “The possibilities are quite abundant, dear. But you should have some input. I’m hoping to receive a proposal from Hugstead very soon. We only need to keep you here for a little while longer.”
Flick shook her head and pressed her fist to her mouth. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Say the word, and I will take care of it. You don’t have to face them. I’ve dealt with fiercer beasts.”
Flick stood and Tristan balled his fist to keep himself from reaching for her. He stood by the door, afraid if he got too close, his control would break.
“Do what you think is best,” she said.
“Return to your room and rest. You look as though you didn’t sleep well. I’ll send Milly in with a fresh pot of tea for sleep.”
Flick turned and she met his gaze. She stood there, eyes wide.
“We can handle them,” he assured her.
She straightened. “Shouldn’t I do it?”
Tristan shook his head. “You don’t have to. I will keep you safe.”
He could see her courage falter for a moment. Her lips trembled, but then she lifted her chin. “I’m so tired, Tristan. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want them to see me and know that I’m choosing to not come back. That they can’t control me anymore.”
He stepped forward.
“If that is what you wish,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.
Tristan balked. “You don’t know what they will do or say.”
“They can’t hurt me more than they already have,” Flick said. “This time I won’t be alone.”
Damn it all, he wanted to kiss her.
“We’ll all be there for you,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. “I support you in this. You’ll never feel safe if you don’t confront them yourself.” She stood. “Come. But whatever hurtful words they weaponize against you, remember who you are, Miss Brandon.”
With that bit of advice, Mrs. Dove-Lyon led them to the gallery of the ladies’ area, looking over the main floor. The area was empty but for a single maid dusting the arms of the wall sconce.
“Show them in,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon ordered one of the servants. Tristan could see them taking up hidden places to watch the spectacle that was about to happen.
“Perhaps there is a better location for this? Your parlor, perhaps?” he suggested.
“No, I want them to see her one last time above them,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated.
Flick stood beside him.
“You don’t have to do this,” he appealed to her. This would shake her more than any other moment. She’d endured so much. She shouldn’t have to face them again.
“I do. I want to see their faces when I tell them I won’t be going home ever again.” She stepped up to the railing beside Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
Tristan’s gut knotted. This was the wrong way to do this, but he couldn’t stop her.