Jenna Petersen - [Lady Spies] (16 page)

“You know there is more than that between us,” he admitted as he reached for her. She let him take her hand, even as she shook her head.

“But whatever
more
there is, it was there before today. And the potential for being caught also existed. Still, you told me there was no promise of a future attached, and I expected none. So I must ask you again…has something changed, beyond your mother’s interruption this afternoon?”

He shut his eyes. All that had changed was that he realized now how much he loved her. But perhaps it wasn’t enough. There were the dangerous games he continued to play with Devlin. The lies, the secrets that hid in this house and in his heart.
Those had been his reason for keeping her at arm’s length before.

“No,” he said softly as he dropped her hand. “Nothing in my life has changed.”

“I doubt your mother would harm my reputation or yours by telling the world about our indiscretion,” she reasoned. “She wishes you to make a union, but not at the price of hurting you. Or me, I wager.”

“So you are saying you have no interest in a future together?” he asked, and the steel came into his voice at her calm refusals.

She drew a harsh breath, and for the first time he saw raw emotions in her face. Pain and anger in equal measure. And other things he couldn’t place. But they were emotions, they were real, and they proved she was as tied to him as he was to her.

Still, she shook her head. “I cannot marry you because I do not wish to ever be tied to another man’s will again.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Even yours.”

“But you care for me,” he said, taking the risks he’d avoided until now. “I see it in your eyes.”

She seemed surprised he could see that feeling in her. Immediately she erased the emotion from her face and withdrew a step. “That is inconsequential, Tristan. You and I made an agreement. We wouldn’t seek a future that could never be. I do care for you, but that future is no more possible now than it was that first night.”

He followed her lead and took a bitter step away. Disappointment returned, laced with anger. Anger at himself for daring to hope. For forgetting the barriers that separated him from happiness. He’d allowed himself to indulge in a fantasy of more, but he had to forget that now. Forget he loved this woman and return his concentration to the important business at hand.

“I understand, my lady,” he said with a stiff bow, using formality as a shield.

He headed for the door, but when he reached it, he found himself turning. Meredith stared at him, hands clenched at her sides, her body trembling. In the dying firelight he saw tears glimmer in her eyes.

“My offer stands if you change your mind.”

He turned away before he saw her reaction to his final statement and closed the door behind him.

Meredith’s candle had burned down until it was no more than a nub with a glowing, sparking wick, but she hardly noticed. She was too busy sitting on the floor before the fire with every piece of evidence she’d collected spread out before her. She had even gone so far as to write a detailed layout of her case. For hours she had pored over the items, looking for something,
anything,
to clear Tristan’s name.

Something to allow her to take his offer of marriage.

She let out a sigh as she struggled to her feet. She stretched her back before she paced to the window. Darkness reigned outside, so only her own reflection greeted her in the glass. And a dismal sight it was. Her eyes were puffy from her efforts to hold back tears, her face drawn by disappointment and anger and longing.

Yes, longing. She admitted she felt it. Tristan’s offer of marriage rang in her head like a Hallelujah chorus. It reminded her of the lightness of her heart when he held her. When he touched her, she could almost forget a life lived in loneliness.

But what a dangerous man to allow herself to feel that way with. He, who she knew for a fact would be taken from her when her case was presented. Who had involved himself in treachery and lies for reasons she couldn’t fathom.

She turned away from her faint reflection and paced to the other side of the room. Glancing down, she looked at the mounting pile of evidence. There was nothing there to say Tristan hadn’t done everything he was accused of.

Nothing except the voice in her head. Her heart told her he would not,
could
not, do these things. Not only because of the way Edmund died, but because of the noble heart she believed he possessed. That same voice told her he had to be offered a chance to explain and defend himself before she turned him over to those who would condemn him to transportation or worse.

“I must tell him.” She swiped at sudden tears.

For the first time since her arrival in Carmichael, she felt sure of herself. This was the right decision. She had enough evidence that he could not avoid telling her the truth, or at least couldn’t deny what she’d gathered so far.

Her hands shook as she walked to the door. The hallways were dark so late at night. No servants bustled doing their duties, and most of Tristan’s houseguests had retired to their bedchambers. But she had a suspicion he would still be awake. She guessed he had not been sleeping much of late, and their discussion about marriage had obviously shaken him.

She crept down the stairs. Somehow she didn’t think she would be able to confront him in his bedchamber. It would be far too easy to surrender to his touch there, so she prayed he would be in his private office or the library or anywhere else.

She came around a corner into a long, wide hallway where Carmichael family portraits hung on every side. There, in the middle of the walkway, stood Tristan. He hadn’t heard her approach. He seemed too caught up in what he was doing.

He stood staring at a large portrait. She could not see who it depicted, but by his body language, it was clearly someone important to him. His expression was dark, his brow drawn down, his frown deep as he studied the picture.

On instinct, she drew into the hallway’s shadows.
His demeanor and expression told her she was witnessing something important. Something key to the man, if not the case.

Perhaps both.

“I am trying, Father,” he said, so low that she wouldn’t have caught the words at all if it weren’t for the echoing hall.

Then he stiffened, as if he sensed the presence of another. She flattened against the deepest shadow as he looked around. Her breath caught when she witnessed the torment on his face. All the emotion she sensed beneath the surface, all the feelings he hid so well were no longer masked by a veil of propriety. He looked…broken. And she longed to comfort him.

But before she could do something so foolhardy, he spun on his heel and started down the hallway at a fast clip. She had no choice but to follow. He passed parlors, the library, and came to a stop at his private office. There, he hesitated.

He leaned forward to rest his head against the door before he opened it and went inside.

Meredith moved forward with as much haste as she could and still mask her footsteps. She pressed her ear to the door but could hear little. Tristan moved around his office, but wasn’t near the entrance. She bit her lip as she slowly began to turn the knob, taking care to keep her movements as silent as possible.

Finally, she was able to push the door open just
a fraction of an inch. She pressed her eye to the opening, but it revealed nothing of interest. Tristan’s desk was only partly in view, as well as the left side of the room, which included a bookcase and reading chair. He wasn’t in sight.

She pushed the door open farther, revealing more of the office. He wasn’t sitting at his desk either. Finally, she took half a step inside and peeked around the door.

Tristan stood on the other side of the room. His back was to her and his distraction kept him from noticing her entrance. He stared up at the portrait of his brother she had noticed during her search of this room a few days ago.

She opened her mouth to alert him of her presence, to start her confession of investigation, to demand the truth about his betrayal, when he leaned forward and began to do something with the picture frame. She couldn’t see what in the partial darkness of the room, but she heard an audible click and then, to her utter surprise, Edmund’s portrait swung away.

Nausea threatened to overwhelm Meredith at what she saw, and she clung to the edge of the door to keep from going down on her knees in total horror. Behind the benign picture of his brother, the landscape that had been stolen from the Genevieve Art House not one month before was hidden. The painting she had been looking for. The one she prayed she would never find.

Her fingernails scraped the door frame and she struggled to hold back a moan. Somehow, despite the evidence, she had believed the voice in her head that said Tristan was incapable of such a crime.

Now she could no longer deny it.

“Two more days,” Tristan said. His voice shocked her, and for a moment she actually thought he was speaking to her. “In two days you will be Devlin’s and I shall never have to see you again. This will all be over.”

She withdrew from the room before he turned and caught her spying, and managed to close the door soundlessly behind her. She hardly saw the hallway as she ran away. Away from the painting that proved her greatest fears. Away from Tristan’s voice as he confirmed he was a willing participant in Devlin’s schemes. Away from her broken heart, though she didn’t seem to be able to run fast enough to escape that pain.

She heard Tristan’s office door open and then close, and she glanced over her shoulder. He was coming her way, and there was no way she would escape without him seeing her if she continued scurrying up the hall. Instead, she slipped into a darkened doorway and flattened herself against it.

She held her breath as his long, sure strides approached her position. He passed by without noticing her. She watched his retreating back as she struggled to catch her breath. Her heart threatened
to explode and her ears rang with the whoosh of blood.

She wanted to weep. She wanted to chase Tristan and pound her fists against his chest in anger. She wanted to scream out her frustration until she brought the house down around her.

But she couldn’t.

Instead, she turned to her training for calming exercises. Slowly, by focused breathing, she was able to control her ragged emotions, then carefully fold them away. She had no doubt she would revisit them later.

But for now she had a job to do. One she could no longer avoid or pretend was a mistake. She had a letter to write. A missive that would be in London by daybreak thanks to her connections.

When he examined the hated painting, Tristan had said it would be over soon.

And it would be. All of it.

M
eredith thought she had experienced torment before: after the deaths of her parents, during one long night before Tristan arrived to rescue her from her own folly, even during the early days of her training, when her sheltered body revolted against the pain of physical exertion.

But she realized now those pains had been mere annoyances. The true definition of torment was the anguish roiling inside her while she sat at the supper table waiting for the inevitable.

After she’d snuck back to her chamber the night before, she’d written her letter…the hated letter condemning Tristan to a fate she did not wish to consider. Her driver had taken it to a contact waiting
in Carmichael. The roads were good and the moon was full, so he had probably arrived in London early enough that Charlie had read her letter over breakfast. Her superior never wasted time when the moment for an arrest came. She had no doubt he had departed for Carmichael within hours.

She looked at a clock in the corner of the dining room. How much more time did she have before Charlie arrived?

Her gaze moved to Tristan, sitting at the head of the table, chatting with another gentleman. He had no idea the end was near. Still, he looked tired. Wrung out. His green eyes lacked some of the warmth and light she’d come to expect from their stare, and his skin was sallow, with dark smudges beneath his eyes.

“Lord Carmichael, a few of us were wondering where your friend has gone?” said one of the ladies farther down the table.

Meredith saw that it was the portly Lady Blankensheft, whose daughter Hester had come out two years before. Her ladyship had been in constant pursuit of a bridegroom ever since.

“My friend, my lady?” Tristan asked blankly.

“Mr. Devlin. A few of us noticed his absence today at our game of Pall Mall, and I see he is not with us tonight,” Lady Blankensheft clarified.

Meredith’s eyes widened as she scanned the table. She had avoided the Pall Mall game because she couldn’t bear to pretend to have a good time
when she knew what was about to transpire. Tonight she’d been so involved with her tangled thoughts, she had hardly noticed any of the party guests, including Devlin.

Now she was paying the price. When Charlie came to collect Tristan, she would have no intelligence as to where Devlin had gone, or even how long it had been since he’d departed. Once again she was too caught up in her emotions to effectively do her duty.

She watched Tristan carefully for his answer. At least she could garner some evidence from that, if nothing else.

His eyes lit up with a little more life than he’d been exhibiting previously. He looked…triumphant, actually. As if he had finally won a long-fought battle. With Devlin? If that were true…over what?

“Mr. Devlin was called out of Carmichael on business,” he said. “He will not return, I’m afraid.”

Terror gripped her. Had the painting already been exchanged? No, that was not possible. If the painting was moved, Devlin would have been forced to depart Carmichael in a carriage. Her driver and groomsman would have notified her of such suspicious movement. Versus, if Devlin had simply departed on horseback, which was the report on how he had arrived, her driver might have thought he was only going out for the day.

Since she had been hiding like a coward, she
hadn’t spoken to him yet. Something she would correct as soon as she could break away.

Lady Blankensheft’s face fell with disappointment. Apparently she had been considering Devlin as a potential match for her daughter. Happily for her, she hadn’t received her wish.

“’Tis a pity,” she sighed, then immediately turned her attention back to the next potential suitor.

“Yes.” Tristan swirled the liquid in his glass. “A pity.”

Meredith cocked her head at his tone. She was fairly certain the painting had not been removed, so why would Devlin leave without it? And why would Tristan be so pleased by that fact? Last night he seemed eager to rid himself of the landscape. The web he had spun was so complicated, she wasn’t sure what to think. She certainly didn’t understand his reasons for what he’d done. She could only pray someday she would hear what they were. Perhaps that would give her peace.

Somehow she doubted it.

Tristan seemed to sense her eyes on him, and he looked in her direction. For a moment his stare burned with heat and emotion, desire and disappointment, then he turned away and returned to his conversation.

Meredith frowned as anger flared inside her.
Why
had he done this?

Tristan claimed he wanted to protect her, but
what kind of protection could he provide when he surrounded himself with such treachery? It ate at her core and nicked at her heart so much that she hardly heard Lady Carmichael rise from her place and announce that the ladies would retire to the South Parlor while the men went to play billiards and have their port.

Relief washed over Meredith. She took her time in rising as the other members of the party made their way out of the room. She tried to look occupied as Tristan passed on his way out. His stare burned her, but he chose another lady to escort. Finally, she was the last remaining and got to her feet.

She had no desire to join the women. In her current state of mind, she doubted she’d be very good company, and she didn’t trust herself not to show her emotions. Aside from which, she needed to speak to her driver as soon as possible.

She slipped into the hallway just as Lady Carmichael left the parlor where the ladies were gathering. Meredith could already hear their laughter and talk buzzing in the hall.

“There you are, my dear,” Lady Carmichael said with a genuine smile. Meredith was surprised to see the expression. Surely, Constance knew Meredith had refused Tristan’s offer of marriage. She had expected the lady to be coolly polite, not openly warm.

In fact, she had counted on it. Despite the neces
sity of her duty, she felt no pleasure about ruining the Carmichael name and family. And she hadn’t had the nerve to face the other woman since Constance had come upon them in the parlor the day before. Her cheeks heated with the memory of her ladyship’s intrusion…and the pleasure of what she had intruded upon.

“Good evening,” she said with a weaker version of Constance’s smile.

“Do you not intend to join us?” Constance asked.

Meredith sighed. “I’m afraid I am feeling a bit under the weather again—”

Before she could finish, Constance raised a slender hand. “I won’t force you to come up with an excuse if you don’t wish to join the fray, but might you share a moment with me before you slip away?”

Meredith’s heart thudded. “Of course.”

Constance motioned to a sitting room nearby. As they entered, she closed the door behind her. Meredith glanced over her shoulder with caution. So Lady Carmichael wanted to be alone.

“By your expression, it appears you believe I mean to eat you.” Constance laughed. “I assure you, I have no intention to do so.”

Meredith couldn’t help but smile, and this time it wasn’t forced. “Of course not, my lady.”

“I think the reason for your worry is that you’ve refused my son’s offer of marriage, and you fear
I judge you harshly for that? Or for the actions I witnessed yesterday afternoon?”

Meredith drew back. She couldn’t believe Lady Carmichael would be so…so blunt!

“I admit I am embarrassed by what transpired yesterday,” she said softly. She wasn’t lying. Being discovered in such a delicate position was not something she would ever have desired. Especially since she knew how shocking a lady such as Constance Archer must have found it. “And I wouldn’t blame you for being upset that I refused Tristan’s proposal.”

Lady Carmichael’s face softened. “My dear, I am not angry. I hoped you would accept Tristan’s offer, but I don’t know what reasons you have for your refusal. I would not dare judge them. Or you.” She smiled. “But I hope you did not judge Tristan too harshly either.”

She jolted. If only Constance knew how harshly he had yet to be judged. “Judge Tristan?”

“I know he can seem distant sometimes. But I hope you realize what a true heart he has.” Constance met her gaze evenly. “My son is as honorable a man as I ever knew. He may not express his emotions well, but he feels them keenly. Deeply. That is why his sorrow over his brother’s death has troubled him so long. Only you removed the emptiness from his eyes, Meredith.”

Meredith pulled away from her touch. From the words that affected her so deeply. There was the
war of emotion and evidence again. Every time she was with Tristan, she felt the same way about him as his mother described. That he was honorable. Decent. Passionate in his feelings, though he hid that passion beneath a cloak of propriety.

And yet all evidence pointed to him being the worst kind of man. It said those feelings weren’t real.

But they still existed. In her mind. In her heart.

“I won’t speak to you of this again,” Lady Carmichael assured her. “And if you choose to let your refusal stand, I won’t hold it against you. I do hope you’ll come to visit me from time to time and accept me when I call on you.”

“Of course,” Meredith said hurriedly. “I would never turn you away.”

Constance smiled. “I hope you won’t turn my son away either. Time in this life is so short. Regret is a terrible burden.” She withdrew to the door. “I must tend to my guests. If you join us later, I’ll be very pleased. If not, then I wish you good night.”

“Good night,” Meredith whispered. She turned away when the door shut.

“Time in this life is so short,” she repeated.

Lady Carmichael didn’t know how true that statement was. Meredith’s time with Tristan was coming to a rapid close. She had to make the best of the few moments she had left. She would have enough regret to lie heavy in her heart when this case was over.

With a feeling more certain than she’d had in a long time, she hurried from the room to take care of her last duties before she allowed herself one final moment with the man she loved.

Tristan paced his office. Tangled thoughts kept him from enjoying the happy group in the parlor below. They played cards, the ladies took turns on the pianoforte, couples danced informal country jigs, and the talk was so loud he’d closed his door to force it from his ears.

He might have stayed, despite his discomfort in such situations, except Meredith wasn’t in attendance. She had slipped away sometime between supper and when the men rejoined the ladies an hour later. His mother wouldn’t say, but he had the impression she’d spoken to Meredith. And knowing his mother, probably encouraged her on his behalf.

But Meredith was not there. She didn’t want him.

He sat down at his desk and scrubbed a hand over his face. The only hope he held on to at present was that he’d finally taken care of the other problem in his life. Now he was free to hand over that blasted painting to Devlin.

With a sidelong glance, he caught sight of the portrait he’d had made of his late brother. Edmund was his reason for all he’d done. It seemed fitting that his brother’s face hid the last piece of
the puzzle that would finally grant him access to Devlin’s group.

The bastard hadn’t been pleased when Tristan sent him off to fetch the leader of his sect. But he’d had little choice. Devlin had no idea where his precious painting was hidden, and without it, he couldn’t perform his next act of treason. Until Tristan got what he wanted, an introduction to the man behind Devlin’s treachery—Devlin wouldn’t get what he desired either.

He couldn’t help a smile. Soon this would be over. He could shut the book on the worst part of his life. Start over. In time, perhaps he could even convince Meredith…

No, now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Now he had to put all his energy, all his time, all his emotion, into completing his revenge. That was all that mattered.

If only his heart would listen. It kept protesting that a future with Meredith was worth more than living in the past. That his brother would not wish him to throw away everything to even the score.

The door to his office opened, but he didn’t look up.

“I don’t need anything,” he said, steepling his fingers at his chin as he kept his gaze on the portrait of his brother, cut down in his prime.

“Nothing?”

The sound of Meredith’s voice made him pivot in his chair. There she was, as if his earlier musings
had called out and she’d come in answer. He wanted to take her in his arms. Instead, he rose to his feet and stayed behind the desk. He had opened himself to her once. Not completely, but as much as he was able when secrets hung over his head like a guillotine. She had refused him. He didn’t desire a second dose of that pain.

“Meredith.” He motioned to the chair opposite his.

Instead of joining him, she strolled across the room to the fireplace. Her gaze slipped up and she flinched when she saw his brother’s portrait, as if seeing it hurt her as much as it sometimes did him. But why? She’d only met Edmund in passing as a girl. She had no cause to be visibly moved by seeing his image.

She turned, and the desperation in her eyes stopped his wayward thoughts. “I realize I hurt you when I refused your proposal.”

His heart pounded furiously, and he gripped the corner of the desk.

“I won’t deny that,” he answered, measuring his tone carefully. If she wasn’t here to alter her decision, he had no desire to make a fool of himself.

She dipped her head. “I also believe that, whatever else may be true, you offered for me with good intent.”

He wrinkled his brow. “You doubt me in other ways?”

Again she flinched, but ignored his question.
Her blue stare came up to meet his. Unwavering. Her earlier desperation was gone, but she so often masked her emotions. He wondered why she hid so much of herself behind the guise of a social butterfly.

“Tristan, soon things will happen that will only increase whatever anger or hurt lies between us.” She stepped toward him. “Things will happen that will change both our lives forever.”

He shook his head in utter confusion. “What things?”

“But before they happen, I ask one boon of you.”