Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

" W ell?"

Savannah looked up from the pile of correspondence she only pretended to read. Instead of the words written before her, her mind raced over yesterday's events. Her and Tristan's conversation, of which she'd only scratched the surface. She still had questions, and she knew they'd only started down the path of what happened.

She was still trying to sort through Lord Shilby's comments and her and Tristan's ride back to the square. And their incredibly awkward goodbye.

"Well what?" She met Lyneé's gaze with as innocent a look as she could muster.

She'd enjoyed yet another wonderful sleepless night in which her memories of Tristan's kiss overlapped with his confession about leaving her.

"Don't give me that look, Savannah." Lyneé huffed and sat across from her, pouring a cup of tea. She settled Jiesha, contentedly chewing a piece of hay, on her lap. She did not elaborate.

"Eliza's picnics are always entertaining." Savannah sipped her own coffee, not in the mood to rehash all that had happened yesterday. Or the last few days. "I understand John's youngest sister is determined to travel rather than marry. And Lord Shilby attended."

"Still trying to marry you off to his worthless grandson?" Lyneé tilted her head and stared into her teacup. "Perhaps not a terrible idea. They're wealthy, the title is older than many, and they possess a great deal of land. Definitely someone who'd stay at home."

Boredom, tediousness, bland dinner table conversation for the rest of her life. Not a man she'd ever imagined kissing, let alone making love with. Yet something George Shilby had said yesterday nagged at her. What had he said about his grandson? Whose name Savannah couldn't even remember.

Something about a brilliant couple. George Shilby didn't suffer fools and never, ever talked down about his grandson—perhaps also named George? She truly couldn't remember. Despite their familial ties, Savannah doubted George would've let that keep him from disparaging the man if he thought it warranted. Perhaps it had been the grandson who reported the murders?

"He suggested Vauxhall," Savannah admitted, too exhausted to sort out the tangle of thoughts racing through her sleep-deprived brain.

Instead, she reached around the table and plucked Jiesha from Lyneé's lap. Stroking the white-and-black rabbit's soft fur, Savannah seriously considered returning to bed. Or at least the chaise lounge, where she might close her eyes for a few moments.

"Are you going?"

Back to bed? Yes, she'd very much like that. "No, I have—oh. Tonight?" Savannah shook her head, but all that did was make it spin and remind her that she needed the sumptuous breakfast before her. She set Jiesha on the floor, where the rabbit promptly hopped off under the bed, then piled her plate with eggs, toast, fresh yogurt, and berries.

"When else?" Lyneé frowned at her. Then, as if she'd read Savannah's mind, she said, "Perhaps a nap would not be out of order. You look exhausted. Are you sleeping at all?"

Of course she wasn't, but admitting it only meant that Lyneé would force her to admit more. Such as her conversation yesterday, which she didn't wish to repeat.

"As I'm sure you understand, the last few days have been busy."

Lyneé snorted as Savannah forced herself to eat the yogurt and berries. "Busy. Is that what it's called these days? Finish your eggs, Savannah."

Sipping her coffee instead, she tried to remember where their conversation had originally headed. Right. "We'll visit Vauxhall tonight." She paused. "Though the place is much larger than either of us can safely watch, I believe we can at least observe the right crowd."

Had Lord Shilby known more? Was he going to tell her something about the murders at Vauxhall? That seemed wrong—why not tell her yesterday afternoon at the picnic? She couldn't make the connection this morning. Still Vauxhall felt wrong, a misdirection though she doubted Shilby would do so purposely.

Savannah dutifully finished her meal and willed her stomach to settle. Then she stared blindly at the invitations on the tray beside her, the ones Walters had silently delivered with a concerned look, and tried to form a plan.

So far, the one she had devised included pretending to be engaged to Tristan and kissing him in the staff hallways of the theater. Her brilliance at planning had lost considerable shine.

"I don't think this fake engagement was at all wise," she admitted to her sister.

"He didn't say anything during your stroll yesterday?" Lyneé's voice softened, and she quietly set down her teacup. "Nothing about why he so abruptly disappeared? Or reappeared?"

"He did," Savannah admitted slowly. "He said he had no plan, that it was something he felt he needed to do." Savannah stopped, the last berry sticking in her throat. "I don't think we're finished with that conversation." She paused and smiled ruefully. "I'm certainly not."

All her anger, the spewing hot rage she wanted to rain down on him, was still bottled up inside her. Now, however, Savannah didn't know if those words of loss and anger meant anything. Perhaps her lack of sleep had tempered her anger and sense of betrayal.

"And after?" Lyneé asked the same question she had days ago, but Savannah still hadn't an answer. Lyneé finished her own toast, setting her napkin beside her plate. Her dark eyes watched Savannah seriously, without that hint of anticipation from earlier.

"After?" Savannah repeated less in question because she had no idea.

"Please," Lyneé scoffed. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about after."

She had. Mostly that Tristan would leave her again, since it seemed she was so easy to leave. "I've thought about it," she said softly.

"Truly?" Lyneé watched her carefully, voice softer now. "About the scandal that will follow you? Two broken engagements to the same man isn't something society overlooks."

Savannah knew but waved it away with a shrug. "I'm not interested in marriage." It tasted like a lie, but she didn't want to think about it just then. First, she needed to sort through her feelings for Tristan. "Right now, my focus is on the murdered women, on giving them the justice they deserve."

"And after?" Lyneé asked again. "What happens then?"

"I don't know," Savannah admitted.

They'd go their separate ways, with perhaps less hurt and anger and recrimination. Perhaps she'd seriously consider Lord Shilby's grandson. Though, with the scandal of two broken engagements to the same man, he probably wouldn't consider her, no matter what George claimed. Maybe she'd live out her life helping in St. Giles, without a husband.

"I need to get through today first." And tonight, and tomorrow night.

And she needed more than a walk through the square to speak with Tristan. Before her heart forgot its hurt and only remembered his kisses.

Tristan had wandered the house since before dawn. He'd finally written his parents, letting them know of his safe arrival. He'd also written Esme, his eldest sister, and let her know he'd been staying in London, though she probably already knew that. Aunt Nadia would have told her, of course.

He'd already met with a suspiciously wide-eyed and far-too-innocent Arnault about where they planned to sail next. Arnault was more interested in his and Savannah's rendezvous in Vauxhall this evening than in port destinations. Finally, Tristan agreed to a meeting with John Crichton.

Tristan hadn't an answer for Arnault, no burning desire to sail or see new lands. Once upon a time, he'd thought about sailing toward China, but now he thought closer to home. He wasn't running away until he and Savannah had sorted through the last three years.

Now he stood before the Shaws' door, no closer to any answers.

Walters opened the door, his gaze trained somewhere over Tristan's shoulder, and offered a monotone greeting.

"Miss Savannah is just finishing breakfast. You can wait in the front parlor."

Tristan didn't protest. Once upon a time, he'd have joined her without question. Now he stood by the window overlooking the just-waking street and accepted his outsider status.

The day had dawned overcast, the wind cooler as it blew along the street, picking up small bits of rubbish and leaves. Tristan clasped his hands behind his back and watched it, thoughts swirling with the leaves and discarded broadsheets.

He felt her presence before she'd said a word. A lifetime of staying near her, always the two of them, hadn't deserted him as he'd once thought. "When I left," he began, still looking at the street, "I thought I'd return a different person."

Savannah closed the doors behind her and stepped further into the room. "Do you feel like a different person?"

"Yes and no." He tilted his head from side to side and turned from the windows. "I saw lands I always dreamed about. I met people I never would've met here. Arnault, for one." His lips twitched. "I found Jiesha."

"You don't sound…I don't know, happy. Changed. Pleased with your choices." She sounded cautious herself.

In the silence between them, Tristan watched her move across the floor, her steps quiet, the only sound the faintest swish of her gown. She stole his breath, that ache for her unrelenting.

"I can't remember all I said yesterday," he admitted. "Words weren't adequate to explain my feelings. I missed you every day. Every minute of the day, no matter what went on around me." Tristan met her guarded gaze. "I'm sure that sounds trite and unoriginal, as if I hadn't left of my own free will."

"I—" She swallowed but didn't look away. She eased another step into the room, around the settee, her fingers clasped gently in front of her. "I understand that," she finally admitted. "That contrast of fury and heartbreak and of missing you desperately." She closed her eyes for the briefest of heartbeats, only to open them and watch him as if she expected him to leave once more.

"I wrote you daily," he admitted. "Like when I was at Harrow." Tristan's lips quirked, and he shook his head. "It's not enough; I don't know that anything ever will be."

"Why did you find me in St. Giles?"

"I followed my heart," he admitted. "We docked, and while I spoke with one of the secretaries, Arnault visited your offices. The secretary knew where you were and, I think before he thought better of it, told Arnault. So I put Arnault in charge of the unloading, and I went to find you."

"Will you leave again?" Her fingers briefly tightened around each other, but her face remained still. "After all this, with the murders, will you leave again?"

Not without her. Never again. Tristan didn't know if she wanted him, if she could ever forgive him, but he'd fight. For no other reason than he hadn't before.

"That depends on you," he admitted. "I want to make things better, see if we can work anything through, but I know I have a lot to atone for. Since I'm being honest, I do have another confession."

Her back stiffened, but she nodded warily.

"You're the only woman I ever loved. The only one I ever touched. I never wanted another, and I don't foresee a time when I ever would."

The mask covering her face cracked, and she looked honestly surprised. Her lips parted, and she seemed to struggle for words. Tristan crossed the room, skirting tables and chairs, and took her hands.

They gripped his, cold and shaking slightly.

"You don't?" Her voice barely carried between them. "I thought…I thought you wanted other women, that's why you left so abruptly. That you wanted to explore without me because you didn't want me?—"

"No." He squeezed her fingers. "Savannah, no. Never. You were the first woman I ever kissed and the only one I ever wanted to."

She blinked and nodded ever so slightly. "And now that you've had your grand adventure? Now that you saw those places? What happens now?"

"That's still up to you." Which wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but he was no fool.

Deep in his heart, he was terrified that he'd push too hard and lose her forever. He'd fight all of Denmark Steet for her. Dredge up every mistake he'd ever made. All for another chance.

"All right." She nodded, and for the first time since he saw her on that street in the rookery, Tristan thought she looked relaxed around him. Not so guarded, not so tense. Not as if she were about to break. Her fingers were still wrapped around his, looser now, as if she didn't grasp him with everything in her, afraid he'd vanish once more.

Progress, he thought. Hoped.

After another silent moment, Savannah dropped his hands and stepped back. "Have we a plan for tonight?"

"Plan?"

"Yes," she said dryly, with a look that clearly called his brain into question. "A strategy, an organizational idea, an understanding about what we're walking into and what needs doing."

He didn't roll his eyes, but it was a close thing. "I know what a plan is, Savannah," he muttered.

"You used to. Things change." She sat primly on the settee and tilted her head up to look at him. But her mouth had lost that tense look of the previous days, and her gaze softened.

He did roll his eyes then and sat beside her. "I'm uncertain if attending Vauxhall tonight, or any night, is worth our time."

"I can agree with that. However, I also trust Lord Shilby."

"You would," he muttered before he could think better of it. Savannah glared, and Tristan met her gaze with an innocent look of his own. "Is he still trying to marry you off to his doormat of a grandson?"

"He knew of the murders, brought them up himself," she reminded him rather than answer the question.

Which meant, as far as Tristan was concerned, that yes, Shilby had indeed tried to match them. Again. He let it go, or tried to. It wasn't as easy as the words made it sound.

Before his departure—which sounded rather tame compared to what it truly was—Tristan hadn't cared. Savannah was anyone's idea of a perfect match. However, back then, she'd been his. Now, jealousy wormed through him, a hot, sickly feeling.

"I am curious how he knew," Tristan finally said. He swallowed against his jealousy, the part that made him want to find Shilby, and his grandson, and have it out, one way or another. Instead, he shoved it aside. "Whatever happened in the rookery isn't likely to make it to the floor of the House of Lords." He paused and tried to remember his conversation with Crichton. That memory was slightly jumbled with their other conversation, about him and Savannah, but Crichton had mentioned Shilby's interest in the murders.

"John said he knew something. Not he himself, I don't think," Tristan amended. "But that Shilby was concerned with it."

"The fact that both men knew of it, had spoke of it with us, tells me there's more to this than the women of St. Giles being murdered." Savannah paused again, and he wondered what she was thinking.

He used to simply know. But then, in all their time together, they'd never tried to solve a murder. Or murders. Still, he agreed with her.

"What?" He shook his head. "A roving band of young bucks out for sport? Why would either Shilby or Crichton care? They have more morals than most, I agree, but I'm still not seeing the connection."

"If you were carousing with friends," she said slowly, "where would you start?" Savannah turned and met his gaze. "I don't necessarily mean you. I mean a young buck."

"One of the gaming hells, I'd think." He let the part about not him slide. She knew he didn't gamble or drink. She knew all his secrets, those he didn't think even his parents or closest friends knew.

"And from there?" She frowned. "More drinking and gambling, so you'd move on to another hell?"

"Most likely. There are dozens of brothels, and even more gaming hells." Tristan paused. "I think we're starting in the wrong place."

She met his gaze, already nodding. "We're looking at the afterward, not the beforehand. What happens in the very end, when they stumble their way here." She frowned again. "Why would Lord Shilby direct me to Vauxhall? It's nearly three miles from Denmark Street, on the opposite side of the Thames."

Tristan ticked off his ideas on his fingers. "He either knows something we don't, or he wants something from you." Like marriage to his grandson for one.

Savannah was a diamond of the first water, and he'd fight—and had—any man who said otherwise. But no man of the ton would consider marrying her. They'd made that abundantly clear.

"Or he's misdirecting us," Savannah finished. She frowned and shook her head. "I doubt it's that. He need never bring up the subject at all, but he made it a point to. So why Vauxhall? He seemed keen on meeting us there."

Tristan stood, pulling her up with him. "We'll speak with Dem and see what the women know about the brothels."

She watched him curiously. "You'll visit the local brothels?"

How many times in a single conversation could they use that word? If Tristan were a betting man, he'd have placed money on her father calling him out for introducing it. Then again, Hugh hadn't so far, even with more than enough reason to do so.

"You are not accompanying me," he insisted flatly.

She opened her mouth, then shook her head. "All right. I can agree with that." That went smoother than he thought. But if Savannah agreed, she'd keep her word.

"I'll pick you up after supper." He still held her hand and squeezed gently. "I'll check in with Arnault, see if he's found anything more. I have my cabin boy eavesdropping on several of the stores Arnault is looking into."

"I need to visit a couple women first, and Eliza has invited me to tea. And I'll send Lord Shilby a note about us not attending Vauxhall tonight." She watched him carefully but didn't pull away. "Will you join me for an early supper? Before we make our way to Denmark Street?"

He smiled, feeling a piece of his heart slotting back into place. "I'd be delighted."