Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

W alters took one look at her and shouted—the poor man shouted —for the maids to carry the water upstairs. The household sprang into action. As grateful as Savannah was for such things, all the fuss made her roll her eyes.

Still, at least she wouldn't wait too long for her bath. Walters's gaze flicked to Browne, who carried her basket in, and his eyes narrowed. He didn't say a word, merely waited.

"Mr. Tristan was with her," Browne said before Savannah could get a word in edgewise. He sounded contrite, embarrassed even. "Stopped the man and saved Miss Savannah."

Walters harumphed. Savannah suppressed a smile.

"I'm all right, Walters," Savannah promised. Her shoulders ached, and she smelled as if she'd taken the entirety of Denmark Street with her when she left, but she was otherwise unharmed. "However, a bath does sound lovely. Is Mama home?"

"No, miss, she and Mrs. St. Clair haven't yet returned. I'll send a footman out with a message."

Walters held up a hand before Savannah could protest. She swallowed her words and nodded.

"However," he continued, "Miss Lyneé has just arrived."

Best get this over with, she supposed. "Hold off, Walters, please." The butler made a disgruntled sound deep in his throat, but Savannah plowed on. "I'll need to send a message to Mrs. Crichton. We had plans this afternoon, and I'm afraid I shan't be able to keep them." She added that last with a rueful smile. "I'll send Coyle down with the note momentarily."

And, she realized, one to George Shilby about Vauxhall this evening. Even if she'd been up to so social an outing, she and Tristan had already nixed the idea.

Walters bowed and stepped back, eyeing the hem of Savannah's cloak and gown with growing horror. Savannah, for her part, hefted the material as high as possible and tried not to let anything drop on the stairs. She'd owe the maids an apology for that, too.

Once in her room, a wide-eyed Coyle stepped from the bath where the footmen were even now filling it with buckets of warm water. "Miss?" Coyle squeaked.

Lyneé burst in, looking frantic. "Savannah!" She crossed the room, clearly intent on embracing her, but stopped short. Wrinkling her nose she made a revolted face. "What is that smell ?"

"The street." Savannah sighed and only barely waited for the footmen to clear out before moving onto the hardwood floor and letting her cloak drop with a disgusting plop. "Someone tried to kill me," she admitted. "Tristan saw the knife and pushed me out of the way. Unfortunately, that involved tackling me onto the street."

Coyle struggled with the ties along the back of her gown. Part of that might've been because she stood as far from Savannah as possible. "They're wet clear through," she muttered.

"Cut them." Savannah grimaced. "Please. The faster I'm out of this thing, the better."

"There's no saving that," Lyneé agreed.

"Can you do me a favor?" Savannah looked over her shoulder, but that pulled on sore muscles. "Write a quick note to Eliza. We were supposed to enjoy tea together this afternoon."

Lyneé gave one final look at the gown and sat at the writing desk. Savannah turned back around, swallowing a gasp of pain. Not even the servants would let her leave the house if they knew she'd hurt herself. She'd be lucky if she could convince her parents she was safe in Tristan's company.

Savannah closed her eyes, and clearly envisioned his frantic gaze on hers in those moments after he'd shoved her to the ground. If she ignored the stench and the pain, she could also clearly remember the solid weight of his body pressed against hers, too. That was worth focusing on, she decided.

No matter how she did or did not feel about him, Savannah wanted him. Even now, as Coyle sliced away the ties of her gown, she wanted him. For three years, Savannah hadn't allowed anything past the wall surrounding her heart.

Tristan, damn man, worked his way through. She didn't know if it was because he was the only man she'd ever loved, ever wanted, or if she was simply tired. She spent three years' worth of energy keeping that wall upright and secure. She let go of those few bricks that had crumpled and oh, it felt freeing.

"I'll find Walters," Lyneé said, already at the door. "Then I want to hear everything."

Savannah sighed.

"I'm going to give Browne a right talking to," Coyle muttered as she worked the knife through the last of the ties. "Do you want me to cut away your chemise?"

Though she felt terrible about it, Savannah nodded. "I'm afraid everything is ruined, and I don't fancy getting any of that muck on me."

Coyle huffed in agreement. "Letting you wander around that street alone," she continued on about poor Browne.

"He only did what I asked," Savannah protested as the gown fell away in a puff of stench. "Oh, there's no saving that at all is there."

"No miss." Coyle lifted her foot to kick it out of the way, then thought better of it. "Can you step over it?"

Savannah did, then turned back around so Coyle could slice through her remaining undergarments. "Browne guards me when I deliver the food baskets," she reminded Coyle. "Otherwise, he stays with the carriage. You know I can't see to the women, the new mothers, with him standing behind me."

Coyle gave a snort worthy of a sailor and remained quiet. Savannah had a feeling that no matter what she said, it wouldn't stop her lady's maid from giving Browne a good talking to. Poor Browne. Savannah had a feeling he'd be accompanying her everywhere, no matter what she insisted, from now on.

Then again, she'd be lucky if only he, and perhaps Peters, followed her. If her father had his way, she'd have an entire army of guards.

"Now then." Lyneé reentered with a pair of maids, one bearing a tea tray, the other carrying a tray full of the poultices Savannah had made just the other day. "Let's start at the beginning, shall we?"

That was the last thing Savannah wanted. Gingerly stepping over the pool of clothing around her ankles, she ignored her nakedness and headed for the tub. Really, all she wanted was a bath, a hot, cleansing bath to wash the filth from her and help her muscles relax. She'd have liked something to cleanse the inside of her nostrils, too, but didn't think anything had yet been invented. Perhaps a smear of peppermint oil along her upper lip might help.

"I'll find a pair of old gloves. Perhaps the gardener has a pair." Coyle frowned at the pile of clothing. "Aye, I'm afraid none of them can be salvaged."

"Please don't overwork yourself for a pile of cloth." Savannah eased herself into the bath with a grateful sigh.

Coyle hummed again and disappeared. Savannah closed her eyes against the expectation in Lyneé's gaze.

"Pour me a cup of tea," she said. Savannah rarely drank tea, but after everything that happened today, she needed it. "I'm in the mood for something soothing."

As Lyneé poured the tea, a delicious pu'er from one of their direct merchants in China, Savannah told her the story. All of it, though she didn't want to admit how she felt about Tristan. Didn't want anyone to know she still cared for him. Or perhaps did again.

"You're getting close," Lyneé said after Savannah had finished. She started into her tea, a frown marring her wide mouth. "They're directing their attack at you, rather than the poor of the street."

"Do you think it's because I'm in the way? Asking questions?" Savannah paused, but forced the next words past the lump in her throat. "Or because they want me gone for other reasons?"

Lyneé waved that off. "Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter. They're after you, Savannah."

Before Savannah had the chance to reply, Eliza burst in, Walters hot on her trail.

"I'm sorry, miss," Walters began, staying a respectful distance from the open door of her sitting room.

"It's all right." Savannah froze in the tub, suddenly and desperately wishing she'd placed the screen in front of it before anything. That hadn't been high on her list of requirements for her afternoon. An oversight, she now realized.

"What happened?" Eliza demanded, ignoring Walters as she slammed the door closed. "Lyneé's note said you'd been hurt."

Savannah glared at her sister.

"You're finally coming out of your shell," Lyneé protested and poured another cup of tea. It was only then that Savannah realized there were three cups on the tray. Sneaky. "I thought having a close friend, as well as your favorite sister—" she winked here— "could only help."

Eliza hauled over a chair, unclasped her cloak, and gratefully took the teacup. "Thank you. Phew," she added with a dramatic sigh as she sat in the chair.

"Did you race over here on foot?" Savannah demanded, finally lifting the linen cloth and scrubbing her skin. The bath water had cooled enough that she debated calling for more heated water. However, she still had plans for the rest of the day and very little time for lollygagging in the tub.

"Don't be ridiculous." Eliza grinned, smoothing a hand down her morning gown. "I hired a hackney. Far quicker."

Lyneé snickered. Before anyone could say more, Jiesha hopped from under the bed, her preferred nesting place, and into the middle of the floor.

"You have a rabbit?" Eliza paused and eyed Jiesha, clearly fascinated. "Where did you find one so beautiful?"

"Tristan." Savannah turned to her sister. "Lyneé, grab her, please?"

Lyneé did as she asked and set Jiesha onto her vacated chair.

"He, ah, liberated her from a merchant in Antwerp," Savannah said.

"Savannah was just telling me how Tristan saved her life," Lyneé interrupted, no doubt before the conversation deviated further.

Eliza's eyebrows shot upward, and she leaned over. "Start at the beginning. And then perhaps you can be honest and tell me the truth about your reunion."

Savannah absolutely did not want to—she'd only have to repeat the story again for her parents—but she obliged. Talking settled her, she realized, as Lyneé began working oils through her hair. Sharing with Lyneé and Eliza boosted her in ways she didn't know she needed.

She had isolated herself too much, and though opening up like this hurt, it also felt necessary. It was a relief to tell people close to her all she truly felt, as if doing so shared the burden, though Savannah knew only she could make any decisions about her future.

"Hmm," Eliza said, chewing on a fairy cake. "I do applaud your ruse. However, I'm hurt you chose not to include me in it."

"I apologize," Savannah said, now enclosed before the fire, wrapped in her dressing gown and several layers of blankets Coyle insisted upon as she and Lyneé fixed her hair for her dinner tonight. "I thought it for the best."

"Ha," Lyneé interrupted. "What she means is that she thought this pretense would last only a couple days, and she could go on with her life as if Tristan had never returned."

Savannah pulled back, scowling, but Lyneé tugged sharply on her hair. "That isn't true." Then, because she'd already admitted so much and something in her didn't wish to stop there, added, "I didn't want to admit to anyone anything. Not how broken I was when he left, nor the maelstrom of emotions I felt at his return."

Eliza's soft hand squeezed her shoulder. "I'm so sorry you went through all of that alone. I should've pushed harder when he left. Insisted on seeing you."

Savannah placed her hand over her friend's. "It wouldn't have mattered. I didn't talk with anyone. The servants had strict instructions. They'd have only seen you out."

"Does your dinner with Tristan tonight mean you've truly reconciled?" Lyneé asked.

"I don't know," Savannah admitted, but she smiled. "But I think I wish to try."

Tristan hadn't expected the rest of day to crawl by as it had.

He wanted to see Savannah again, ensure she remained safe. He'd stepped onto their street, but had resisted knocking on her door. She was locked in her house, with a bevy of guards, and no doubt a nice bath. She was safe. He repeated that to himself as he'd walked from Grosvenor Square toward the wharves.

He repeated it while he met with John, talking over cargo and destinations. As he stood on the deck of his ship, he knew Savannah was safe in her home, but those few minutes of terror refused to dissipate.

Given what happened earlier, and his interesting but less than satisfying talk with Dem and Ailene, perhaps he ought to have. Below the surface, he buzzed with anticipation for this evening. Well, the part with Savannah.

She'd told him some about her life, but he wanted to know more. How she'd spent the last years, what she'd done. Other than healing.

He also wanted to figure out why these murders occurred in daylight when the streets were far more congested in the evening. Granted, he'd never planned a murder before, but he'd have thought that doing so when fewer people might notice would be important.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the glint of that knife. Felt his muscles freeze. A heartbeat later, and it would've been too late. No matter how he let that moment play through his mind's eye, Tristan saw nothing more. Not the man's face, no distinguishing marks, nothing. Only that knife. Only as it aimed for his Savannah.

"Tristan, you still with us?" Arnault's voice snapped him from his thoughts.

Squinting into the hazy glare over the Thames, he turned and met his friend's gaze. "Something happen?"

"Something always happens," Arnault joked, but his gaze remained serious. "That's the nature of life. But since that Crichton fellow left, you haven't been with us all day."

"If you were visiting a brothel, what time would you arrive?"

Arnault's gaze narrowed. "You want to visit one?"

"No. Well, yes. But only in hopes of discovering who's killing these women."

"And you're taking Miss Savannah?" Arnault rolled his eyes upward and shook his head.

"I am not," he protested. Arnault didn't seem to hear him.

"No, no, Tristan. That is not the way to win her over. I taught you better. Cheese, flowers, yes. Brothels? You're a fool."

No denying that. "She'd rather have a dagger than cut flowers. She prefers we walk in fields of them. Of flowers," he clarified, though he thought it obvious. "Not daggers. The cheese she enjoyed." And they'd talked. A brilliant step, he thought.

"A dagger?" Arnault eyed him curiously, a gleam in his gaze that set Tristan's teeth on edge. "I knew I liked her. Now, what about these brothels you aren't taking her to? Where did you want to begin? By the wharves, the theaters?"

Shaking his head, Tristan looked over the wharves and toward the large corner building where his family's offices sat. Further up, Shaw Shipping, and what was now St. Clair Shipping, had their offices. They used to operate under one banner, but with the wars, the three families decided to separate—the better to secure government contracts, ensure private investors, and mitigate the threat of piracy and loss.

After this afternoon, brothels were the last thing on Tristan's mind. He didn't want to leave Savannah, even with her guards. Even in her own house. She'd been attacked, singled out. Not because she lived in the rookery or worked at the theaters or gaming hells.

Because of their questions? Because she enjoyed Dem's protection? Because she helped? He had no idea, and that bothered him.

"There are too many brothels in London," he said aloud, working through the problem. "Even by the theaters." There were dozens, and that wasn't even counting the poorer establishments. He had no idea where to even begin.

"Perhaps brothels aren't the place for you," Arnault said after a moment, echoing what Tristan had been thinking. "How does Miss Savannah feel about your visiting one of those establishments?"

"It's not as if I'm visiting for pleasure," Tristan muttered.

"You are courting her, are you not?" Arnault eyed him but didn't wait for an answer. "No matter your reasons, I don't think a brothel is the way to regain her affections."

"I'm trying," Tristan muttered. "But I destroyed her trust when I left."

"Trust is fragile, like a mast in a storm." Arnault leaned against the railing and watched him with eyes far older than his age. Tristan wondered what he'd seen, and who he'd lost. "Strong on the surface, but delicate under pressure."

"I always looked at it like a castle wall. Brick by brick." Tristan stopped. "And just as easily breached," he supposed. "A well-placed cannonball—or an act of betrayal—and its stability disappears."

"You are rebuilding your trust with Miss Savannah." Arnault clasped his hands in front of him. "You need it. She is a beautiful and wise woman."

He paused, and Tristan knew what he was going to say next. To brace for it, he gripped the ship's railing harder.

"Why did you leave? You spoke much about her, about the plans you two made. But never that."

"A misguided attempt to find what I thought I lacked."

"You found me," Arnault chortled, and Tristan smiled at his friend, chuckling along with him. "You're a fool, Tristan Conrad."

"I know." He clasped Arnault on the shoulder and headed below deck. He needed a shave, and he wanted to hear the latest gossip Little Ricky, his cabin boy, had for him. "But at least I have you in my life!"

Arnault's laughter echoed after him.

Crichton's visit had been all business, Tristan hadn't shared the attempt on Savannah's life. It had rattled him too deeply to speak of even to Arnault. Still, Tristan thought he sensed a thaw in Crichton's demeanor. Not as many suspicious looks and a return of the camaraderie they once shared at school. Tristan hadn't planned on repairing his broken friendships—he hadn't even thought about it. His entire being had focused on winning Savannah back. Now he saw how na?ve that had been. When he'd left so abruptly, he'd burned far too many bridges.

Today's meeting had begun to repair at least one of them. Even if Tristan didn't captain this ship, Crichton had several good ideas for investments.

In Tristan's cabin, Little Ricky was waiting with a steaming bowl of water and the shaving instruments laid out in a neat row.

"Is it true?" Little Ricky all but vibrated with energy as he eyed Tristan.

"Depends on what it is," Tristan said casually as he sat in his chair. His leg bounced and his hands gripped the chair, unable to relax.

Still, he knew what Little Ricky meant, even if the boy's energy caused him to bounce around the room rather than ask directly. Maybe he'd wait a moment or two before the shave, just in case that energy caused the boy's hands to shake.

"Are you not sailing with us anymore?" The words came out in a stage whisper, Little Ricky's dark eyes wide and curious. "Meneer Arnault said you have a sweetheart."

Tristan couldn't fathom reducing Savannah to a mere sweetheart, but he let that slide. Little Ricky was still young. Tristan's gaze slid to his trunk, still locked securely against the wall. The trunk with the letters he'd written to Savannah, all neatly tied together.

"I haven't made any plans for the future," he told Little Ricky.

As he said the words, however, he knew he'd stay and fight for Savannah. He wouldn't run again—never again. He'd stay and do whatever he could to regain her trust until she told him definitively that she did not want him.

His heart hurt at the thought, but any heartache was his own fault. That fact wasn't easy to remember, but it was the truth.

"But who will captain us if you don't?" Little Ricky lathered shaving cream on Tristan's face as he spoke.

"Meneer Arnault, if he wants." Tristan hadn't thought about it. For all his planning and brains, when it came to winning over Savannah, she became his sole focus. "Either way, you'll have a place on this ship, or any other in the Conrad fleet, until you no longer want one."

Little Ricky didn't answer, but then, he was shaving Tristan, and the conversation passed. While he wanted to hear the ship's gossip, what happened on the wharves, Tristan could only think of Savannah.

"Is it true your lady is from a rival shipping company?" Little Ricky asked as he wiped off the straight razor.

"Rival?" Tristan laughed. "Not exactly. She's the eldest daughter of Hugh Shaw of Shaw Shipping. They're close friends of the family."

"Hmm."

"What else has the ship said?"

Tristan closed his eyes. That knife still glinted sharply in his memory. Forcing his mind from that image, he listened as Little Ricky rattled off the latest news from the wharves—the usual—what the crew had ferreted out about the murders—nothing—and bets on one of the other shipping company's cargo.

"And your other job?" Tristan's gaze slid back to the trunk, but he needed to hear what Little Ricky had learned about the silks, first. "What have you learned about the cravat?"

"I've been to every shop Meneer Arnault told me to go to," Little Ricky said, rattling them off in quick succession. "I bribed a couple of the shop boys, some looked half starved. And I did what you always said, Captain."

The boy stood proudly now, a satisfied grin on his face.

"What did you do?" Tristan asked, amused. He did not grin, not in the face of Little Ricky's pleased look.

"I told them, the ones that looked half starved or who was beaten by their masters, to find the ship. We'd take care of them."

Tristan reached out and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Little Ricky. That is exactly what I'd expect of a sailor with Conrad Shipping."

Little Ricky's thin chest stuck out so far that Tristan wondered he didn't pop. He did grin then, pleased that the lessons he tried to instill in the lad had taken.

"You'll return this afternoon?"

"Aye, Captain. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't."

Little Ricky finished his shave and Tristan returned his attention to the letters in his trunk. "I'll need a messenger," he said, unable to tear his gaze from it. "I need to send a package around to Miss Savannah."

"I'll see to it," Little Ricky said proudly. "You can trust me, Captain."

Tristan smiled at his cabin boy. "I know I can."