Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

T ristan hadn't been in a fight in far too long. He'd always enjoyed a good brawl, but he'd taken his role as captain seriously. If he hadn't wanted his men fighting every other sailor when they docked, then he shouldn't either. It hadn't necessarily worked, but he was still proud of himself for the attempt.

Now, with Savannah at his back ready to defend Ailene, and with Dem beside him, he opened the door. He'd rather have Savannah at his side, but he understood her choice. From the limited interaction he'd had with Dem and Ailene, he knew Dem would kill for his sister. The man was a fighter, not one to take a step back and wait it out.

Tristan hadn't time to plan anything more than this, but he knew Savannah would understand and follow his lead.

"Well, hello," he said jovially to the three men standing in the doorway. It didn't escape his notice that these were three of the same men who had watched Savannah from across the street. "Fancy meeting you here."

"We don't want you, fancy man," one snarled. He was clearly the leader, or someone who desperately wanted to be.

"Fancy man?" He looked at Dem. "What do you think?"

"Too obvious. Not enough insult."

Tristan grinned widely. He did like Dem. "Sorry, but Dem here doesn't like it. I'd ask Miss Savannah, but she's not fond of nicknames at all. Always said that if you can't call someone by their proper name, then you don't respect them."

The man snorted. "We'll take care of her later. The witch can wait."

"Witch?" Savannah's indignant voice echoed back to him. "I object. Besides," she sniffed. "That's too obvious as well."

Tristan's brain spun faster with every heartbeat. These men thought they could unseat Dem. If Tristan opposed them, which of course he planned to do, then he'd solidify Dem's place here, but also his own—these men only saw him as muscle who'd help Dem.

He didn't mind that so much as the fact they were also after Savannah. That made him see red. His temper bubbled beneath the surface, and he tried reigning it in. Unfortunately, with Savannah's safety on the line, that proved difficult.

"Shove off, Roberts," Dem spat. "You have nothing to gain here. Unless you want to die?"

"Let's not be hasty," Tristan said. These men probably believed the stories about demons haunting the street. As if humans hunting each other wasn't bad enough. "If we kill you, Miss Savannah might try and save you, thereby causing more work for her. I won't have that."

"Don't let the black witch touch me," one of the men snarled.

Well, that settled it. Tristan stilled, all humor gone. "Apologize."

The man spat on the ground. When he opened his mouth again, no doubt to hurl more insults, Tristan punched him.

"No one insults my fiancée." He brandished his own khanjar, his wrist moving in the adept way he'd been taught as a boy. Most people lost all courage in the face of someone who knew how to wield a dagger.

Not this lot.

All three men lunged. They'd clearly been waiting for an invitation. Tristan left the loudmouth so-called leader to Dem. Rather than simply end the man who had insulted Savannah, Tristan tackled him outside, onto the street.

"I understand that you think insulting a woman so far above your station is spot on." He ducked a sloppy swing and jabbed the man in the side, knocking the wind from him. "However, it really isn't the way one courts a lady."

"You don't court a woman like?—"

Khanjar forgotten, he punched the man again. Again and again and again—he swung until the man no longer fought back or even tried to block his fists. Tristan punched him until he lay in a heap at his feet. He stood breathing hard, irate over the insults to Savannah, his own careless desertion of her, and all the lost years they hadn't shared. It was all embodied in that single man.

"Tristan."

Savannah's voice shocked him, and he wondered how long she'd been watching. His arms ached, his fists throbbed, and his chest hurt from his labored breathing. Slowly, uncertain what he'd see in her face, he turned.

"Did you mean—" She shook her head. "We'll talk later. Browne and Peters chased off a couple others." Her face remained unreadable in the dim light, her voice even. She didn't give a single thought away. "Come inside."

He did as she requested, brushing his hand down his dinner jacket. He wasn't dressed for a brawl. He'd apologize to Aunt Nadia's staff for the extra work in laundering his clothing. A rip brought his attention back to the matter at hand.

Or perhaps he'd consign his evening wear to the bin.

Without another word, she disappeared inside the dwelling. Tristan blinked. What had she meant? He didn't spare a look for the man lying in the gutter. But before he could follow Savannah, he saw shadow peel from the wall.

Tristan braced for another fight that didn't come. The street had grown busier, the women off to the theater or other evening work. Most, he noticed, watched the fight, probably trying to figure out who'd come out the winner. Dem had. He now stood over the loudmouth with a triumphant gleam in his eye.

No one else noticed the shadow. Tristan followed the man, not bothering to keeping his distance. He headed not for the church but for Charing Cross, walking as if he knew Tristan followed but didn't care.

"I'm not here for a fight." The man stopped to face him at the intersection, his voice rough.

"Then why are you?" Tristan had a feeling the man smiled, but the roads were dark here, only lit further up, closer to the center of activities. "Out for a leisurely stroll? Want to see the sights?"

"Wanted to check out rumors," the man easily returned.

"I see." Tristan didn't feel threatened by the man. He felt intrigued, and he had a feeling he intrigued the stranger as well. The whole interaction felt more like a ballroom conversation than one taking place in East London, far from any brightly lit room. That strangeness itched down Tristan's spine. "And what have you discovered?"

"That the rumors are true, and you have returned. And that no one here knows anything about what's really happening."

That set Tristan on edge. The man knew him. Otherwise, why say anything about him at all? "That's why you're skulking around? That's all you've learned from your little investigation?"

"It's enough to move on. You should as well." The stranger started walking away.

Tristan let him go, certain he knew the man and equally certain he did not.

"I hear Vauxhall Gardens is a better place for a courtship," he called over his shoulder. "You should take someone up on their offer for a visit!"

Son of a bitch. Tristan glared at Lord Shilby's grandson. Then he headed back for Savannah. Perhaps the grandson wasn't as worthless as he let on.

Savannah didn't know where Tristan disappeared to but waited for him inside Ailene and Dem's house. Dem worked the street, issuing orders and corralling anyone who thought to challenge his authority. His fury over being confronted in his own house, challenged there in front of his sister and Miss Savannah, knew no bounds. Ailene rocked Shaw, who fussed over the interruption of his bedtime.

"Would you have used that knife?" Ailene asked, pacing around with Shaw. She showed no fear, merely curiosity.

"Yes." Savannah looked at the other woman. She tugged off one of her gloves and dabbed at his mouth. Only then, now that the fighting had passed, did her body remember its aches. She swallowed down her hiss of discomfort. "No one hurts those in my charge."

Ailene nodded slowly, bouncing the baby. "Who taught you?"

"My mother." Savannah offered a small smile. "Tristan's mother taught my mother, who taught me and my siblings."

At last, Ailene asked hesitantly, "Can you teach young Shaw? Dem, he's good with a knife, but nothing like yours."

"Ailene, I can teach both of you," Savannah promised. "No one should be unable to protect themselves."

Ailene nodded, looking somewhat stunned, and returned her attention to baby Shaw.

Savannah returned her own attention to the door, listening. It was a good, solid door, and she applauded Dem's innovation, if not exactly his means of procuring it. But those who lived in the rookery hadn't much choice. Which ship had he taken it from? Perhaps she'd surreptitiously repay the owner, though he'd no doubt already put in an insurance claim. Perhaps she'd purchase the row of homes, if not to remodel them, then at least?—

The knock interrupted her thoughts. Savannah had strained for it, waiting for the signal as if she and Tristan were once more sneaking around one house or another. One knock, pause, then three in rapid succession. Barely a pause, then a staccato of five knocks.

Savannah opened the door as Shaw quieted at his mother's breast.

"You're bleeding."

Tristan looked surprised. "I am?" He grunted, scowling in annoyance. "I didn't think he'd managed a blow. Damn."

"It's not bad." She reached for her basket but of course hadn't brought it tonight. "What did you discover?"

Tristan's gaze flicked toward the back of the room, but Ailene had disappeared into the kitchen, away from their conversation. "Ran into Shilby."

"Lord Shilby?" Savannah straightened in surprise, her hand dropping from Tristan's lips. He caught it in his own, warm and solid. "He was here?"

"No. Mr. Shilby, the grandson."

Tilting her head as she worked through that, Savannah asked the first relevant question that made sense. "Did you catch his name?"

"I'm afraid we didn't exchange pleasantries."

"Drat." Frowning, she dabbed at his lip again. "No matter." For all that Lord Shilby—George—had tried matching her with his heir, Savannah had never paid enough attention to Mr. Shilby to even bother learning his name. "What was he doing here?"

"Looking for someone or something, I'd say. He suggested Vauxhall again." Tristan paused, his lips turning downward. "I can't say it had much to do with this particular investigation, but I also can't explain why he was even here."

"This is far more complicated than I originally believed."

"You believed someone trying to kill you wasn't complicated?" Tristan asked in disbelief.

"No. I mean, yes." She sighed and pressed a finger to her forehead. It didn't help the beginnings of a headache. "There are too many players now. Shilby, Baron and heir. Crichton. The entirety of Denmark Street." She paused again. "None of this makes any sense."

"I wonder if the Shilbys are muddying the field."

It was possible, but she couldn't figure out why they'd do it. "What would be the point?" She hesitated, but it wasn't as if they hadn't already discussed her lack of socializing. "Until Eliza's picnic, I hadn't seen the baron since you left."

She'd cut herself off so completely, it was a wonder her friends still tried. Grateful they had, she planned to thank Eliza once more. Perhaps extend an invitation to her, since she hadn't had any visitors in three years. Well, perhaps she had, but the staff had followed her strict instructions not to disturb her.

"Let's get home." Tristan shook his head, winced, and placed a hand on his jaw. He moved it gingerly, grimacing, which caused him another grunt of pain. Or perhaps annoyance.

"Ailene?" Savannah called softly, a smile already forming. Tristan wasn't as dramatic as the rest of his family, but he certainly had a way about him. One that tugged at her heart. "I'll return tomorrow. Send Robbie round if you need anything before then."

Ailene returned from the kitchen and nodded, watching her curiously. She placed a cold, work-roughened hand on Savannah's. "I've never seen you this happy. He might be the used-to-be fiancé, but he makes you happy."

Savannah's heart skipped.

Standing at the door, looking both the same and different as he had before, Tristan held out a hand. It was reminiscent of so many times past, but he held himself differently now. Taller, which was ridiculous—she knew he hadn't grown. When she'd kissed him in the theater hallway, every single bit of his body had felt the same against hers.

Savannah took Tristan's hand and let him lead her outside. The night had cooled with a strange buzz in the air, like the calm before a storm. She didn't see Dem or any of those who challenged his authority. She also didn't look very hard.

Browne and Peters materialized from the shadows only two doors from Dem's. Neither looked any worse for wear, but Browne limped slightly.

"I'll take you home," Tristan said as Peters hailed a hackney. "We can talk tomorrow."

Yes, that sounded perfectly reasonable. A good night's sleep after all this. Or not, given she hadn't slept much since his return. Then tomorrow, when she wasn't so tempted by him, by her memories and those long-suppressed feelings, they'd talk.

Browne slammed the hackney's door closed, isolating them in the darkened carriage. The hackney rocked as the footmen climbed onto the back, but Savannah only had eyes for Tristan.

"Stay with me."

Tristan's head shot up. "What?"

As much as her head shouted that this was a terrible idea, that they'd only this evening discussed moving forward together, the words remained spoken. Savannah could dismiss them. She could say she didn't mean it, had spoken in the heat of the moment, or some such.

Except she had meant it.

"Stay with me." She reached across the cab and took his hand.

"Why?"

"I could say it's because I want to talk, but we both know that isn't true. I want you. Even after everything, I still do." That admission burned through her, as hot as his touch.

"This isn't a strange way of getting me alone so you can toss me out the window?" Despite his jesting words, his gaze remained level and serious on hers. He held her hand confidently.

"I'm always tempted by that." She grinned, knowing deep in her bones that this was right. "But I want you anyway."

"You have me." He reached across the cab and traced a finger down her cheek. "Always."