Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

O ne minute Tristan was dismounting his horse, nodding at Browne and wondering where Peters had disappeared to, and the next the mood shifted. The already noisy street didn't scream; there was no cacophony of outrage. Tension simply raced through the people, as if they knew what would happen next.

Tristan turned, drawing his dagger, his feet braced wide. Scanning the street, he waited, listening for movement, that shift in the air. That wrongness wasn't around Dem's house, but close. The tension built like a wave, cresting higher and racing closer.

Browne appeared next to him. Tristan didn't know his entire story. All he knew was that Browne had grown up as a poor tenant farmer near one of the coaching inns Savannah's great-grandmother had purchased a few decades ago. He hated farming, preferred fighting, and had somehow found his way into Hugh Shaw's employ. That was enough for Tristan to trust both the man's ability with a knife and that he wouldn't stab him in the back.

"Peters," Tristan shouted, facing the street and this strange unknown quality that rushed along, cresting along the street.

"Aye, sir. I've got them."

"They can take care of themselves." Savannah's voice drifted from behind him.

"Savannah," Tristan sighed, forcing his attention from the street to her.

"Don't look at me." She spared him a glance, her eyes fierce, her mouth set. "What's happened?"

"I don't know. I can't see," he admitted.

Dem had already disappeared into the crowd, head high, shouting orders into the storm about to break. Lyneé stood on Savannah's opposite side, and Tristan heard the door close and latch. At least Ailene and Shaw were safe.

"I'll start her lessons next week," Savannah muttered. "After we settle this."

Tristan had no idea what that was about. But this…it crawled over his skin, an open wound on a street full of them. Tristan stepped into the street, ignoring the overflowing gutter and the rubbish flying freely in the wind. He looked down the street, watching Dem, listening for that break.

"He's too late," Savannah muttered, walking beside him.

Tristan felt that, too. That no matter what Dem did, it was already too late.

"There's going to be a war on this street," he murmured, moving slowly along the center, where people cleared a path. They felt it, too. "Stay back."

"Tristan," she protested in a voice that sounded both tired and annoyed.

"Savannah, please." He paused and met her gaze. "I can't lose you again."

"And you think I'm ready to lose you?"

That gave him pause. He'd never considered himself invincible, but he did know his strengths. Law and philosophy and natural sciences—and fighting with the best of them. He hadn't necessarily set out to beat either of his brother's number of fights at Harrow but had never backed down from one, either. Savannah could handle herself, but he knew he needed to keep her safe. At all costs.

"I'll let this entire street burn before I let anything happen to you," he snapped. "I'll start the fire myself if it means keeping you safe."

Before she could say a word, Tristan closed the short distance between them and kissed her hard. He didn't care about the public street, rookery or not, about Lyneé's presence or the very real danger sweeping closer.

He pulled back much sooner than he wanted to. "I love you."

"If you die," Savannah threatened, "I'll come after you."

His own lips quirked into a smile. She would, too. Not to tell him she loved him, but to berate him for dying and not giving them a second chance.

"I promise I'll be careful." He caressed her cheek and stepped back. "Stay safe."

He hadn't even had the chance to tell her about the silk, about who had purchased it. Of the dozen names on the list Arnault had discovered. Of course, right then, it might not matter.

Tristan wanted to tell her again that he loved her, but he disappeared into the crowd instead. She didn't follow but remained on the fringes with Lyneé. Browne walked beside him.

"Have you a plan?" Browne asked.

"Walk in, find the problem, handle it." Tristan sighed. "I realize that isn't exactly what one might call a plan."

Browne snorted. "Are you letting Dem take the credit?"

"Yes."

He had to. Tristan didn't care if this street knew about his fighting abilities; he didn't care about credit or accolades. For Dem to stay in power and protect Ailene and the baby, as well as Savannah when she visited the women here, he needed the perception of strength.

"Find Dem," Tristan said. "See that he keeps at the head of this. Whatever this is."

Browne hurried ahead, following Dem's voice. Tristan slipped around the side, walking through the crowd. He wasn't certain this was a better idea. It gave him minimal room to maneuver, but at least no one would see him coming.

He hated not knowing what the problem was, or if it was simply a fear the street carried now that it had woken. Still, Tristan couldn't forget the attempt on Savannah's life. He stilled, torn between returning to her and moving forward.

The scream made up his mind. Even as he ran forward, he worried he'd made the wrong choice. He cared about the people here because Savannah cared. Given the choice between her and them? Her. Every time.

Tristan skidded to a halt just as Dem arrived. The woman lay on the ground; he couldn't do anything to help her. And he knew Savannah would already be on her way. She had to have heard the scream.

Turning in a tight circle, he scanned the area. The locals were easy to spot. Some went barefoot, others in clothing too large or too small, all of it threadbare. If the murderer was smart, he'd have dressed in similar clothing. But if the cravat Tristan still carried in his pocket was any indication, their perpetrator was not that smart.

He looked for something unusual, out of the ordinary in the rookery. A hat, as foolish as that would be. Shoes—though Tristan didn't blame anyone for not wanting to walk barefoot in this street. He focused, ignoring the crowd, pushing through them as they gathered around the poor, dead woman.

He searched for any telltale sign. The flash of a knife, the glint of the blade as he'd seen when Savannah had been attached. Anything that marked the person as different.

A well-made greatcoat.

"Got you," he muttered.

He raced after the suspect, pushing people out of the way. The person didn't turn, just kept walking at a slow, even pace through the gathering mass. Tristan watched him as he casually walked toward the intersection, where fewer people crowded the street.

Now that he saw the killer, dressed in an old, worn greatcoat but a well-tailored one nonetheless, he couldn't unsee it. The garment looked as if he'd beaten it with a rock and rubbed dirt over it, but the quality stood out here. Tristan easily followed the man through the crowd, not daring to look away from the fine material.

"If you hadn't dressed in such fine clothing, I never would've found you." The figure continued his unhurried pace as if he hadn't heard. "You stick out quite obviously, I'm afraid. You'll never leave here alive."

That stopped him. Tristan grinned.

"How did you know?" The voice, male, calm yet oddly excited, called back.

Rule number one: never admit to anything. Tristan shook his head slightly.

"Franklin and Sons." Tristan inched closer. He knew the man carried a knife, his weapon of choice, but he didn't know how truly proficient he was with it. Using it on unsuspecting women was hardly a testament to his skill.

The man snorted but still didn't turn. Tristan inched to one side as silently as the filth on the street would allow. Just in case the man also carried a pistol. No sense standing in the line of fire.

"I admit, most people wouldn't have put it together," Tristan continued, taking another sidestep. "But I'm not most people."

He had friends who knew their textiles. He had Little Ricky, who definitely knew the value of spying on shop owners. And bribing their assistants.

"It doesn't matter. No one will care." He was so blasé that Tristan wanted to throw his khanjar at the man's back.

Reining in his anger, his blind fury over the man's unconcerned tone, Tristan loosened his fist from around the bone hilt of his dagger. Anger wouldn't give him the upper hand. All it'd do was make him sloppy.

"That's where you're wrong."

"Ha. The black witch?" The man dismissed Savannah with a flick of his wrist. Tristan stepped closer, his hold on his temper unraveling too fast for him to regain control. It beat through him, protect Savannah, keep her safe at all costs, no matter what. "That wasn't me."

"I'd be careful if I were you," Tristan said between clenched teeth.

"No one cares about these women." The man turned. Tristan didn't recognize him, but that didn't mean anything—he'd been at sea for three years. Little Ricky had said something about the men, several of the dandies, who'd purchased the cravats, but Tristan also hadn't recognized any names. "And no one will prosecute me."

He held up his knife, a long, serrated thing that looked wickedly deadly even in the scant light of the crowded street. In the moment before Tristan moved, he noted three things: the man held it far too sloppily for any sort of prolonged fight; Dem made his way toward them; and he wasn't certain he'd let the man live.

"That's where you're wrong."

"Stay with Ailene," Savannah ordered Peters.

"Sorry, miss, I'm to follow you at all times."

"Peters," she said through clenched teeth, "I need her safe. Her and the baby, little Shaw." He startled at that. "If something happens to me, I promise I'll let my father know it was my fault."

"If you die, miss, I'll be right behind you," he muttered unhappily.

"I promise I won't die." She grinned. "I have too much to live for."

Peters nodded, looking miserable. "At least Browne is with Mr. Tristan."

Savannah glanced at Lyneé, then raced after Tristan.

She wasn't ready to lose him again.

It wasn't hard to find him. The street gave him and the murderer a wide berth as they fought. The crowd kept back, though she noted several were placing bets.

Browne appeared by her side as she stepped into the circle surrounding Tristan. The suspect moved well enough, with the grace of a fencer or a well-off pugilist who had years of proper lessons behind him.

Tristan fought like his father, his form far from proper. He fought to disable, incapacitate his opponent by any means. Oh, but she loved watching him fight. The grace with which he moved, the hard, knowing smirk on his beautiful lips. The knowledge that he waited for his opponent to make a mistake. They always did, always underestimated his lean body as a sign of leisure.

Gripping her dagger, she forced her gaze from the beautiful sight of Tristan moving around the street, dagger drawn, easily sidestepping the man. Instead, she glared at the man who had killed her women. Savannah didn't recognize him.

"See anyone?"

"Dem is gathering the troops, so to speak." Lyneé kept her back to Savannah's, her own dagger gripped in her hand.

"This is the only suspect?" She couldn't hide the surprise in her voice. "There aren't more?"

She'd expected a group of men, like the one that had attacked Ailene. Savannah had thought the violations were related to the attacks. Perhaps they'd been wrong. If so, what else had they been wrong about?

Tristan tackled the man, and his knife clattered to the street. Its teeth stood out in stark contrast with the smooth blade. Where had he found such a thing?

The entire street had shifted from where poor Orla now lay in the filthy gutter. Savannah had sent word to Mr. Christie at St. Giles Church before racing after Tristan. Apparently, Orla's death hadn't hindered the crowd's morbid interest in Tristan's fight. Or maybe the street wanted to see the end of these attacks as desperately as Savannah did.

"Do they travel alone?" Lyneé murmured from behind her.

"I have no idea. I've never tried to murder anyone and cover it up." From the corner of her eye, she saw movement that didn't belong.

Reaching around for Lyneé's hip with her free hand, she slowly turned them until they stood back-to-back, ready for a fight. Another man stood there, his greatcoat collar pulled up to hide his face, but she recognized it. Rather, she recognized the quality. Solid, well made, tailored. New despite the obvious attempt at making it look worn, as if he'd stomped it with his horse.

"Lyneé," Savannah hissed from the side of her mouth.

"I'll find Dem," her sister agreed.

"Miss Savannah." Browne sighed but followed her. She'd owe him for his dedication, he and Peters.

As much as Savannah didn't want to leave her sister, she wanted to confront the second man. He watched the fight like all the others, yes, but he clearly stood out. Even those standing beside him stood a little bit farther from him, no matter how he tried to fit into the crowd.

"Looking to help your friend?" Savannah asked casually.

She watched the man, who stiffened, unable to stop his gaze from swinging from the fight, where Tristan clearly had the upper hand, to her. Savannah didn't need to watch to recognize that annoyed grunt. Tristan had had enough, and this was the end of the fight.

The man ignored her and looked back at the fight, as everyone else did.

She nodded. "If you wanted to fit in, you should've worn something else. Stupid."

That got his attention. The anger in his eyes at such a mild insult eclipsed his impasse of whether or not to acknowledge her. She had a way with fools.

"I should've killed you when I had the chance."

Browne stiffened at her side, bracing for a fight. Part of Savannah had expected that admission, but she had never expected the chance to confront her attacker. She wasn't the only one who heard that admission. Those around him had as well.

Not everyone here accepted her. Many of the women did, because she was the only one who offered them help during childbirth, who saw to their sick children in hopes they'd live past their first birthday.

It happened all at once.

Dem appeared, Lyneé right behind him. The crowd stepped back from the man who had threatened her, leaving a wide circle to show everyone that the killer was in their midst. Tristan grunted behind her as she heard the body of his opponent drop to the ground.

"You threatened someone under my protection." Dem stepped up, his voice ringing out over the now buzzing mob. She had the feeling his words were the only thing that held them back. "You came here with your notions of trying to take over my territory." He sounded almost sorrowful, as if the rage that always boiled just beneath the surface wasn't about to explode. "I protect Miss Savannah, and you attacked her. You attacked the women of my street."

Savannah stepped back as Dem stepped forward. This was his fight.

Tristan's hand touched her shoulder. "Savannah."

She turned to him just as Dem brandished his own knife.

Her heart pounded, but relief swamped her, making her knees weak. She turned her back to Dem and focused on Tristan.

"You're bleeding." She eyed him critically as Browne and Lyneé joined them, leaving Dem to his work. Savannah reached into her pocket for the gloves she'd shoved in there when she unsheathed her dagger. She pulled one out and dabbed at his bleeding lip, at the cut on his face. "I'm going to ruin another pair of gloves."

He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. "Not on my account. You're safe? Unharmed?"

"Dem's taking care of the partner. Let him have his moment. He needs it after these last few weeks."

Tristan watched the fight over her shoulder. Then he took her hand, held out the other for Lyneé, and nodded at Browne.

"Where's Peters?"

"Watching Ailene," Savannah said as they returned down the street, far from the fight Dem was clearly drawing out for the benefit of the crowd. "Don't tell on him. I promised he'd be safe from Papa's wrath."

Halfway back to Dem and Ailene's ramshackle house, another crowd parted for them. Savannah nearly gasped at the sight. Ailene, who hadn't left the house since her attack, knelt by Orla's body, holding the dead woman's hand as a small group waited for Mr. Christie. Little Shaw lay swaddled against her chest, and Peters stood over her, holding a pair of knives and looking fiercely at anyone who ventured too close.

"Ailene."

Ailene looked up from her kneeling position, angry and sad and, yes, shaking. Savannah squeezed Tristan's hand and knelt beside her.

"When you teach me to defend myself, can you teach me healing, too?" Ailene whispered, her voice thin and cracking.

Lyneé knelt on Ailene's other side, bracketing the shaking woman, and together they helped her stand. Savannah gripped Ailene's hand.

"Any bit of knowledge you want," Savannah promised her.

Ailene nodded, her other hand cradling little Shaw. "I won't let them take anything else from me."

Lyneé guided her away, and Savannah turned for Tristan.

"Did you want to check on Dem?"

"And ruin his moment of triumph?" Tristan laughed, then winced. "I'd never be so callous."

"All right." She looked behind him but couldn't see anything through the mob. She did hear the cheers, and the barking of a bet maker.

Tristan cursed. "Browne, do me a favor and place a couple shillings on Dem. Make sure the street knows which way the wind should blow."

"Aye, sir." Browne offered a slight bow and disappeared back up the street.

"Did you recognize the man?" Savannah asked as they drifted into the shadows that veiled side of a building, away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers.

"I recognized his clothing," Tristan said, drawing her close. He kissed her forehead. "Too tailored for this area."

"When Mr. Christie arrives, we'll send for the magistrate." Savannah paused, frowning. "I didn't look at your opponent after your fight ended. You restrained him, right?"

"Of course." He sounded insulted. "What sort of Conrad do you take me for?"

She laughed and leaned her head against his chest. The words crowded her throat— her Conrad. The steady thump of his heart lulled her eyes closed, and she breathed deeply of his scent. She could stay like this, Savannah realized.

"Would you care to accompany me to Vauxhall Gardens this evening?" His voice ghosted over her skin, and she shivered from the intimacy.

"We already solved the murders." Savannah pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, the blue-green lay in the shadows of too-close buildings.

"Not for the murders," he corrected, his fingers brushing her cheek. "For a not-scandalous, perfectly chaperoned evening together."

She did. Of course she did, and, oh, her heart longed for such an evening.

"Not scandalous, eh?" she repeated in a vain attempt to give herself a moment. Her brain had scrambled at his question, and she couldn't sort one thought from another.

"I admit, our previous courtship was unconventional." Tristan's lips brushed her cheek. "And our renewed courtship scattered convention on the four winds."

Previous courtship. Current courtship.

His lips brushed her other cheek, his fingers warm on the nape of her neck. His touch didn't help her scattered thoughts.

"Is that what this is?" Savannah asked, cursing her breathlessness. "A courtship?"

"A second chance." His lips hovered over hers. "Our second chance. A second chance for me to show you how desperately I love you. More than that, how much I care. Not about adventure or seeing new lands, but about enjoying life with you."

Savannah swallowed hard. "And if I wish to remain in London?"

"If you wish, and you want me back in your life, then we can create a new life here."

Savannah didn't know. She didn't mind sailing. She'd gone with her parents several times on trips to Copenhagen, Oslo, and Stockholm. It wasn't the ship travel that gave her pause, or even staying here in London or someplace else in Britain.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"Let's enjoy Vauxhall," Tristan tempted, his lips gentle on hers. "And see from there."

She kissed him back, enjoying the rush of need, the familiar ache of desire. Savannah pulled back from the kiss and nearly laughed at herself. She'd already made her choice.

"Miss Savannah." Ailene's hesitant voice broke through her fog of arousal.

Stepping from Tristan's arms, she smoothed her hands down her skirts and smiled politely at Ailene. "Has Mr. Christie arrived?"

"Aye. I sent your Peters round for the magistrate. Do you mind?" Ailene's voice wavered, but her eyes remained fierce.

"Good thinking," Savannah told her.

"Has Dem returned?" Tristan asked, placing his hand on the small of Savannah's back and leading her from the building shadows.

Savannah didn't stretch like a cat into his warm, comforting touch, but it was a close thing.

"Not yet, but the crowd is thinning out," Ailene said.

"I'll speak with him about the magistrate and the two men. This ends today."

Savannah hoped so. Though she would never abandon her women here, she thought perhaps it was time to start yet another new path in life. Tristan nodded, held her gaze for another moment, and crossed the street to speak with Dem.

"Thank you, Miss Savannah," Ailene whispered.

Savannah's eyebrows rose. "For what?"

"Keeping your promise," Ailene said. "Not many do, but you did. You and Miss Lyneé." She paused. "And your man."

Her man? Savannah's heart flipped at the sentiment, and she smiled.

Yes. Her man.