Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

T he next morning, having slept fitfully, tossing and turning and cursing Tristan with every movement, Savannah dressed in one of her older gowns. She'd promised Ailene, Dem's sister, she'd visit and check on her and the babe. While there, she'd meet with Dem again, discover what, if anything, he had learned about the stranger's murder.

She hadn't much hope. Three days in the rookery and no answers thus far only meant no answers ever. The rookery swallowed its secrets, kept them buried from the outside world.

And she'd do everything in her power to avoid Tristan.

Savannah walked into the morning room, where the family usually breakfasted. They ate earlier than most, usually just after dawn so her father could oversee any ships arriving on the early tides, but her mother insisted they try and eat at least one meal together. Studiously avoiding her parents' and Lyneé's piercing gazes, she sat in her usual seat. Lucky for her, her brother was on one of their merchant vessels to Copenhagen, and her youngest sister was visiting their grandmother.

Coincidently, at the Conrad estate.

"I'm not talking about him." She looked up, met three concerned gazes, and returned to her paper. The words blurred together, but they didn't seem important. "He's not worth my breath."

He wasn't worth her sleepless night, either, but here she was, tired and tetchy. Her toast and jam tasted like ash, the coffee held no flavor despite the cardamom, and Savannah had absolutely no idea what she'd just read. Undeterred, she continued reading and eating.

"Hmm," her mother said, clearly unconvinced. "I'm not disagreeing," she continued, her voice soft and flowing over the utterly silent table. Savannah did not look up but sipped her coffee. "How do you plan on avoiding him?"

"You could stab him," Lyneé offered.

She merely glared at her sister. Her sister, who had left her alone with Tristan yesterday. The traitor.

"You could," her mother added. "But, darling, please don't do so here. His parents are good friends, and I'd feel obligated to sew him up."

Savannah snorted and met her mother's gaze. Sophia Shaw watched her carefully, her dark eyes serious over her teacup. She'd never developed a taste for coffee and preferred the tea they imported. For one beautiful moment, Savannah let her mother's support wash over her, and she nearly smiled. Then, before those twisting emotions of yesterday flooded her, before she lost all sense of herself in the myriad chasms that had opened beneath her feet, Savannah returned her gaze to her paper.

Swallowing hard around a bite of egg, she took a moment to rebuild the walls that had kept her sane these last three years. Burying her anger and pain and grief deep within her, which probably wasn't at all healthy, she finished her toast and set down her paper.

"I shan't stab him," she promised. She wouldn't cry, either, though emotion closed her throat for a too-long moment. "I won't be seeing him again at all."

Her father even snorted at the falsehood, but Savannah defiantly met his gaze.

Hugh merely rolled his eyes. "How about we discuss the other thing?" he said in a gruff voice. "The fact that someone tried to kill you."

She hadn't a defense against that. Savannah had spent the previous hours focusing on the problem of Tristan. She hadn't forgotten , per se, about the most likely nonexistent attempt on her life. Instead, she'd merely shoved it aside.

There were only so many things she could handle at once.

"No one tried to kill me," she said dryly. Still, she imagined all too clearly the image of that knife embedded on the wall beside her. "I promise I'll be on guard, spend less time there, but I won't abandon the women."

Her father's face darkened. "I resisted hiring a guard for you, or having additional footmen accompany you. There's no rumor about anything on the wharves. Most of the men there were as surprised as I was at the news."

She lifted her chin and forced herself to eat another bite of egg. "That only reinforces my position. Nothing happened."

"Something did." Her father didn't raise his voice; he rarely did. His tone had hardened, however. Flattened. He hadn't become a rich shipping magnate by vacillating. "What's more important, Savannah? I'm betting on your life."

She snapped her mouth closed. He didn't lay on the guilt often. Her parents had raised her and her siblings to be strong, independent people who forged their own paths. Savannah had studied midwifery and healing under her mother, who had learned from her mother, who had learned from hers.

It hadn't, however, been her first choice for a life path.

"I already have Browne," she said. Part of her was obstinate about this, and part of her acknowledged that additional protection was never a bad idea no matter where one worked. Doubly so in St. Giles. "And Dem and his gang will be on the lookout."

Savannah pushed both her unread paper and her nearly full plate away. A small piece of the walls that surrounded her broke away, and a single well-aimed arrow could easily pierce her heart.

"He appreciates what I've done for his sister and the babe." She pressed her lips together and wondered if a second cup of coffee would help wake her or merely upset her stomach more than it already was.

"Dem is also trying to expand his influence," Hugh pointed out with a reasonableness that made most people agree to whatever terms he offered. "He's more concerned with that than keeping you safe. Although?—"

"Although"—Savannah latched on to the segue with both hands—"with the right incentive, he could be a powerful ally. Increase his sway in the area as well as keep me safe."

She had a feeling Dem truly liked her. Not only for what she'd done for his sister, but because she cared. She visited the rookery several times a week, staying hours on end in order to see people who needed her knowledge of the old remedies or how to sew a wound and keep it from becoming infected. Most importantly, she never asked for anything in return.

"I think it's time to call in those favors," she added.

Pushing away from the table before they could discuss her life any further, Savannah nodded at her family and strode out of the hall. They loved her, worried for her, she knew that. But right now, that caring and affection stifled her.

She needed a good ride across the fields with nothing around for miles. The wind on her skin, the sun shining warmly on her back. Half tempted to saddle her horse and ride far out of London, Savannah?—

The scream stopped her dead in her tracks. In the next breath, she sprinted up the stairs and for her rooms. Behind her, the clatter of shoved chairs echoed along the hall.

"What's happened?" She burst through her bedroom door and stared at Anna, the upstairs maid. "Anna, what's wrong?"

Eyes wide, cheeks pale, Anna merely pointed at a corner. As Savannah moved around the bed, a dozen thoughts raced through her mind. No one could've entered. Not her bedroom, not this house. They were too well protected and had been since she could remember. Not everyone appreciated people of their race or class building their stellar reputation.

Had whoever killed the stranger sent a message, one that had somehow bypassed all their footmen and locked windows?

"Jiesha?" Savannah stared at the rabbit, whose back was against the corner, her eyes darting around the room, her nose twitching rapidly. Jiesha stared at Savannah and Anna as if they were the intruders, even as she shrank into herself, clearly more terrified of Anna than Anna was of her.

"What's happened?" Hugh demanded as he burst into the room, pistol at the ready.

"Why is there a rabbit in your bedroom?" Sophia asked over him, her own dagger drawn.

Sighing, Savannah cautiously stepped for the corner and scooped up a frightened Jiesha. Surprised the rabbit hadn't sprinted beneath the bed and as far from Anna as possible, Savannah was nonetheless gratified that Jiesha allowed her to hold her. Cuddling the poor thing close, Savannah cursed Tristan anew. How dare he bring her a pet she instantly loved!

The rabbit shook in her arms, clearly terrified, but Savannah didn't know if that was from picking her up, from Anna's screaming, or the numerous people now invading her bedroom.

"Jiesha startled Anna," she said, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

"Jiesha?" Sophia eyed the rabbit. "You have a rabbit named Jiesha?"

"Tristan," she sighed, exasperated. "It was a gift."

"A gift." Hugh shook his head and left, back to his breakfast and cargo manifests, no doubt.

Lyneé merely laughed and disappeared to her own activities, leaving only Savannah, Anna, and Sophia in the room.

"I don't want to talk about it," Savannah blurted. Cursing herself for that slip, her loss of control, she held Jiesha tighter. "I don't even know what there is to talk about."

Sophia nodded and closed the distance between them. She reached out and ran a finger down Jiesha's back, but the rabbit didn't move. Only trembled harder in Savannah's arms. "At least talk to him, darling." She kissed Savannah's cheek. "I think you two have a lot to work through."

The only thing she had to work through with Tristan was how he came into possession of Jiesha. Nothing else mattered. Not anymore.

Tristan didn't wait for her at the end of their street. That would've been unseemly. Ungentlemanly. Unnerving, even. Tempted as he was to follow her, he didn't do that, either. She knew how to use a dagger, and he'd be her first target.

Instead, he returned to the scene of the crime, so to speak. Whatever that crime had been, whether Savannah had been the target or not, someone had murdered a man right beside her. Tristan didn't necessarily believe the man had gotten in the way and been killed in her place. According to Aunt Nadia and Uncle James, that stranger had been killed with a more expensive rifle shot and powder as opposed to an easily concealed dagger.

Rifles boasted a distance and precision nothing else could. No need to stand beside a man while you killed him; you could do it from a three hundred yards or so.

The knife worried him far more. Uncle James had dropped that news at dinner last evening. Given he once worked for the Intelligence Department of Horse Guards Tristan had a feeling that piece of information had not been a slip of the tongue.

The towering buildings that lined the streets near the church blocked most of the sunlight and cast a chill over the day. Tristan ignored the darkness and the stench of stale gin as he strode to the spot on Denmark Street where he'd met Savannah yesterday.

Where she was now.

He grinned. He'd thought he might find her here.

Once the thrill of adventure wore off, within a week after he left, Tristan found he missed knowing where she'd be. Missed her constant presence and knowing what he thought. He missed the feel of her body pressed close, her hand in his.

Now, stopping on the corner, he clasped his hands behind his back and most certainly did not reach for Savannah. Even if his fingers itched for the feel of her.

Tristan didn't know exactly where the man had been shot. His dead body was long gone, no doubt sent to a pauper's grave, any possessions looted. Tristan wondered if Savannah knew what had been taken from him. One of the street urchins would, but they wouldn't trust him with that information. Not yet.

As he looked around the area, nothing stood out as unusual, though he certainly had never frequented a rookery enough to judge.

"What are you doing here?" Savannah demanded, her voice low and harsh. Cold enough to chill even the warm June day.

"Savannah." He bowed low, grinning at her.

As beautiful as ever , he thought, once more committing her face to memory. The miniature portrait he carried in his breast pocket lay heavy against his heart. It didn't do her justice. Three years didn't seem like a long time, yet she'd changed.

She held herself stiffer, as if balancing the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her face set, unwilling to give away any hint of her emotions, unlike before when he so easily knew everything she felt. Even her movements had changed, shorter now, not as expressive. Did she still dance?

"Who's your friend, Miss Savannah?" the man beside her asked. Tall and thin, with suspicious blue eyes that glared at Tristan, he looked about as trusting as anyone here. The man from yesterday, who'd guarded Savannah without a word.

"He's not my friend." Savannah glanced at the man quickly. "He used to be my fiancé." She grimaced at that no doubt reluctant admission and narrowed her eyes further.

"Tristan Conrad." He nodded at the man who stood guard over Savannah. As grateful as Tristan was for the protection the man offered, he should be the one guarding Savannah. But he'd failed in that, too.

"Dem," the man grunted.

"Dem." Savannah didn't look away from Tristan but softened her tone. "Ailene will be better in a few days." She turned then, thoroughly ignoring Tristan. "I'll send round a basket of food. I don't care what she thinks of it, she's to eat everything in there."

"All right. You need an escort, Miss Savannah?" Dem asked, not bothering to lower his voice.

"No." She forced a smile, there and gone in a heartbeat. Another change—Savannah used to smile all the time. "Thank you. Get back to Ailene."

Dem didn't look convinced. However, he nodded at Savannah, glared at Tristan, and disappeared into the crowd. The same crowd that gave Savannah a wide berth, keeping out of her way. Or Dem's, perhaps.

"I thought you didn't want a guard," Tristan said casually. A small stab of jealousy wormed its way into his heart no matter how he reminded himself he had no right to feel it. He wished his heart would remember that.

"Dem protects me while I'm here." She hadn't moved but watched him carefully. Her back remained rigid, her gaze wary.

Unbidden, memories of him and Savannah together in bed forced themselves from behind the wall he'd built over the years. Her body pliant beneath his hands as he tasted her, glorious as she straddled his hips, taking him deep inside her.

"One of a gang?" He had no idea what he was saying. No matter how he blinked, the memories refused to dissipate. His fingertips tingled with the clearly remembered feel of her skin beneath his touch.

"He's the leader of Denmark Street," she reluctantly conceded, her voice dropping. "Hence his name. Why are you here? I thought you were done with?—"

Her. Done with her.

"I'm worried about you." Which wasn't what he'd wanted to say. This corner, with its filth and stench and barely visible sunlight, was not the place for such confessions. Tristan owed her far more than an apology in the St. Giles Rookery. He owed her the world. "Someone tried to kill you."

"Once more, I fail to see how that affects you in the slightest." She stepped forward, the movement as stiff as her back, but her glare burned through him. "And Lyneé is wrong."

"I doubt she'd make such a mistake," he scoffed. Tristan resisted mentioning that Aunt Nadia and Uncle James also believed someone had tried to at least harm her, if not kill her.

"Regardless, it still does not affect you." She stepped around him without another glance and walked toward the church.

"Savannah—you're right." Tristan fell into step beside her. Even without her guard, people stepped out of her way. They knew her here, he realized. Respected her.

"Then why are you here?"

"Curiosity. I'm curious about the dead man." Not the entire truth, but not a lie either. "Who wanted him dead, and why? What had he done, if anything?"

"Please." She snorted and stopped in a rare patch of sunlight. It glowed off her skin and sparkled in her eyes. "He could've looked at a man the wrong way. Talked up the wrong woman. Stolen from a street urchin or one of the gin houses."

"Normally, I'd agree with you. Except for the rifle shot." He paused and looked around. Considering the mass of people living here, they were strangely alone. Unease slithered down his spine. She didn't notice or had grown used to people keeping their distance. "Why throw a knife at someone after you've gone to the trouble and expense of shooting them?"

Her lips pursed so hard he thought she might crack her jaw. She agreed with him. Tristan didn't feel any sense of triumph, merely the icy hand of fear. She'd already thought of that and had retuned anyway.

"Why did you come back here?" He kept his voice low, mostly in hopes of keeping his anger at bay—a futile hope. But at least no one overheard them.

"This isn't the place or time," she snapped. "And I owe you no explanation."

"You don't," he agreed. It came out sharper than he intended. "But I only want you safe." Another partial truth. He did, of course, want her safe. He also wanted her. Period, end of story.

"Hmph." She eyed him, and her shoulders relaxed just the slightest as she stepped forward.

Which was, of course, when a wild shout echoed through the crowded street.

For one single breath, Tristan stilled. His instinct was to jump into action, but Savannah's safety kept him at her side. Protect her. The disbelieving look on Savannah's face told him exactly what she thought, but they both knew he had nothing to do with the scream or the mob who descended on the scene like someone was giving away free gin. Or tossing guineas into the crowd.

With another glare, she pushed past him. He cut her off, stepping in front of her and taking her arm. Tristan shoved a man running toward the scene out of his way and ignored the curses the man spewed at him.

"Savannah." He pulled her toward an abandoned doorway.

"This has nothing to do with me," she insisted, voice low and angry, gaze hard and unyielding. She jerked her arm from his grasp. "Shove off, Tristan. I have work to do." So saying, she stepped around him and walked confidently into the crowd.

He started after her, no more than a step behind. Several inches taller than most of the people here, and far more determined, he easily kept up. Three years might've been a long time, but several lifetimes wouldn't be long enough for him to forget her stubborn streak.

Glaring at an opportunistic pickpocket until the boy slithered away, he stalked after Savannah.

The crowd parted for her, murmuring "Miss Savannah." A few even bowed or curtsied. Though Tristan was of the firm opinion that everyone should bow before her, he did wonder what she'd done to earn such respect in so poor a place.

She cared. Of course. Foolish of him to think it took anything else.

She cared about these people, not because it was fashionable or an easy way to prove devoutness, but because she truly did. They respected her for that sincerity.

While he glared at the crowd, who clearly had no ill intention toward her, she talked with people.

"Find me a cloth, Betty. Press tight, Robbie." And so on.

She knelt beside a woman on the ground, one they both knew was close to death. She clutched her belly tight beneath the thin, torn cloth of her dress, struggling with each breath. Tristan stepped closer. Another look showed no one watching Savannah in particular, only the scene itself. The crowd swelled closer, then back, allowing him access to her.

"Do you know who stabbed you?" Savannah asked, leaning close, one hand on the woman's cheek. "Nell, do you know who did this?"

Tristan knelt beside Savannah but could offer nothing except silent support. She leaned against him, just the slightest. She knew this woman; her compassion wasn't for a mere stranger, but someone she knew by name. Nell's gaze flicked from Savannah to him and back, but she didn't say a word.

"I'm sorry," Savannah whispered as Nell's last breath rattled out. "I'm so sorry, Nell."

Tristan placed his hand over Savannah's. She looked up, calm, quiet, as steady as her hands. Only he saw the heartbreak in her gaze, heard the shift in her breathing. Tristan rested his hand on the small of her back and hoped she'd accept his support. In this, at least.

"Robbie." Savannah's voice cracked. She paused and cleared her throat. "Find Mr. Christie." Robbie jumped up and did as instructed, but Savannah didn't watch him leave. She turned to Tristan instead.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"I'll take you home, Savannah." He held out his hand, waiting until she placed hers in his, and stood. "Mr. Christie will see to this?"

She rummaged in her basket and wiped her hands on a cloth, cleaning them as best she could.

"He's the vicar at St. Giles in the Fields. He and his wife will take care of Nell." Savannah paused as if she had more to add, but then she merely shook her head. "She was a sweetmeat seller at the theater houses. Wanted to be an actress."

"Betty, was it?" Tristan also helped up the woman next to Savannah, waiting until she steadied herself. "I'm taking Miss Savannah home. See that Dem knows of this."

Savannah snorted. "Catch on quick, you do," she muttered. Louder, she said, "Betty, if anyone has information, they're to tell Dem." Then her voice lowered, hardened. "I want to know who did this."

Betty offered a quick bob and disappeared into the crowd. No one touched the body, didn't rifle through pockets for a bit of coin or a charm. Savannah watched over Nell with a ferocity that kept everyone else away. Tristan didn't watch Betty leave, just stood guard with Savannah over Nell's body until Robbie and Mr. Christie returned. Things moved fast here.

"Miss Savannah." The vicar nodded with a sorrowful glance at the body. "I'll see she's taken care of."

"Thank you, Mr. Christie. A proper burial, if you please." Then she turned toward Tristan, watching him with dark, tired eyes. "Browne is waiting at the church with the carriage."

Tristan nodded so she wouldn't see his confusion. Why would Browne, who would fight to the death for any one of the Shaws, stay by the carriage instead by Savannah?

"Let's go." He didn't take her hand, though he wanted to, the reflex so natural and innate. Instead, he took the basket she carried, with her herbs and poultices, and placed his hand on the small of her back.

"I don't need protection," she insisted as they stepped away from the crowd. "I need to know who's killing the women of St. Giles Rookery." Savannah met his startled gaze. "And I want your help to find out."