Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

T ristan walked from Aunt Nadia's to the Shaw household down the street. It hadn't changed in three years, though why he'd thought it would, he had no idea. He could've walked this short route in his sleep, he'd done it so often.

He'd spent more time at the Shaw house than at his own house in Hertfordshire, or even at Aunt Nadia and Uncle James's.

Now, the weight of his dagger on his hip and the knowledge that Savannah had put herself in danger made his steps heavier. He didn't much care about his reception when he knocked on her door. He cared that Savannah insisted on returning to Denmark Street, at night, and if he hadn't agreed to help, he knew she'd have done it alone.

"Walters." He nodded at the butler, who very much looked as if he didn't want to let Tristan cross the threshold. However, the man merely raised his chin in silent, if condemning, greeting and stepped back.

Tristan stepped into a foyer as familiar as his own. This hadn't changed, either. Once again, he had no idea what he'd expected. A complete refurbishment? New décor? Not when that money could be spent on investments, and certainly nothing as wasteful as keeping up with the latest trends in upholstery.

"Miss Savannah will be ready momentarily." Walters retreated to the door like he was standing guard during one of the smuggling runs the families engaged in before Tristan was born.

What did the man expect? That Tristan would run off with the candelabra? Running off with Miss Savannah sounded more likely. Walters hadn't looked at him like that when he used to come round. Back then, he'd had a more affectionate, indulgent look on his face. Unlike now, when he looked as if he wanted to tackle Tristan, tie him up, and toss him overboard.

Tristan's lips twitched at the thought. He rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. Meeting Walters's unwavering gaze, he waited.

"Good." Savannah's clipped greeting echoed in the foyer. "Let's leave."

"As you wish." Tristan offered his arm, much to Walters's disbelievingly raised eyebrow and Savannah's annoyed huff. Or perhaps that huff contained a hint of amusement.

"We'll hire a hackney." She did not take his arm. "Thank you, Walters."

"Miss Savannah." He bowed, his voice thawing for his mistress.

"You look flushed." Tristan bit back the rest of that sentence. That he'd always adored the way her cheeks flushed when they kissed or made love. That he loved to hear her laughter echoing around them as they raced through the house or the gardens, her eyes sparkling with love and freedom, that happy flush on her cheeks.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that your return has set off quite the…conversation." She strode down the sidewalk, head high, her light summer pelisse swirling about her ankles. Her lovely, perfect ankles.

"I'm sure," he murmured. "Are we hiring a hackney so no one knows we're there?" He didn't offer his arm again but easily kept pace. No one followed them, but he knew that wouldn't last. Even dressed in old, informal clothing, a couple walking at night was a signal for any thief in a three-block radius.

Savannah paused, then nodded "Yes."

Eyes narrowing, he watched her as they drew closer to the corner. "And the other reason?"

She didn't answer immediately but sighed. At the corner, she met his gaze. "You aren't the most popular person in the household. Even amongst the servants. This is easier all around."

"And the additional protection Browne offers?" He held up a hand. "Not that I disagree. It's best a local hackney takes us around. Less suspicious that way."

"Are you suggesting you aren't up to the challenge?"

He laughed, refusing to take the bait in her biting words. "I expected no one would let you leave. In my company. Alone."

"There is that," she agreed. Savannah paused again, and he wondered just what sort of argument her family had engaged in before she joined him in the foyer. She held his gaze for another moment, but he couldn't read her thoughts.

"Despite my infamy, I'm equally certain the servants wouldn't leave you to your own defenses. Or mine."

"Browne and Peters are already on the street, waiting for our arrival," she admitted. "It's only a short walk, but we'll hire a hackney at the end of this row of taverns."

Tristan almost made a quip about which row, as most of these streets were lined with taverns and closed markets. Instead, he took Savannah's arm and kept her close. He didn't want her lost. Or worse.

"You've given this a lot of thought," he said instead as the evening crowd jostled them. The theaters hadn't yet let out, and the late crowd had already arrived fashionably late. Here the sellers hawked fruits and sweetmeats. "Why?"

"If you think I'm in the habit of sneaking out of the house, you should know better."

He did snort then. She had more freedom growing up than most women of her station and had never needed to sneak around. She merely did as she pleased. Mostly with him. "That's not what I meant, and you know it." Once more they walked in silence. At the next corner, he stilled her. "You're right, Savannah." Her gaze shot up and met his. He saw surprise there, but she immediately blinked it away. "I do know better. So why?"

She turned away, her gaze guarded once more. Tristan knew he was putting off his apologies, the talk she claimed she didn't want, the one he knew they needed. If for no other reason than to clear the air. Their families were too close not to. He loved her, wanted her. But he'd never force her. And this certainly wasn't the place. He'd work on earning her trust first.

"If you have to ask, you don't know me at all." With that, she hailed a hackney.

The driver had eyed them both dubiously, probably because Savannah had hailed the hackney rather than him, but he hadn't uttered a word. Now, with the cab pushing its way through traffic, Tristan settled in across from her. The cab itself smelled stale, as if the windows hadn't been open since its construction. Neither touched the rug that was folded beside Savannah.

"I realize I'm possibly the last person you want to help you." He'd ask her about that later, why she'd even suggested it. For now, he held her gaze. She sat straight and proud against the jostling of the carriage, shoulders rigid and chin tilted. "I simply wish to know why you've taken such an interest in a single street. It has nothing to do with helping them. This is more."

"Not everyone has the protection we're afforded," she said slowly. Her words rang of truth, but also hesitation. "I have the skills required of a midwife and a healer, and I've spent the last years earning the trust of those I help. Could I do more?" Her head tilted from left to right, but her voice remained quiet. "I think it's important I use my skills where they're needed. And it feels…good, productive. Invigorating, even. Knowing that I have helped others."

"Is that why you've made a pact with Dem? So you can help all the women you can?" He understood that need, the desire for more. It was what led him to leave, to find himself in a way he hadn't thought he could here.

"When I first started, Dem didn't have the power he does now," she admitted with a quick twist of her lips. "I required assistance and the respect that comes from people trusting me." She laughed, a quick, light sound. "Also, he thought he could bribe me into paying for protection."

Tristan laughed. A long, loud sound that ended in a snicker. "Oh, how wrong he was."

"He did learn quickly," she admitted with her first real smile. Tristan felt that smile as clearly as if she'd kissed him. "And from there respect bloomed. Because he respected me, trusted me, others did as well."

He'd have loved to have seen that. Savannah taking on Dem, who thought he ran the street. And perhaps he did, but Tristan knew Savannah. She never backed down.

"He protects you because of that regard." Tristan nodded as the carriage rolled to a stop. Pride warmed his chest. She always had so much to give, such desire to change the world. Here she was, doing just that. "And the women?"

"The gin runs more freely here than the rain." She waited while he exited before accepting his hand and following. Hers closed around his, a squeeze there and gone in a moment. "Dem sees the problem. But he also sees the profit. And in the rookery, money talks."

"It does in most places," Tristan agreed. He offered his arm, trying not to mourn the loss of her touch. After a moment, she accepted, and they walked toward the street, barely lit by any sort of lamppost.

"I'm hoping that here, it leads me to the men who are murdering my women."

It should not have been so easy to talk with Tristan. Not anymore. Yet as they walked from the corner where the hackney dropped them off toward the street where she'd spent most of the last three years, Savannah acknowledged just that. As if Tristan had never left, here she was, sharing her thoughts and secrets and desires with him.

It wasn't as if no one else understood. The reason she had decided on St. Giles was because her parents and extended family had instilled in her a need to help others. Not everyone was as fortunate as she, and Savannah used her wealth, and her understanding of the old remedies, to give back. Her whole family gave back in their own ways.

But if she closed her eyes and tilted her head into the slight breeze, she could envision her and Tristan walking along the square. Or through the woods at Nelda Hall. Just the two of them, off on their own, as they had been since Tristan learned how to walk.

She didn't close her eyes, of course. That would be far too dangerous here, and Savannah had no desire to continue on that path down memory lane. She'd spent the last three years avoiding memory lane.

Her mother's words followed her, however. Urging her to discover the truth so she could lay that part of her to rest. Did she really want to know why he'd left her all those years ago? Or was ignorance truly bliss?

Savannah had avoided any mention of Tristan, any hint of why he'd left. With him now walking beside her, how could she avoid it any longer?

"What are we looking for?" His voice drifted over her, close enough that if she turned her head, Savannah knew she could kiss him.

She licked her lips as if she could taste the memory of his kisses. Longing welled up, closing her throat. It both paralyzed her and made her want to move closer.

"I don't know." Her voice cracked, and she hastily cleared her throat. "A group that doesn't belong. In the darkness, it'll be harder to spot them."

A missing piece nagged at her. About the stranger? About this morning and Nell? She had no idea; she couldn't piece it all together. Tristan distracted her from figuring it out.

If he had stayed, where would they be now? Married with at least one child, she thought with a longing she couldn't ignore. Working in the shipping business, perhaps. Or with him a well-respected lawyer.

Cursing her wandering mind, Savannah shook her head and focused on the street before her.

"There are a dozen taverns. All full," he added with a wry chuckle. "Should we start there, or would this group simply wander the street?" He paused, tugging her closer to the wall of the nearest building. "Do they confine themselves to this block?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I have contacts here—the other streets are run by their own gangs."

"And Lyneé?" he asked. "She tends to those on another street?"

"No." Savannah looked around, but nothing seemed out of place. Still, unease slithered down her spine. "She accompanies me sometimes, as there are many in need of help. Ailene was attacked here. A few others before that, though I never saw the connection. I don't know if there is one."

"Women are attacked every day." His voice held barely suppressed anger. She knew he hated that fact, that so many women were treated as less simply because they were women. But then, he'd been raised in a family of strong women.

"Yes, but this was different." Savannah couldn't explain it yet, not fully. "Then Nora and now Nell were killed here. There's something about this street, but I don't understand what."

"And that man no one knew." He made a humming sound. "For now, let's assume you're correct and he has nothing to do with this."

"All right." She could still envision the knife embedded in the building beside her. Whoever had thrown it had a strong arm. "The attacks happened at random times. No specific hour or schedule I could pinpoint."

"Possibly when they're kicked out of a tavern." He took her arm again, keeping her close. Savannah did not think about his hard warmth or the way he felt against her. How she'd missed the closeness of a male body so in tune with hers. Of Tristan's body. "Or when they lose at the gaming hells."

She frowned, pushing away the feel of his body so close. It wasn't as easy as she'd hoped. "This afternoon, that was different," she whispered, still trying to piece everything together. "At night, I can almost understand. No one could see anything."

"The daytime is different," Tristan agreed. "More dangerous." He grunted, that anger back in his tone. "More of a thrill."

"There are so many variables," she agreed, her voice hot and passionate. "I know this is a long shot, but these women matter. Their deaths shouldn't be dismissed, their bodies tossed into pauper's graves and forgotten."

It was why she'd paid for proper services. Why Mr. Christie had performed them.

"You're right." He squeezed her arm and slanted her a quick look. Tristan didn't take his gaze off the street, though many of the people crowding it now recognized her and moved aside. "We won't let them be forgotten."

"Thank you," she whispered. For all the troubles that lay between them, Savannah knew he meant it. Something in her softened; another piece of the castle wall she'd built around her heart chipped off.

"Don't thank me yet. We haven't done more than walk from one end to another." He paused at the opposite end of Denmark Street as if he stood on the dais at a ball. Or as captain on the deck of his ship.

Bile rose in her throat, and Savannah once more cursed her wandering mind. As if she needed the reminder.

"What do you see?" She didn't crane her neck no matter how she longed to. No sense drawing attention to them. Tristan's height did that enough.

"Nothing." He shook his head. "Well, people, taverns, the usual. But there's something missing."

"I know," she admitted. "Like something doesn't belong here." Frustrated with her lack of understanding, she gripped his arm tighter. No one approached them. The streets had cleared somewhat. Unusual, she thought. Though she'd never ventured here at night, except for the time Dem had sent word—a frantic message by one of his lieutenants—about Ailene.

"Or like someone is trying too hard to blend in."

A chill raced down her spine. "They know."

Tristan nodded. "This time of night, the streets should be more crowded."

"There's no music." Awareness slithered down her spine again, like a warning. Savannah turned, but no one stood behind her. That in itself sent a bolt of fear curling through her.

Tristan's voice lowered. "Have you seen Dem?"

"No, but this early, he might be with Ailene and the babe. Or planning with his lieutenants." Savannah looked behind them again, but nothing stood out as suspicious. Which made her more so, though she couldn't have said why. She also hadn't seen either Browne or Peters.

"We'll walk back the way we came," Tristan whispered. "Stay close."

Before she could answer, Savannah heard it. Not a scream, nothing so dramatic. A scuffle or commotion. Only enough noise to draw their attention. Tristan was already moving, not releasing her arm, and she lifted her skirts, thankful for her practical boots.

"We're too late," he said, though they'd only raced past a couple buildings.

"Find Dem," Savannah ordered the closest person, a man who looked pale in the darkness. "Now." He nodded and raced off. She didn't watch him leave. "Tristan?"

Oh, but it hurt, saying his name. She buried that, too, deep inside where she hid all her other hurts and pains.

"I'm sorry, Savannah." He looked up from where he knelt on the filthy street, which was clogged with filth and rubbish that was now blowing around him and the poor woman on the ground. "Find me a lantern," he barked into the night.

Savannah had no idea where the lantern came from, but Browne appeared next to her as if he'd always stood there. He handed her the lantern just as Dem raced to her side. As she held the light over the body, cold realization swept down her spine. She recognized the woman.

"Mary Kate," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Robbie, fetch Mr. Christie. Take the boys, ensure his safety," Dem ordered, kneeling beside Savannah. "What are you doing here, Miss Savannah?" he hissed. "It's too dangerous out here now."

"Trying to stop this," she whispered back. "Is Ailene all right?"

"Aye." He sounded defeated. In the next breath, he stood, ignored Tristan, and squared his shoulders. "Who saw this?"

Leaving Dem to interrogate the crowd, none of whom claimed to have seen anything, Savannah turned back to Tristan. He'd remained quiet during her exchange with Dem, and it made her suspicious. A quick glance showed her Browne and Peters had melted back into the crowd.

"What did you find?" she asked Tristan.

"What makes you think I found anything?" He glanced up at her, then over at the crowd Dem was addressing. "Nothing."

She didn't protest but stood, still holding the lantern. The night had chilled, the cold skittering over her skin, and Savannah wished she'd worn a warmer coat. It was of little matter now.

Tomorrow was soon enough to discover what little Dem would no doubt learn. And she wouldn't interrupt his interrogation. Not when her own safety relied on his influence. She glanced around the area but couldn't spot Browne or Peters again. Handing the lantern to one of Dem's lieutenants with a quick nod, she turned back to Tristan.

"I'd say we were out for an evening stroll, but I don't want to look suspicious." Tristan settled his hand on the small of her back and guided her back toward the church. "Let's hurry this along."

"I won't argue," she agreed. Ignoring his disbelieving snort, and the cold sweat gathering at the base of her back, Savannah focused on their end point. Whoever had killed Mary Kate had done so smoothly, quickly. There hadn't been time for a warning, a shout. Nothing.

It took only a few moments for Tristan to flag down a hackney, and soon they were on their way back to Grosvenor Square. Savannah didn't sit opposite him this time, but beside him on the hard bench as the cab made its slow way through the heavy traffic of the late season's activities.

For comfort? Maybe. For curiosity, yes.

"Well?" she finally asked.

"Mary Kate, was it?"

She nodded, and Tristan opened his hand. In the dark interior, Savannah saw a starched cloth, the creases still neat and visible despite the way it'd been crushed.

"Whatever struggle ensued, she grabbed onto him."

"Nice material." Savannah took the cravat and ran it through her fingers, her touch far lighter than her tone. "Very fine. Definitely not anything found around here. Mary Kate works—worked—at the same theater as Nell." The words caught in her throat. "They're both sweetmeat sellers and runners for the actresses. This could've come from there."

"You don't believe that." He tucked the linen into his pocket, and his voice sank into a boiling anger. "I don't think she took it from a patron as a gift. What would be the point? A cravat? Unlikely. Not with the way she crushed it in her hand. No, she ripped this from the man who killed her."

Cold fury replaced Savannah's fear. "Which means someone with money is stalking the street. For what?"

"A lark. A game." His voice held a restraint she found hers could not. Still, his simmering anger showed in the way he clenched his fist, the tension in his muscles. "Because they can."

"We're looking in the wrong places, then." She met his gaze. All thoughts of talking about the past had vanished. In their place lay only her desire for revenge. Justice. Her mind raced with ideas and plans, each more outrageous than the last. Finally, she settled on one that was at least somewhat conceivable.

Somewhat.

"I'll have one of my men ask around the tailors," he was saying. "Bond Street, Oxford Street, Pall Mall. Piccadilly, even, and the warehouses. I'll send someone who won't be connected to either of us."

"If these men are as wealthy as this cravat indicates, they'll travel in higher circles than St. Giles. There are still a few events this late in the season." She met his surprised gaze as the hackney rolled to a stop, determined to see this through. "I'm positive I can procure an invitation to at least one. See that you do as well."