Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

" Y ou're doing what ?"

The next morning, after rising far later than she normally did, Savannah breakfasted at the small table in her room. Her parents had already eaten and left for their morning activities, but Lyneé had stayed behind to enjoy a late breakfast with her.

Savannah had expected her sister's disbelief. She'd expected an argument or three.

She hadn't expected the laughter.

Once again, she hadn't slept well, her mind turning between her vague plan to find this rich man—or group of men—who enjoyed killing women and her all too easy reliance on Tristan. Savannah preferred not to dwell too much on that last part, but she'd come to a stop on the first.

Truthfully, other than investigating several society gatherings and dancing between the significant and subtle questions about what happened with Tristan, she hadn't a clue how they might find any hint about the perpetrators of these murders.

In the corner of the room, Jiesha watched her with wide, brown eyes as she happily munched on her walnut treat. Savannah wondered if the rabbit might like a change in scenery. So far, she enjoyed eating and hiding beneath the bed. None of the servants said anything against her after Anna's rather dramatic introduction, but they were all wary nonetheless.

Still, Jiesha did enjoy scaring her in the middle of the night by hopping onto the bed and racing around it.

"I'm pretending to reconcile with Tristan so we can find the person or persons responsible for these murders." Savannah left the table for her seat by the windows as if that were the most normal response imaginable. "In this ruse, I plan on engaging in several societal activities that will, hopefully, bring us in proximity to the information I require."

Lyneé laughed harder. Savannah rolled her eyes and finished her coffee. Unlike Lyneé, who preferred tea, Savannah enjoyed the Egyptian coffee Tristan drank. One of the many things she tried not to think about when it came to him.

"Why not ask me or Mama along?" Lyneé asked, far too innocently for Savannah's comfort. "Papa, even, though I agree he has a tendency to overreact."

With his children's safety? In Hugh Shaw's mind, there was no such thing as too much safety. When it came to his family, "overreaction" didn't even enter his vocabulary. So far, Savannah had been lucky only Browne and Peters followed her. Though now that she thought about it, perhaps Tristan's presence had somehow eased Hugh's mind about Savannah's activities.

"Mama has her own life."

Lyneé snorted at that pathetically weak objection. "And me?"

"Two women entering the marriage mart this late in the season would cause far more talk. This isn't about me entering society; it's about me using my resources to discover a wealthy gentleman"—though "gentleman" was dubious given the circumstances—"who thinks murdering poor, working women is a game. This is about discretion."

Lyneé chortled again. Savannah seriously thought about throwing an egg at her sister's head. Or having Jiesha bite her. Did rabbits bite?

"Savannah…" Instead of finishing whatever she wanted to say, Lyneé merely shook her head again, still grinning.

"I need to be able to move in society without gossip." She huffed and waved her hand before Lyneé could laugh again. "Gossip about me is one thing. People already talk about the color of our skin and the means by which we earn our money. Focusing on me—rather, Tristan and me—will keep them off our true goal."

"You could simply investigate yourself." Lyneé sipped her tea, her eyes dancing mischievously over the hand-painted teacup. That factory, near Coventry, was of their many investments. "I'm sure many men would welcome the opportunity to court you, even at the end of the season, unorthodox as that is."

"I'm not looking for a courtship," Savannah snapped. She set her cup down with a decisive click.

Lyneé merely raised her eyebrows.

"I'm looking for a murderer. I only happen to be looking in a higher societal setting than I originally anticipated."

"That is concerning." Lyneé looked out the window, shaking her head. "It had never occurred to me that someone might wander St. Giles looking to murder just anyone. A grudge, yes, I could see, but this?" She shook her head again, all humor vanished.

"A whim, a bet, the thrill of it?" Savannah shrugged, privately agreeing with Tristan's assessment of the situation but unwilling to admit such a thing aloud. She already spoke too much of him, and to him, for her liking. No matter the pull still between them.

The harder she pushed him away, the nearer he drew.

Perhaps if she kept him close, she'd once more realize all the ways they did not suit. Abandonment, for one.

That was the only reason she could recall at the moment, however, and it vexed her to no end.

"Have you spoken to him about, well…" Lyneé waved a hand, the berry on her fork coming dangerously close to being flung off. "Things."

Savannah wondered if Jiesha liked berries. She meant to find a book or a pamphlet on the care of animals but forgot, what with everything. She'd ask Coyle, her lady's maid, to find something in the bookstore.

"No." Savannah sniffed and ensured the bricks that remained in the wall around her heart stayed intact. She was terrified that the more she strengthened that wall, the more cracks appeared. "There are no things we need to discuss."

"Savannah."

"Lyneé," she said in the same tone. "What discussion is there? ‘Why did you leave?' Because I wanted adventure . ‘Why didn't you ask me along?' Because I didn't want you there ." She swallowed hard against the pain closing her throat and stabbing her heart, but she kept her voice even. Savannah doubted she fooled her sister. "What more is there? There's no need to rehash that particular event, thank you."

"And this, ah…plan? Is a good one because you have no feelings for the man whatsoever?" Her sister did not sound convinced. Savannah didn't blame her.

"It's a good plan because it'll allow me to gain easy access into the last of the season's events." She ignored the obvious torture in this plan. It already cut through her. "It's simply a matter of convenience."

She had regrets, but there was no other way for her to investigate. Well, there might've been, but she couldn't think of one. Not without additional gossip. Plus, she didn't want any more of her women dying.

Lyneé snorted and finished her breakfast. She didn't state the obvious. She didn't need to. Lyneé was there when Savannah discovered Tristan had left without a word. That he'd sneaked off on his ship, without her , with the barest of notes and the flimsiest of excuses. Lyneé had held her as she'd sobbed, her room a mess of anguish and rage and heartache so profound, she thought she'd wither away from it.

She hadn't, of course.

She'd moved bedrooms, redecorated in a lighter style than she'd previously enjoyed, and hadn't stepped foot in that room since. It didn't make the memory of Tristan's leaving any easier to handle. It barely made her feel better. But at least this room offered her a beautiful view of the rear gardens.

"What are your plans for the day? Another suffragist meeting?" Savannah asked, in a vain attempt to change the subject. Whatever they spoke of now, Tristan's presence hung in the air as if he stood beside Savannah.

"The offices with Papa." Lyneé stood. "Several ships put into port overnight, and the manifests need checking." She offered a sly smile. "And perhaps a talk with Mr. Fitzsimmons."

Laughing, which was always better than crying, Savannah finally looked through the mail Walters had delivered this morning. "I'm sure Mr. Fitzsimmons will welcome such an interaction." Had he told Tristan's man where she had been the other day? She glanced up from the stack of invitations with a faint, knowing smile. "He seems rather attentive."

"He's interesting," Lyneé admitted.

"What's interesting are these invitations," Savannah scoffed, waving one in the air. "Interesting isn't a man with whom you claim to enjoy spending time."

Lyneé waved away that observation with a huff. "Tell me about the invitations."

"I think," Savannah said slowly, holding up one from the pile, "we'll start with the Crichtons' afternoon picnic tomorrow. They've always been nice to Mama. And I enjoy spending time with Eliza."

"She might have an idea," Lyneé agreed. "She keeps abreast of all the gossip thanks to John's position."

How Eliza might have heard about murders in the rookery, Savannah had no idea. The knock interrupted her.

"Miss Savannah." Walters bowed, looking sour. "Mr. Conrad is waiting for you in the parlor. Shall I tell him you aren't at home? Perhaps gone to the country for the foreseeable future?"

Lyneé snickered, and Savannah swallowed a laugh. "I'll see him, Walters. Thank you."

"As you say, miss." Walters bowed again, but he didn't look happy.

Grateful for that small boost from the staff, Savannah finished her coffee and gathered the invitations. "Enjoy your meeting with Mr. Fitzsimmons," she called over her shoulder.

Savannah hesitated at the top of the steps. Her stomach jumped with nerves, but she couldn't decide if it was because of Tristan or finding this killer. Either way, she felt like she was stepping onto a new path.

A dark path in the middle of nowhere, and one that she had no idea where it led.

Annoyed with the direction of her thoughts, she hurried down the stairs and into the front parlor, where guests were received. Had Tristan ever spent more than a spare moment in that room? Another inconsequential thought she dismissed.

"You're out early," she said upon entering.

Dressed in a more fashionable waistcoat and jacket this morning, he looked as if he'd stepped off a fashion plate. Savannah frowned. She wore a plain morning gown since she'd planned to remain at home and brew tinctures. Where had he been? Or was he going somewhere?

"I brought cheese," he said in lieu of a greeting, gesturing to the table, where a small selection of cheeses lay next to what looked like fresh toast and a pitcher of carob juice.

"You did." Her steps faltered in time with her words. Savannah hadn't expected this. She hadn't expected him at all this morning, perhaps a note sent round later with plans. Certainly not cheese and toast. "Why?"

He grinned, but his blue-green eyes remained guarded. It set her on guard as well. She had no idea what was happening. Savannah couldn't remember ever feeling so wrong-footed around him.

"This is a local cheese from the countryside around Antwerp. It's a hard cheese, slightly nutty, from one of the abbeys there."

Savannah cautiously crossed the room, as if he held a pistol aimed at her heart rather than an innocent piece of cheese. The invitations in her hand crumpled within her clenched fist, but she couldn't quite force her fingers to release them.

"Why?" she repeated.

Tristan silently thanked Arnault. His friend had been right about the cheese, but the look on Savannah's face told him she didn't waver as much as he hoped. Still, she enjoyed cheese, he'd always enjoyed spoiling her, and this seemed an opportune time to start again.

"I came with several errands," he admitted. She took another cautious step closer, as if he offered a poisoned apple instead of a delicious selection of cheeses. "I thought we could enjoy some cheese and toast while we discussed things. But let's start with Jiesha."

Another step, but she stopped just out of reach of the cheese. "Things?" Savannah shook her head. "Are you bribing me with cheese?"

Tristan offered a short laugh and grinned. She knew him too well for his own good. "Not bribing." He gestured for the settee and waited until she carefully sat on its edge. "Apologizing."

Her head whipped around, and her eyes watched him like he was a predator about to attack. He deserved that. Tristan set the toast and cheese on a plate; one he'd carried from Aunt Nadia's so he wouldn't have to ask Walters for one. He had a feeling he'd still be waiting if he'd done that.

"There's nothing to say," Savannah said, her cool voice chilling the air between them. She picked up the plate and nibbled the cheese. Humming appreciatively, she took another bite, then set the plate down.

"How is Jiesha? Is she settling in well enough?" He knew precious little about rabbits. One of the men had procured the hay when Tristan smuggled Jiesha from the offices, but that was as far as his rabbit knowledge extended.

He'd been careful to keep her in his cabin, allowing her the freedom to roam without getting lost—or stepped on—onboard the ship. No cages. Not after he'd liberated her from the too-small one in Van Zanten's office. Little Ricky, his cabin boy, had reluctantly watched that she didn't escape.

"Well enough," Savannah admitted cautiously. "Why a rabbit?" Her head tilted just the slightest, as if she didn't want to give away too much. "Of all the gifts you could've brought in your so-called apology, why her?"

Tristan caught her words. His so-called apology. While Tristan had planned on offering a full apology the moment he'd met her, circumstances had changed that plan. He didn't need to glance at the pocket doors to know they stood wide open, but, given the hour, her family was most likely not at home, off to their own errands. He was somewhat surprised she remained.

There was much he wished to discuss with her, and the apology sat at the top of the list. However, he had no desire to deliver it with a bevy of servants ready eavesdropped on their conversation. They most definitely did not trust him.

Another excuse.

"When I was in Antwerp, I planned on visiting Karl Van den Berg. You remember him?"

She nodded and picked up another piece of cheese. Van den Berg's sister had married an Englishman, a close friend of his eldest sister's husband, and Tristan had felt it necessary to at least pay the man a call.

"He was engaged in a tricky deal with Van Zanten…something about taking over part of Van Zanten's trade. I'm not sure why, but Karl was determined."

"All right." She sipped the carob juice and delicately wiped her lips.

"Van Zanten is not the nicest nor the most generous person I've ever met." Which might've been the largest understatement he'd ever uttered. "He collects things and displays them in his office, often in cages."

Savannah scowled and sat straighter. "He displayed Jiesha in a cage?"

"She was far too large for it," he admitted. The image of Jiesha inside that too-small cage still haunted him. "I've no idea where he found her. I'm not privy to the workings of rabbits as pets, but apparently, he bred them." His face darkened, and he glowered at the table of cheese and toast. "He abused his two office workers as well."

"Bastard," Savannah spat.

Tristan almost smiled. How had he forgotten that about her? She grew up on the docks, around sailors, so naturally she cursed like one. It was a point of consternation for her mother, but Savannah didn't let that stop her.

"Indeed." He held out the plate of cheese again, but she waved it off. "So, I took Jiesha, enticed the two office workers away with the promise of food and freedom, and found their families, who were also indebted to Van Zanten. Then I left with the man's cargo, the information Karl wanted, and no doubt a hefty bounty on my head if I ever return to Antwerp."

"Good." She laughed. A real, genuine sound that washed over him and made his heart pound faster. Oh, how he'd missed that sound, the echo of her laughter he'd dreamed about so often.

"I have a list of invitations for various events we can attend," she said, still grinning.

"I have some news on the cravat," he said at the same time.

She looked at her lap, where the small stack of now crumpled letters lay. Tristan struggled with his apology, the planned words heavy on his tongue. How did one even apologize to one's fiancée—former fiancée, he supposed—when one had literally abandoned her?

He didn't. She refused to hear him, and he supposed he deserved that, too. No matter how it cut his heart. He'd done this to himself.

"What have you chosen?" Tristan asked instead, torn between voicing his apology and letting her set the pace.

"The Crichtons' picnic tomorrow." She aimed her gaze at him, and he swore he saw indecision there. "And perhaps the theater tonight."

"Good choices." He smoothly switched from cheese to the cravat and pulled out the piece in question. "I had my first mate ask around about this. Arnault knows his fabrics and swears this is a special silk from China."

"Arnault?" Her hand hovered a piece of toast and cheese halfway to her mouth.

"Frederic Arnault," he said. "A good man and a better sailor." Tristan paused. He didn't want to go into how Arnault had handed over the captaincy of the ship to a man—Conrad or not—who had never captained a ship in his life. "A close friend."

Arnault was there when Tristan had second—and third—guessed himself over leaving without a word to Savannah, when he'd wondered what kind of stupid fool he'd been. When the weight of his actions had crashed down on him. He'd been young and stupid, but he'd still sailed forward, determined to find that elusive part of him he thought he'd been missing.

"He sailed with Karl during the wars."

Savannah finished her bite and hummed. "I see. You met—" She broke off, her back straight and her head high. She no longer looked at ease. "And does he think this cloth is sold here?"

"He said it's imported, so I have a list of several tailors I'll investigate." Tristan willed her to ask the question he knew she wanted to ask.

But with the parlor doors open and the distinct lack of privacy, he knew she wouldn't. Once again, this was not the place for apologies, discussions, or explanations. He knew part of him purposely put off such things; there'd never be a perfect time.

"All right." Savannah stood again and paced toward the window.

Tristan stood as well and watched her. The stiff set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin. He didn't need to see her face to know she'd closed her eyes, pressed her lips tight together. Or that her hands were clenched in front of her, her way of keeping her emotions in check.

"Yes." He moved closer but stopped, not at all certain of his next step. Jaw clenched, he clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. "I'll make the arrangements for the theater tonight. The Royal Opera House? It's the closest to St Giles."

She nodded.

"Will Tetya Nadia do as chaperone?"

Her head jerked to the side, but she otherwise didn't move. "You don't trust my parents?"

"Your mother might toss me over the balcony," he admitted and swore her lips curved into the ghost of a smile.

Probably at the thought of his ignoble demise, but a smile was a smile.

"Be prompt." She turned around and faced him, that slight relaxation once again evident in her shoulders. "We have a lot to do."

"Are you returning to St. Giles today?"

"No, I—" She stopped, and her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I thought I'd escort you if you were," he said in as neutral a tone as possible.

"Why?" She grimaced at her repetitiveness. He knew she hated to repeat herself, but he didn't back down.

"Until we discover who is after these women, it's best you aren't alone." There, nice and simple. His temper boiled beneath those reasonable words; she always put everyone else ahead of herself.

Even him. Especially him.

"I won't have a guard," she shot back, her own temper boiling over. "Not you, not Browne, not the dock workers. Not even Papa."

Tristan didn't think Hugh Shaw would let his eldest child wander around unprotected, no matter her prowess with a dagger. Her father had apparently hired additional guards for her at one point, which only somewhat mollified Tristan.

"Someone tried to kill you, Savannah!" So much for reasonable. His temper boiled over.

"I fail to see how that affects you. Or why it matters so much when I was so easy to leave in the first place!" Jaw clenched, she glared daggers at him and turned for the door.

"You weren't."

In the quiet that followed that declaration, she stopped. Tristan didn't look away from her. Her arms were taut as she clenched her skirts, her body vibrating with anger and hurt and pain—all caused by him.

"You left," she whispered into the silence, her voice breaking. "You kissed me goodbye that morning, lied about your plans, and left."

"I did." That was only part of the story, but he didn't press it. He moved silently across the room, but Tristan knew she could sense him doing so. She hadn't moved. "I'm sorry. No number of apologies will change what I did or the hurt I caused you."

"Why return?" He heard the tears in her voice, and it tore him in two. "You could've made port and never spoken to me. I would've heard about your return from Papa or Tetya Nadia, or maybe a simple rumor. We could've got on with our lives." She met his gaze, her eyes dry but he saw the heartbreak in them. "Our separate lives."

"That never occurred to me," he admitted. "All I thought about for three years was seeing you again."

"Yet it also took you three years to return." She stepped backward, chin tilted, and he reached for her. Savannah swatted his hand away and backed out of the room. "This is not a reconciliation. This is nothing more than a means to an end. It's convenient for us to pretend while we discover who owns that cravat. That's all this is, Tristan Conrad. Don't forget it."

At the doorway, she whirled from him and stalked across the foyer, leaving the cheese, and him, alone.