Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

" T he second we step foot out of this carriage, there'll be talk." Tristan watched Savannah with a calmness she envied. Though she had a feeling it was all for show, the fact he exuded it with such confidence straightened her spine and wiped all emotion from her face.

"The longer we stay in this carriage, the more talk will spread." She glanced at Nadia and James, who both remained silent.

They had engaged in talk about the wars in India and the dissolution of Parliament. Not exactly small talk, but it occupied the ride and avoided personal matters. Now, swallowing around a dry throat, she forced a smile.

Without a word, her godmother rested her hand on Savannah's and waited. Her decision. Too late now; they'd specifically taken the carriage with the Shaw crest. While they weren't nobility or gentry, the Shaws were extremely wealthy shipping magnates. Consequently, they were highly sought after despite their so-called common ancestry.

Money talked louder than many things, including a freed slave as the matriarch of the family.

Savannah tilted her head and nodded as she watched Tristan tap on the roof of the carriage. The vehicle rocked as Browne jumped down and opened the door. Tristan exited and reached back to help her out. Automatically placing her hand in his, she didn't immediately register the crowd.

Tristan didn't care about her ancestry. That she was the great-granddaughter of a Jamaican house slave who'd been freed on the death of her mistress. That her great-grandmother never talked about the man who'd fathered her only child. Tristan didn't care about her money, either. Of course, the Conrads had plenty of wealth of their own.

He cared—or had cared—about her .

Her lips wouldn't quite form a smile, but she tried anyway. People were watching. The ripple that moved through the crowd echoed in her ears in time to the roaring of her blood. The evening was cool despite the warm day, but Savannah didn't know if the shiver that raced down her spine was a result of the temperature or this new adventure.

"Second thoughts?" Tristan asked as he leaned close, offering a gentlemanly arm as he scanned the crowd.

"No." She smiled wider and accepted the arm, all too aware of the role they were playing. "You?"

His low chuckle sent a different kind of shiver down her spine. One that pooled hot between her legs. That yearning returned. She mentally cursed him for that, though she'd never tell him she still wanted him. For three years, men had tried courting her. For three years, she had no interest in any of them.

None had made her blood race with yearning, or her heart turn over in her chest at the sight of his smile.

As they walked into the theater, she realized the truth of the matter: This was a terrible idea. It ranked first among any bad idea she'd ever had—number one of truly awful ideas. Whatever made her think she could go through with this fake engagement, Savannah had no idea.

"Do you recognize any of the women?" Tristan leaned close and whispered the question so it floated between them. His warm breath felt like a caress along her skin.

Tamping down that ridiculous feeling, she reminded herself that his words were simply words—no more, no less. Once again hearing her mother's admonishment echo in her heart, Savannah turned. His eyes looked greener now as they darkened with his arousal.

Her heart skipped again, and she cursed her foolishness. Perhaps she did need to know why he'd left. Why he'd returned. And why he still seemingly cared. For her own sanity, since she didn't seem capable of turning away from him.

"No." She looked ahead, but she couldn't take in the people before her as they walked toward the St. Clairs' subscription box. They were a mass of faces and curious looks, nothing more, and she blinked away the image of Tristan's gaze solely on her. "I'll look again once we reach our seats."

They walked in silence, her hand quite properly on Tristan's arm, all eyes on them, and Savannah's heart conflicted. Aunt Nadia and Uncle James greeted several couples and waved her and Tristan along with concerned looks. They knew a great many people; it kept them in business. Savannah wouldn't take mingling from either of them, especially not for the simple fact that she didn't want to be alone with Tristan.

Which made no sense, as she'd proposed this venture. Oh, wrong word. Not proposed . Suggested. Yes, that sounded much better.

"What play are we seeing?"

He paused then laughed. "I don't know." He chuckled again, ruefully this time. "I suggested the Royal Opera House because of Nell and Mary Kate. This is where they worked. I wasn't thinking of the play."

Something in her relaxed. Not at the fact that he took this seriously—she knew he did. At the way he admitted to not knowing that small detail. Tristan looked at the bigger plan, not always the smaller details.

"Typical," she murmured with more affection than she meant, but she doubted he heard her over the crush.

The box sat empty since only Nadia and James accompanied them, and Savannah used the moment of seclusion to look around the theater. Women hawked fruits, sweetmeats, and marzipan to the crowd, while others slipped between the throng, no doubt carrying messages from male patrons to the actresses. Or perhaps some bolder female patrons to the male actors.

"I should've asked who was working tonight," she admitted as Tristan joined her at the balcony. "So many of the women make extra coin here."

"Did Ailene work here?" He didn't look below but at her. Necessary, she supposed, given their ruse. Heat flushed her cheeks and raced through her, reminding Savannah of happier times. "Before, I mean."

Savannah frowned. "No, she worked at Clarks." She met Tristan's gaze. A notorious gaming hell, though of course it wasn't called that. Merely Clarks. "Another victim did as well, but not all of them."

"No, too obvious."

"Yes. I would've realized Clarks was the key if all the women who'd been attacked worked there," she added, all too aware of Tristan's hard body close to hers, of his warmth and the way he watched her.

His gaze never wavered from her face, though Savannah kept hers on the crowd below. Her heart beat that much faster and, traitorous thing that it was, made her want to reach out and touch his hand.

Perhaps she ought to do just that, show those who were watching hungrily what they wanted to see. Calculated, determined, and not at all necessary. Because suddenly she very much wanted to touch Tristan's hand, feel his skin against hers.

Savannah curled her fingers into a tight fist. No matter how she longed to touch him, no matter how necessary she thought it might be for their ruse, she wouldn't. The walls around her heart cracked again, the pieces splintering but not yet shattering.

"I'll visit it," Tristan promised.

Her head swung around, and she met his gaze. Visit? Where? His own gaze held hers, dark and steady, as if he knew exactly where her own thoughts lay. Not on their plan, certainly, and she struggled to remember what they'd been talking about.

Just then, Aunt Nadia appeared, interrupting whatever moment she and Tristan had been having. "Ah. I think I see—" She waved behind her and disappeared once more.

Savannah didn't watch her leave. "Why?" She asked that so often, but she needed answers. "Why did you leave without a word?"

"This is hardly the place for my apology," Tristan whispered just loud enough he knew she could hear him over the din. "Or explanations."

"Perhaps," she whispered back, her dark eyes unreadable. "Tell me anyway."

"I thought I was missing a part of myself," he admitted, the words harder to say now than when he'd thought them dozens of times over the years. "Philip and I had talked so much of adventure and seeing the world after the wars, that I wanted to do that."

"You always did." Her face remained a mask of curiosity. There was nothing untoward that the eavesdroppers might catch on to. "I would've gone with you."

"I know." Tristan took a breath full of hundreds of candles, a mass of people, and the scent of food. He wondered why he'd thought that would help and plunged onward. Or perhaps jumped overboard. "That's what scared me." She stiffened, which he'd expected, and he rushed on. "I wanted you with me. I always wanted you with me. But I thought I had to do this alone."

Her mouth twisted in a grimace, which she quickly smoothed over. Her chin lifted again, her back straight and eyes hard. People judged her enough, and Tristan knew she'd never allow them to see the real Savannah. He'd been granted that. Once. And he'd squandered it. "I see."

"Do you?" He shook his head. "I don't. Not anymore, not after the ship sailed and it was too late to turn around and return to port. I can't count the number of times I regretted thinking that if I left without a word, it might be easier."

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Her hands had curled onto the railing as the crowd took their seats.

Before he could answer—admit he still didn't know, wasn't certain, that yes he had and no he hadn't —Aunt Nadia and Uncle James arrived. Here, with so many watching them, wasn't the time or place to admit that what he needed was and always had been Savannah.

They took their seats, Savannah's gaze on the stage, Tristan's on her. Aunt Nadia sat behind Savannah and muttered very uncomplimentary things about both of them in Russian. Uncle James sat next to her and stifled his amusement.

Tristan couldn't have said what the play was about. The audience laughed, so he supposed it was enjoyable, but he didn't hear a single word. All too aware of Savannah's cold stiffness beside him, her face blanked of all emotion, he didn't move to touch her. As much as he wanted to feel the warmth of her even through their gloves, he kept still beside her.

He did, however, watch the crowd below.

"What are you searching for?" Savannah asked.

Startled, he jerked his gaze to hers and thought she could read his mind. She used to, before he made the biggest mistake of his life.

She turned just enough and tilted her head to the crowd below. "I'm sure many men here have cravats of the finest imported silk." Her lips turned up in the barest smile, for the crowd. Her eyes, however, remained cool as they studied him. "Even you."

"True," he admitted quietly, using their conversation as an excuse to lean closer. "I'm looking for movement." He kept his voice low, so it looked as if they held an intimate conversation. Tristan didn't miss the slightest of shivers that raced down Savannah's spine. "A group of men together. One of the runners returning to the same man multiple times."

"And have you found that?" Her gaze sharpened with her tone, and her fingers curled tightly on her lap.

The answer was still no. Tristan wanted to run a hand down his face, roll his shoulders. In this setting, with the weight of their ruse hanging over them and his very real desire to win her over, he simply shook his head. Burying his frustration and self-loathing only made his temper simmer hotter. "Not yet."

He had a vague sort of plan involving intermission and disappearing backstage, but he couldn't think straight. Not with Savannah so near and his apology so close.

Perhaps that provided the perfect reason for him to disappear.

"Do you recognize any of the women from up here?" He kept his gaze on her—certainly not a hardship. Tristan didn't care about the acting below or the crowd. He very much wanted to kiss her, location and crowd be damned.

Savannah lifted her opera glasses and scanned the area. Instead of following her gaze, he kept watching her.

"How is it that we never attended the theater?" He hadn't meant to voice those thoughts aloud.

Savannah tightened her grip around her viewing glasses, her only outward reaction. She paused in her scan of the crowd, but only for a moment.

"We had other interests," she said, so softly he almost missed it. Would have if he hadn't leaned closer. "Theater, opera, even picnics weren't how we wanted to spend our days." Slowly, she lowered her glasses and turned her head. "Or nights."

He reached out and placed his hand over hers. Let anyone watching them gossip. That was why they'd attended, for the notoriety, the attention. Beneath his touch, her fingers jerked.

"Did you want to attend?" he whispered as laughter echoed around them.

"I never thought about it," she admitted. "It wasn't something…" She shook her head.

He knew. It hadn't mattered then. They'd always made their own fun, enjoyed whatever lark or adventure they planned—or didn't plan, in most cases. They created their own entertainment; they'd had no need to watch it on a stage.

"It's almost intermission." She cleared her throat and slipped her hand from his. "Shall we find our way to the back staircase?"

"I'll slip away," he protested. "Less noticeable."

Savannah offered him the briefest of looks, one that told him exactly what she thought of that plan. Then she turned to Nadia and whispered something. Nadia, who didn't look at all surprised but somewhat smug, merely nodded. Even from this angle, he saw Uncle James roll his eyes. As the first half of the play concluded, Tristan stood and took Savannah's arm.

They slipped through the crowded hallways, past the footmen bearing drinks and the women selling sweets and fresh fruits. Ignoring the curious looks, they headed for the stairs.

"It occurs to me that we should've looked at the theater's blueprints," Savannah said as Tristan led her across the lobby. "Unless you did?"

"I also had not thought of that," he admitted. "However, Uncle James is a sight more knowledgeable about the construction than any man ought to be. He's more than a pretty face, you know," he added, one of James's longstanding jokes.

"Naturally." Savannah offered a quiet giggle as he pushed open a side door partly concealed in the paneling. "He probably smuggled wine into the building."

"I've no doubt." He grinned and eased the door closed behind them.

In the darkness, Tristan wanted to pin her against the wall and kiss her senseless. Wanted to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. Wanted to hear her sigh his name. His cock stirred, his fingertips aching for her skin beneath his.

He did not pin her against the wall. Or kiss her, as tempted as he was. Instead, he took her hand in one of his and felt his way down the pitch-black hall with the other.

"I expected more lighting," she admitted, her voice pitched low. "Someone uses these tunnels; they'd have to find their way."

"Is it suspicious?" He shrugged and turned slightly right, keeping along the wall. "I think everything is."

Ahead, a lone candle lit the way, and he slowed their pace even further. Squeezing her hand in a no doubt unnecessary warning, he pulled her closer against the wall.

Tristan didn't hear anything and peeked carefully around the corner. Empty. He squeezed Savannah's hand again, and they continued onward. At the next corner, which was far more brightly lit than the previous one, the corridor turned in two directions. One, if his sense of this building was correct, lead backstage. The other onto the street.

"If my sense of the building is correct, that way leads backstage." Tristan gestured with his free hand. "The other leads to the street."

"The stage," Savannah ordered.

Halfway toward the clearly marked doors, they opened. A brief crescendo of shouting rolled out as a plainly dressed woman exited, her hands in the pockets of her apron.

"Moll." Savannah's quiet voice stopped the woman.

"Miss Savannah?" Moll smiled and offered a quick curtsy. She eyed Tristan curiously but didn't greet him. "What are you doing here? Begging your pardon."

"We're looking for information," Tristan said.

"About the murders." Moll shivered and looked over her shoulder at the now closed doors. "I don't know nothing."

"I know," Savannah soothed, taking the woman's hand in reassurance. "Are you running notes for any of the gentlemen?"

"Aye. One of them is sweet on Miss Cornelia, has been all season." Moll looked behind her again. "I have to go; the second half is about to begin."

"We won't keep you," Tristan said, stepping aside. "Have you seen anything out of place?"

Moll shook her head and skirted around them. Tristan stepped closer to Savannah, trying not to grin.

"If you see anything," Savannah said, "let Dem know. He knows how to contact me."

"Yes, Miss Savannah." Moll hurried down the hall.

"A season-long affair," Tristan said, watching her leave. "But I've seen numerous women carrying notes back and forth. Where are the others?"

Just then, male laughter drifted from the opposite end of the corridor. Taking Savannah's hand again, Tristan dragged her to the intersection, away from the stage doors. They barely made it before a pair of finely dressed men appeared.

Savannah pulled him against her, her eyes unreadable as they locked with his. Then she was kissing him, or he was kissing her, and nothing else mattered. Only the feel of her lips pressed against his, the slow sweep of her tongue, her almost imperceptible sigh. Tristan braced his hands on the wall and pressed close against her.

He knew she was kissing him so that the two men walking past didn't stop and converse or grow suspicious. Knew she'd done it for concealment as much as misdirection. He knew all that and did not care.

Cupping the back of her neck, he kissed her harder. The memory of their last kiss paled in comparison to this one. It burned through him, a wildfire he could never tame. He'd once thought he wanted to, but now all he cared about was letting it engulf him.

He cursed his gloves, that barrier between his fingers and her skin, but he didn't want to take the time and remove them. Didn't want to pull away, stop this passion burning between them.

"Tristan." The word, as soft as a caress, pulled him back to the present.

He ran his fingers over her jaw, her cheek, his gaze locked with hers. He knew he should step back, wait for Moll's return, and ask about the other women. He doubted the gentleman she was passing notes for was their culprit, but he couldn't rule that out.

Instead, he cupped Savannah's cheek and pressed his mouth against hers again.

"You were all I thought of for three years. No one else ever mattered. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I thought I needed to find adventure. I didn't."

She watched him, her eyes softening. Eventually she straightened and dropped her hands from his waistcoat. She pushed against him slightly and he obliged, stepping back. Head tilted, Savannah cleared her throat and licked her lips.

"Find Moll. She'll know who else is working tonight." She looked down the hall. "I'll find Aunt Nadia and meet you back in the box."

Tristan grabbed her hand. "Be careful, Savannah."

She nodded slowly. "You, too. I don't want anything happening to you before you tell me everything." Then she turned and left, the only sound the faint swish of her gown.