Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

S tupid.

Savannah licked her lips, tasting Tristan there, and hurried through the foyer looking straight ahead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What had she been thinking, kissing Tristan like that? She hadn't been thinking—that was the problem. She'd heard the men's laughter, didn't want to be caught, and reacted.

Because of course kissing Tristan was her reaction.

He kissed the same as ever. Tasted the same. The press of his body against hers reminded her of the many times they'd stood in that same position. Only the touch of his hand on her cheek felt different, the barrier of his glove unusual in their long acquaintance.

Acquaintance.

She snorted as she found their box and slipped inside. Acquaintance—what a thin, fragile, threadlike word for their life together. The first time Savannah met Tristan, when he was two and she four, they'd connected. They'd just drifted toward each other like a ship putting to tide. Inexorable. Inseparable.

Several patrons eyed her suspiciously as she took her seat, head high and very much alone. She ignored them all. Returning alone was, no doubt, the most scandalous thing she could've done in their eyes. Aunt Nadia and Uncle James waited in their box, as if they hadn't moved. James's eyebrows shot upward, but Nadia merely tilted her head, face placid, and gestured for their seats.

"You seem to have lost someone," she whispered in Russian.

Savannah gave her godmother a slight nod as the curtain rose for the second half. "He's making a nuisance of himself with the staff," she answered in kind. Nadia had taught her own children, Savannah and her siblings, and the Conrad siblings her native language, a private game amongst them when they were young.

When she was a girl, it'd been exciting to learn a language almost no one else in London understood. She'd envisioned traveling Europe, blending into the Russian countryside, finding spies.

She hadn't taken it as seriously as Tristan had, of course.

"I'll find him," James said with a beleaguered sigh.

"And your breathlessness?" Nadia turned just enough so it looked as if she watched the play, as if they were discussing some tidbit about it. But Savannah knew her godmother's entire attention rested on her. "From your run back here, no doubt."

"No doubt," she agreed. She knew they both understood it was lie.

But she couldn't admit what had truly happened. How even now, her lips tingled with the feel of his against hers. How her heart raced, her blood hot, arousal pooling between her legs. Shifting in her seat did nothing to assuage that burning need. It only brought attention to her.

Damn Tristan! Or damn her—she'd instigated the kiss. She'd proposed—again with the terrible choice in words—this charade. This farce. This…heartbreak.

Savannah looked below but saw only a colorful blur of people facing the stage. She tried to focus on the play, but nothing made sense.

"When I suggested this," she told her godmother, "I thought it would be easier."

"Because you no longer have feelings for him?" Nadia fully turned from the stage and watched her. Her voice gave away nothing about her feelings on the matter. Her face remained a mask of polite concern. No I told you so or mocking smirk.

"I don't know what I feel," Savannah admitted. The first time she'd done so since Tristan's return. Since his leaving, for that matter. Perhaps talking with him wasn't the most terrible idea ever. No, the most terrible was this idea, pretending they were engaged. Engaged again.

Perhaps she should've taken Lyneé up on her offer, but Savannah hadn't wanted any of the scandal that tainted her to touch her sister. There must've been a half-dozen other options, but even now she couldn't think of one.

Nausea made her lightheaded. She closed her eyes, willing her stomach to settle, her heart to stop pounding quite so hard.

"Sorry I'm late." Tristan slipped into the seat beside her and offered a charming, easy smile, as if they hadn't just kissed in the staff corridor. As if she hadn't sunk into that kiss. As if the last half hour—the last three years—hadn't happened.

James resumed his seat beside Nadia without a word. Only a few sconces lit the box, casting shadows over them.

"Discover anything?" she asked, the words making her chest ache with the effort it took to push them out. Savannah tilted her head to show off the diamonds and pearls sparkling in her hair and forced a polite, teasing smile, one designed to show their renewed relationship.

He leaned closer to her, his face toward the stage once more, as if he enjoyed the play as much as the rest of the crowd. Laughter at whatever just happened on stage filled the theater. She curled her hands around each other and stared ahead, all too aware of those who were watching them.

"Many things," he said enigmatically. It took everything in her not to swing her head around and stare at him. "But, for tonight's purposes, I discovered that all the women are scared. Not only those who live in and around St. Giles. Even the actresses who live well in their own townhouses."

"Women talk. They share information. I know you look at things differently, Tristan, but not many men care about the fears women carry. They dismiss such things." Savannah kept her face blank, though her stomach clenched at the news. "But I'm certain it's not enough to stop the attacks. Especially since they're occurring in daylight as well."

She slanted a frown in his direction and quickly smoothed the expression off her face. Theirs might be a private box, but people watched and listened. They were supposed to have reconciled—any hint otherwise would ruin that perception.

"I will stop them." His words carried a weight, a promise, a vow. "I swear, Savannah, I won't let this continue." He covered her hand with his and squeezed it. " We won't."

She believed him. Not because of his words, which would've sounded like a boast coming from anyone else, but because she knew him. He had been raised differently. To him, women were not property but companions. Equals. He'd always treated her as such.

"I know." She licked her lips, and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

Unable to stop her lips from parting, she all too vividly recalled their kiss from earlier. She wanted to kiss him again. Not to see if he tasted the same—clearly, he did. But because she simply wished to kiss him again. And again.

It hadn't mattered before, when she had the freedom to kiss him. Now it felt scandalous. A forbidden fruit she strained for, ignoring the fire she played with. Annoyed at her mixed metaphors, Savannah returned her attention to the play.

"I'm not ready," she heard herself say, just low enough her words reached her own ears. "I owe you nothing, not an explanation nor my continued presence."

Closing her eyes, she pictured Aunt Nadia and Uncle James behind her. Whether their attention was on the stage or a conversation in the next box or an internal monologue, she had no idea. But her godmother's presence kept her sane in this tumultuous swirl of emotions when the past had reared up and clenched her throat.

"You do not," he agreed in that same quiet tone. "I'm the one who should offer you everything on my knees."

Startled by his admission, she watched him from the corner of her eye. "Yet you still left."

"I made many mistakes," he admitted.

Once again, she wondered if another woman was one of them.

"I have no right to ask, but I will anyway. Will you grant me the chance to explain?"

"I have no idea what you can confess that will make anything better. It won't fix the last three years, or, I don't know, whatever you hope to accomplish." Talk to him. Her mother's words echoed in her heart, and Savannah nodded. "But I think, for my future, it is in my best interest that I listen to you so I may put the past aside."

His hand covered hers again as the audience laughed and applauded. "That's all I ask."

It sounded so simple. An easy conversation—not even that on her part. All she need do was listen. If she didn't wish to speak, she wouldn't. This was all on his shoulders.

Savannah stared unseeing at the stage. She didn't really believe it would be simple. Because talking with Tristan meant telling him of her pain of these last years, and she didn't think she'd keep quiet about that.

Tristan stood outside the theater and watched the Shaw carriage disappear down the street. He'd deposited Aunt Nadia, who watched him with an unreadable expression, Uncle James, who grumbled about fools beneath his breath, and Savannah, who didn't watch him at all, into the carriage with their footmen and promised to be safe.

Uncle James had offered to accompany him, but Tristan refused, claiming he needed time alone.

He hadn't disclosed his hastily constructed plan, he suspected they knew where he was headed. He turned toward St. Giles, a fashionably dressed gentleman out for a walk after the theater. His khanjar, a specially made Egyptian dagger his mother had taught him how to use, lay strapped to his hip beneath his evening jacket.

The warmth of the summer evening pressed around him, and he briefly lamented not strolling along with Savannah. Hand in hand, her wide smile brightening his night, her soft whispers wrapping around him. The promise of them. The one he'd rejected.

Walking with her here wasn't safe—last night had proved that. And he'd never endanger her because he wanted her by his side.

He wanted many things, but right then he wanted his head on straight. It still swam with her kiss, the hot spice of her lips pressed against his. The memory of the thousand other kisses they'd shared. The promise he'd walked away from.

Denmark Street bustled with after-theater activity. In the darkness, the rundown buildings loomed awkward and menacing at the same time. They closed in on the street like a heavy fist. People lingered in the streets, watching the foot traffic or screaming up three stories to their neighbors.

He sensed the man before he saw him, but didn't alter his step or his posture. His dagger lay within easy reach should he need it, and he'd learned how to smoothly unsheathe it long before he knew how to use it. Best be prepared.

If that wasn't the family motto, it ought to be.

"Ah, the used-to-be fiancé." Dem's voice echoed softly along the darkened street from two doors ahead.

"Dem." Dem nodded, and the man who had been acting as Tristan's shadow melted into the crowd. Tristan raised an eyebrow and tilted his head back slightly. "Impressive."

"This is my street, fiancé." Dem said it with a straightforward reasonableness. He didn't seem surprised that Tristan knew he was being followed. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking a walk." Tristan stretched out his hands in show. "It's a nice night."

Dem snorted, and Tristan grinned wider. Behind him, life went on as normal, except no one bothered him. Not even the suspicious brush of a pickpocket. Dem held the power here, Tristan granted him that.

"Thought you was at the theater with Miss Savannah."

"I was. She's safely home now." Tristan didn't know why he felt the need to say that, to tell Dem that Savannah had left with no threats against her life. To show he cared? That was hardly Dem's business. It came as a shock when Tristan realized he meant to reassure Dem about Savannah's safety. "I came to see about the other women."

Even in the darkness, Tristan saw the flash of incredulousness on Dem's face.

"Other women," he repeated flatly in clear disbelief. "Why?"

"Not everyone has Savannah's way with a dagger, or the protection of her name and money." Tristan waited, watching Dem. He saw the struggle on the man's face. He didn't blame him his disbelief. "What other murders have there been?"

"You ask a lot of questions for a used-to-be fiancé."

"I always ask a lot of questions." Tristan grinned, a quick one, there and gone. "I'm a question-asking gentleman."

Dem grunted then stepped back. "Come inside. There's too many ears here."

Surprised, Tristan followed Dem down the street and through the door Savannah had stood before the other day. This must be where Dem and his sister, Ailene, lived.

Inside the small dwelling, a pair of candles stood sentinel against the darkness of the windowless room. A young woman, dark haired and tired eyed, held a sleeping baby. She did not look surprised to find him in her house.

"Ailene," Dem said softly, the harsh demeanor of the gang leader replaced by the worried tone of a brother. Tristan understood that all too well. "This is Miss Savannah's former fiancé."

Ailene's soft blue eyes, haunted and sunken, met his. She nodded. "I've heard of you, Mr. Fiancé."

Tristan smiled his most charming smile and bowed low. "Please, call me Tristan."

Dem grunted again, but Tristan thought he detected a hint of amusement in it. "He thinks he can stop the attacks."

"I will." The words escaped Tristan before he could temper them. "I don't boast." He paused. "All right, yes, I can sometimes boast. But I mean this." He leaned forward and met Ailene's gaze. "Do you think Miss Savannah would have anything to do with me if I wasn't honorable?"

"You left," Dem reminded him. "As I recall, you're the used-to-be fiancé. Not the current fiancé."

Ooph . Dem knew how to twist the knife, didn't he? Good on him. "That is between Miss Savannah and me only, and it's not why I'm here."

"You can stop this?" Ailene met his gaze, hers harder now. She looked at her sleeping child and shuddered. "The attacks."

"Yes. Savannah and I will." He paused again. "I know it doesn't seem like it's possible. Attacks such as these happen all the time. But I promise you. Together we can stop them."

"What do you need to know?" Ailene whispered. She looked from Tristan to Dem and held her brother's gaze.

Dem nodded at her. Tristan would bet his ship that, given the closeness of the siblings, Dem would help because of his sister. His continued power over the street aside, he clearly cared for Ailene.

"When the attacks started," he said, loathe to interrupt the moment between siblings. "Savannah told me some. What more do either of you know?"

"Rich lords think they can take whatever they want." Dem snorted angrily as he hovered behind Ailene. "They walk our streets after the theater, looking down on us."

"For how long? When did the attacks begin?" Tristan asked. He wondered if Dem had ever thought of holding office. He had no idea what was involved in that, he'd never looked into it himself, but Dem had a passion for change.

"A year ago." Dem's gaze flicked down to the baby. "At first, we didn't think it was anything more than, well…"

"Attacks on women?" Tristan couldn't keep his own anger under wraps. It coated his words, making them harder than he'd intended.

"We don't have the safety your money affords you," Dem shot back.

Swallowing a retort, Tristan nodded. "Unfortunately, money doesn't buy many women safety."

He couldn't count the number of times Savannah had been harassed as they'd walked the wharves or from the Conrad Shipping offices to the Shaw ones. Because of her sex and her skin color. Tristan had fought countless men over it.

"It buys us less," Ailene said. She looked at the babe and shuddered again. "I wasn't the first. There were at least four before me."

Tristan slowly nodded, unwilling to ask any more hurtful questions. He'd make a list: who, where, when. See if anyone remembered anything. Savannah had said Ailene was the last one violated. There had to be a reason for that.

"My first mate might've found where the cravat came from. Mary Kate tore it off her attacker."

"And you think that'll help?" Dem grunted again. "You have big dreams, used-to-be fiancé."

"I have promises to keep," Tristan corrected. "And mistakes to remedy."

Ailene held his gaze, her own fathomless in the scant candlelight. When the babe fussed, she startled, as if she'd forgotten she held him. Or held her? Tristan had no idea.

"I promise." He stood and held Dem's gaze. "If you need anything, send word to Conrad Shipping. Tell them Tristan sent you."

"We don't need nothing from you."

"Not for you," Tristan corrected. "For the child."

"Shaw?" Ailene looked down at the crying child.

Taken aback by the name, Tristan swallowed his questions. She'd named the baby after Savannah? It tugged deep inside him, but he only wordlessly nodded and left.

Outside, on the mostly deserted street, he turned for the wharves and his ship. Tristan didn't know what additional questions he had for Arnault, if any, but he didn't want to return to the Grosvenor Square house yet. Aunt Nadia would have questions—or at least knowing looks—and he didn't want to answer anything yet.

Those answers belonged to Savannah alone.