Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

T he next morning, Savannah was quite unsurprised to find Tristan waiting for her after breakfast.

Her father scowled, looking as angry as he had when she'd managed to utter the words around a closed throat and shattered heart that Tristan had set sail. Without her. "I can remove him," he threatened, his voice low and hard.

"No, Papa," she assured her father. "It's all right." Probably.

"Talk with him, Savannah," her mother told her once more, though she didn't scold Hugh for threatening Tristan.

Lyneé looked far more sympathetic toward Tristan than Savannah liked. She didn't ask why; she barely understood her own feelings on the matter. Lyneé's sympathy took Savannah off guard, made her feel even more wrong-footed than she already did.

"At least he'll keep you safe," Lyneé said as she nodded at her own footman and headed off to wherever her plans took her today.

But physical safety seemed secondary compared to keeping her heart safe.

Walters scowled at Tristan, and Browne ignored him, staying in the foyer. It was far too early for this sort of headache.

"May I introduce Mr. Frederic Arnault." Tristan gestured to a tall man with curly blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. "Frederic, Miss Savannah Shaw."

Mr. Arnault bowed, an extravagant show that brought his tall frame low and graceful. He would not disappear into the background no matter where they were. Savannah eyed him with curiosity and a thousand questions racing through her mind.

"Mr. Arnault." She nodded in return and offered a slight curtsy. His lips tilted upward, and his bright blue eyes danced with mirth. "I understand you're responsible for tracking down the silk from the cravat."

"A few well-placed questions," he agreed with a small wave of his hand. "Tristan tells me you're familiar with Karl Van den Berg."

"My family has done business with him," she agreed cautiously. Why the caution, Savannah had no idea. The war was over, and Karl had returned to his legitimate cargo as far as she knew. Even if he continued his smuggling operation, what did it matter to her?

"We imported many fabrics," Arnault said smoothly, as if "imported" wasn't code for "smuggled." Savannah suppressed a grin. "It wasn't difficult to learn the difference between the better quality and the cheap counterfeits."

"I appreciate you looking into this," she said sincerely. Against her better judgment, Savannah found herself liking Frederic Arnault. Though she was still not certain why he stood in her front parlor.

Tristan took her arm and led her away from the doors. As if he'd read her mind, he said, "Arnault won't be accompanying us to the Crichtons' picnic. He's here to speak with your father."

Her eyebrows shot upward. "About the silk?"

"About imports, yes." His hand was warm on her bare arm, and Savannah couldn't decide whether she wanted more of his touch or if she should shake it off. The constant struggle between her two selves exhausted her. "I thought it better for them to talk here, away from the prying eyes of the wharves."

"And you think Papa might know something about it?" Savannah shook her head and took a half-step back. "I already asked, of course."

Tristan dropped his hand and nodded, his blue-green eyes sharp on hers. "It's a step, to see who's importing what. Hugh always keeps track of the competition."

"All right." She agreed with that; her father would know, of course. He kept up with most of the other shipping companies, their cargo, their destinations, their merchant contacts in other countries. Who to do business with and who to avoid.

She stood there for another moment, watching Tristan and trying to discern what her own next step might be.

"Let me introduce Frederic to your father. I'll be right back." Tristan watched her as if she might run from her own house, but Savannah only nodded, taking this moment to breathe freely. Arnault offered another gracious, low bow and disappeared into Papa's offices in the rear of the house.

Savannah thought she should follow. Make the introductions herself, given the complicated relationship she now shared with Tristan. Whatever that relationship was, she had no idea. At one time, it wouldn't have mattered. Now…

She did not take the men to her father's study, did not perform those introductions though she ought. Rather, she stood by the windows and watched the street.

Perhaps after all this, after they discovered the murderer, after she and Tristan went their separate ways once more, she'd visit Christiane, her oldest and closest friend. Savannah frowned. She couldn't remember where Christiane lived.

Dover with her family there? Had Christiane traveled to Nelda Hall? Savannah frowned harder. She genuinely had no idea. Despite the St. Clairs' living a mere five houses from hers, Savannah had truly cut off all contact with anyone who knew Tristan. She hadn't spoken to any family outside her immediate one since emerging from her grief.

She'd write to Christiane, ask Aunt Nadia where she lived now, perhaps actually visit her godmother and family instead of pretending they all didn't live down the street. For now, all she could see was Tristan.

With her eyes closed, no matter what she thought of, it all revolved around Tristan. Ships and cargo and St. Giles Rookery, picnics and theater and carriages. There stood Tristan, watching her with those penetrating eyes. Savannah wished she could blink him away, force him back into the locked trunk in her mind where she'd stuffed her memories of him three years ago.

"Are you ready?"

His voice startled her, and she whirled from the window. Words flew from her lips before she could stop them. "Why are you here?"

His head tilted, but he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Is this the best place for such a conversation?"

"Here, in the carriage, on a walk through the square?" She waved it off but didn't look away. "Does it matter?"

"Let's walk the square," he offered. "It's still a little early to leave for the picnic."

The Crichtons' picnic was a ninety-minute drive from town and wouldn't begin until two o'clock at the earliest. Eliza Crichton was a lovely woman, warm and caring, but never on time. Not even, as Savannah recalled, for her own wedding breakfast.

"Let me find Coyle," she said, not entirely certain if she spoke the words or if they forced themselves out.

Her lady's maid didn't say a word when Savannah told her about the walk with Tristan. She merely nodded, kept her comments—and facial expressions—to herself, and went off to find her cloak. For a breath, Savannah debated asking her mother, but Sophia had her own plans for the day. She and Aunt Nadia were off somewhere.

Again, she paused. Savannah had no idea what plans her mother had with Aunt Nadia. In fact, today had been the first time she could remember in three years that Sophia had even mentioned Aunt Nadia specifically.

Savannah shook that off, though it lingered. Nagging at the back of her mind, asking her what else she'd cut out so completely.

It hadn't even occurred to Savannah to ask her mother to chaperone her at Eliza's picnic, as scandalous as that sounded. Even when she and Tristan had been inseparable, she rarely had a chaperone and these days, she was accustomed to making her own way.

Savannah pinched the bridge of her nose. Honestly, everything about their life from before had been scandalous.

The late morning sun shone brightly , and Savannah took a moment to enjoy it as Walters disapprovingly closed the door behind them, with Coyle and Browne walking two steps behind. She tilted her face upward and let the combination of warmth and sunlight seep into her. Coyle did her duty, chaperoning Savannah as if she and Tristan couldn't run off—as if they hadn't numerous times before.

The silence stretched between them for entirely too long considering Tristan had been the one to suggest this walk. That awkwardness weighed down on her, but Savannah kept her head high. People were watching. They always watched her, and now, with word of her supposed reconciliation with Tristan spreading, they'd watch her with even more scrutiny.

"I'm listening," she offered, though her voice snapped more than she'd have liked. She tried to clear her throat, but bitterness lodged there, choking her.

"I don't know where to begin," he admitted. He clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head just enough that it looked to the outside world like they spoke of the weather. Not of deeply personal matters. "I thought I did, but now it all sounds trivial."

Hot anger singed her skin. Savannah clenched her jaw and kept her gaze straight ahead. She would not shove him into the street or slap him again. In fact, she curled her hands around her reticule to keep from doing so.

"Trivial," she repeated. "The last three years are trivial . Your leaving is trivial ."

"No." The word blasted between them like a pistol shot. "Not like that," he admitted in a softer tone.

She felt his gaze on her but couldn't look at him. If she turned her head, she might break. Instead, Savannah put one foot in front of the other and focused on the square ahead of them.

"What I meant is that every reason I thought I had is worthless now."

"They had to have been important." Her temper boiled again, making reasonableness a thing of the past. "You left without a word, disappeared onto your ship with a five-line letter that explained nothing, and vanished for three years. And all that is worthless now."

"Do you know what it's like to run from yourself?"

They entered the square, with its towering trees and manicured paths. If others walked through here, Savannah didn't see them. She focused on keeping herself straight, head high, tears deep in her heart where no one could see them.

In the distance, a dog barked, horses neighed, and carriages clattered by. Savannah kept her attention on Tristan. The soft crunch of his steps beside her, the tempting warmth of his body.

The kiss from last night.

"I know what it's like to stay," she said, those damnable words flowing once more. "I know what it's like to think you had everything, only to find out you have only yourself."

"You always knew yourself, who you were, what you wanted. I admired that about you—envied even. I thought I knew myself," he admitted softly beneath the canopy, a slight breeze drifting between them. "I thought I had everything, but I kept hearing voices."

She stopped them and eyed him sharply. His lips twitched. "Not like that."

Rolling her eyes, she continued walking. "All right." He meant the voices of his youth. The stories he used to weave about great adventures and fantastical voyages. "You mean Philip's voice." She didn't sigh but wanted to. "The stories the two of you made up, about spies and excitement."

"I wanted that adventure, the one with spies and pirates and winning against all odds."

He paused, but Savannah couldn't stop moving. Afraid if she did, she might never start again.

"Philip left for his own adventure. Esme, Grayson, and Yara had had theirs, and I?—"

"Only had me." She wanted to vomit. Her breakfast churned unpleasantly in her stomach, and she swallowed hard, her palms sweaty.

"No." The word shot between them again and roared in Savannah's ears. "I had everything. Everything . But I—I thought I needed more." The words rushed from him now, and Savannah did stop moving then. She turned and watched him, her entire being focused on his next words. Nothing else mattered. "I thought a little adventure, sailing across the North Sea and the Baltic, the cargo and the open sea and the—I thought it was all I needed."

He met her gaze, his eyes full of regret. He was no longer the laughing, charming man she'd once known, nor even the one who had showed up in St. Giles mere days ago. Now he looked broken, as shattered as her heart had been when he left.

"I was wrong. All I needed was you."

Tristan had more he wanted to say. Words and apologies and reasons. He felt them all bubble up in his throat, wanting to break free. He held Savannah's gaze and watched her struggle to keep her emotions in check. No matter how expressionless her face remained, her dark eyes told him all he needed to know.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I wanted the adventure I dreamed about as a boy, but it never mattered. The only thing that mattered as a man was you."

Savannah opened her mouth only to instantly snap it closed. Lips pressed tight, hands wrapped around themselves, she turned around. "Let's walk back to the carriage." She closed her eyes and didn't look at the passersby who stared. "I'm tired of being talked about."

They walked in silence, poor Coyle and Browne behind them. At the head of the square, he saw their driver waiting beside the carriage.

"Why didn't you return?"

A strange combination of longing and adventure. Tristan didn't know how to voice that mixture. He'd already left, had boarded the ship, sailed away, and left that note. It had been too late.

"I'd already hurt you. If I stayed away three days or three years, it remained the same."

She nodded, the barest movement of her head. "And your return now?" She swallowed hard. "You clearly planned that. Found me in St. Giles, brought a present."

"How is Jiesha?" He smiled, hoping Van Zanten had gathered all the bad luck possible after Tristan took the rabbit and the man's two indentured servants, as well as their families, who Van Zanten had kept locked away.

"Terrifying the upstairs staff." Savannah sighed, and her shoulders relaxed slightly. "She sits there, chewing on her hay and walnuts, and occasionally running in circles, but the staff is very wary of her." Again she paused, and her fingers loosened just the slightest. "I'm glad you found her."

"I didn't have a plan when I left," he admitted. "It might seem like I did, but in truth, I did not."

She looked at him askance. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe that. You always have a plan. You take after Yara."

"In some ways." He nodded. "Perhaps I should say yes, I did once." Tristan pushed away all the plans he'd made and broken. All but one, even though they moved closer to the street and the carriage that'd take them to the picnic. "When I decided to leave, it wasn't planned. I'm sure you won't believe me, but I promise you, I didn't plan it for weeks. Or even days."

"I see." She nodded, and he wondered what she did or did not see in his confession.

Tristan snorted. "I didn't even pack a bag. I literally found one of my family's ships and prepared to leave."

"Don't lie," she snapped, all the relaxation of her shoulders gone. "You forget, I grew up on the wharves. I know ships and crew manifests and tides."

"I know." He stopped them just before they left the square and faced her. "It truly was that quick. Arnault, he was captain of the ship. All of a sudden, I thought—this was it. I could board and live out all those stories. So I boarded. I don't know what it was about me, the youngest Conrad, who had never captained a ship in his life, but Arnault let me have that title. I changed the crew manifest, sent a note round to the offices so they could inform my parents, and—" He stopped.

"And that note to me."

"And the note to you," he repeated. "It was not planned or thought out. It was—it was the only thing I'd never truly thought through before."

"Do you regret it?" Her voice held no inflection, and her gaze watched something eminently fascinating over his shoulder. Her fingers twisted around her reticule again, the only outward sign of her feelings. With her shoulders straight and her head held high, no one could tell anything was amiss by looking at her.

"I regret not asking you to join me."

Her gaze flew to his. "Why didn't you?"

He sighed. "I don't know."

Savannah huffed and crossed the street, uncaring of carriages, pedestrians, and pickpockets. Tristan hurried after her, cursing as he skirted a coach's wheels.

"Savannah—"

"Let's leave." She didn't look at him as Browne helped her into the carriage.

Muttering several inventive curses, Tristan followed her. "I thought about it," he admitted as they waited for Coyle. "I did. But something in me thought I needed to do this alone."

"I see." She still didn't look at him.

"I don't think you do," he countered, keeping his voice low. He didn't think anyone could hear them over the racket of hooves and wheels on the street, but this conversation was solely between them. "I didn't think things through; I didn't plan this out. I literally decided one moment and left the next."

Her gaze met his. "I would've joined you."

"I should've asked," he agreed.

"And this return? Why now?"

"I missed you." His voice cracked. "I missed you from the moment the ship sailed. Hours into the voyage, I knew it had been a mistake. But by then it was too late."

She nodded and pulled aside the curtain. The breeze cooled the interior as Coyle entered the cab and they jolted forward. They maneuvered along the streets toward the outside of town, where the Crichtons held their annual end-of-season picnic.

Tristan let the silence stretch, but he had one more piece of the last three years' puzzle to solve before they arrived. He didn't want to spring it on Savannah, but she'd made it clear she was done listening. For the moment.

Instead, he thought back to what he knew of Eliza and John Crichton. As the carriage bounced harder than a ship in a storm, all he remembered was that Eliza's mother and Sophia Shaw were good friends, and that Eliza accepted Savannah, no matter that society considered her so-called merchant class. Or that her family had descended from slaves.

Tristan had once been friendly with John Crichton and now recalled the man's interest in the shipping business. Perhaps today was the day to start rebuilding some connections.