Chapter Thirty-Four
Shocked and numb, Tristan stood watching Leticia and Lord Bradbury kissing. Kissing!
He’d returned for his gloves, but instead found the unthinkable—Leticia betraying him. Leticia and Lord Bradbury stood, bodies pressed together, sharing a long, lingering kiss of lovers.
Tristan froze, alternating between rage and hurt. His first impulse hit like a blast of wind; to spin Bradbury around and punch him in the face. Then challenge him to a duel. But Leticia…
Leticia had made her choice. Tristan was a fool to believe he would be worthy of love—the kind of love promised by poets and songwriters and dreamers.
He stumbled backward and felt his way to the street. Somehow, he trudged through the fog around his vision and wound up in a hackney.
“Where to, guv’na?” sang out the cheerful jarvey.
Tristan rubbed a hand over his face and managed to croak out the school’s location. He fell against the seat and sank into his hands.
It was like watching his mother drive away all over again. A familiar, aching hollowness swallowed him—the reminder that if he were a better person and not such a blatant disappointment, she would have loved him enough to stay with him. He had wanted to run after Mama, beg her to stay, vow to be good enough. In the end, it was not enough. He would never be enough.
He barely registered the jarvey’s cheer as he paid the man and got out. The searing pain in his heart blinded him to all else but one horrifying truth; Leticia had kissed Lord Bradbury.
As he stood on the street, rain pattered him, waking him up to his surroundings. He rubbed his hand over his face to wipe off the rain dripping down his cheeks mingling with tears. The charity school stood in front of him. Darkened windows stared at him like the sightless gaze of a blind beggar hoping for a few meager scraps before he gave up and died. The front door hung crookedly and blew back and forth in a breeze. Broken. Abandoned. Forgotten.
Tristan let out his breath in disgust at his maudlin thoughts and pulled himself together. In case the assailant, should he be alive, was hale enough to put up a fight if he were reckless enough to have lingered, Tristan palmed his gun. He pushed the door open, squinting in the semi-darkness for any sign of threat. His ears strained for moans or breathing. All remained silent. He prowled the main floor and then went down to the ground level. Inside the kitchen, he found an overturned table, a broken chair, along with few drops of blood, but no signs of the intruder.
“Who’s there?” An unfamiliar male voice echoed from the front of the school.
Tristan tensed, but chided himself. The attacker would not announce himself. More likely, the constable had arrived.
“I’m Barrett!” Tristan called, retracing his steps. “I’m here to help.”
A lean young man wearing the distinctive scarlet waistcoat of a Bow Street Runner stood framed by the doorway. “Ah, Barrett. Mrs. Tallier said to expect you.”
“I didn’t realize this was Bow Street’s jurisdiction,” Tristan said.
“Your friend is a most insistent old—er, lady.” The Runner, who spoke with an accent that placed him as educated, if not of noble birth, grinned at him. A day’s growth sprouted on his chin and hair black as coal curled around a hatless head. The man didn’t look much older than Tristan but his world-weary eyes suggested he’d seen his share of hardship.
“Old lady?” Tristan asked.
The Runner clarified, “Mrs. Tallier sent a message to the magistrate demanding his assistance. Only Bow Street would do for her. It seems the magistrate, Lord Birnie, and Mrs. Tallier go way back.”
Tristan said, “I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Tallier’s niece. She’s a…friend.” No need to get into the details of what Leticia was, or was not, to him.
The Runner stuck out a hand. “Conner Jackson, at your service.”
“Tristan Barrett.” Tristan shook his hand and jabbed a thumb behind him. “The kitchen shows signs of a fight and there is a little blood but no body in the main floor or lower level.”
Jackson nodded. “Show me.” The Runner showed no deference to Tristan’s higher rank, which suited Tristan just fine.
He led the constable to the kitchen and then showed Jackson around the school. They checked the upper floor, finding no intruder in any of the attic rooms, one of which they had set up for the teacher’s bedchamber before she moved into Mrs. Tallier’s house.
“There should be a caretaker,” Tristan said. “Perhaps he went out.”
Jackson pursed his lips. “I need to question the two people involved. A teacher and a footman, I hear?”
Tristan nodded. “They are at Mrs. Tallier’s house. Share a hackney back?”
Jackson agreed and went to hail a hackney while Tristan locked the doors.
“Sir?” a child’s voice called timidly from behind him.
Tristan located a girl of perhaps twelve standing in the street as if she were too frightened to draw near but couldn’t make herself leave.
He peered at her. “You’re one of the students here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Her mouth quirked in a shy smile. “You ’elped me learn ’ow to dance.”
He nodded.
She sobered. “Is Mrs. ’arper…? Is she ’urt?”
“Do you know what happened?” Tristan knelt to get eye level with the child.
The girl shook her head. “I only ’eard someone say that there was screamin’ an’ a fight and that the man wot loves Mrs. ’arper carried her out b’cause she were ’urt.”
“Do you know who hurt her?”
She stared at the ground. “I think I ’eard tell it were Molly’s father.”
“I see. Do you happen to know where they live?”
She shook her head. “No, sir.”
Tristan fished a shilling out of his pocket. “Thank you.”
She took the coin and studied it as if she had never seen anything of its kind. Looking up, she turned beseeching eyes on him. “Are they goin’ to close the school?”
“Not a chance.”
Fisting her hand around the shilling, she nodded. “I sure ’ope not.” She looked up at him, gave him a quick smile, and disappeared around the building.
A hackney pulled up and Jackson spoke to the jarvey. Tristan joined him as they both climbed in the carriage. At Mrs. Tallier’s house, Jackson got out, but Tristan bade him farewell and took the hackney home. The last thing he wanted to do was see Leticia right now.
What would he say to her? Demand to know her intentions?
Had he been wrong about her all along and she was as faithless as he feared all women were, or had he only thought she’d pledged herself to him because that’s what he wanted to hear, while instead, she was trying to tell him that she wanted Lord Bradbury instead?
He stood at a junction. He could step back and let her have the better man, a lord of unimpeachable character, a man she liked well enough to kiss. If Tristan loved her, that’s what he should do.
He could give in to his selfish desire to fight for her, win her over, convince her they belonged together. But if she had already made her choice, could he do anything to change her mind?
He passed a sleepless night, revisiting the sight of Leticia in Bradbury’s arms, trying to piece together what it all meant, agonizing over his choices and which path to take, and watching through a child’s eyes as his mother left him over and over.
By morning, he could stand it no longer. He dressed in his most sober clothing and went to Mrs. Tallier’s house, only to be informed that Leticia had left for the school.
Alarm quickened his pulse. “Did she go alone?”
“No, sir,” the butler replied, “She went with Lady Averston, Mrs. Harper, and Peter. I sent along another footman for added security.”
At least they’d taken that precaution. After thanking the servant, Tristan went to the school, no longer as concerned with getting answers from Leticia as much as to ensure her safety.
Inside the school doors, Peter stood as immovable and grim as the King’s guard. Tristan exchanged a nod with Peter, and peered into the schoolroom. Children filled the desks. Mrs. Harper, who appeared unharmed except for a bruise under her eye and a reddened cheek, stood teaching with her usual calm efficiency. Her return to work only a day after suffering a frightening attack spoke volumes about her commitment. Tristan stole past the room and headed to the office where he’d found Leticia in the past. A footman the size of a pugilist stood with arms folded, leaning against the wall, his eyes alert. Tristan nodded to him and received an answering nod.
Inside the office, Leticia bent over the desk gathering together several papers and tucking them into a satchel. Elizabeth sat near a window, studying a ledger.
“Tish.” His voice came out hoarse and grim.
She looked up and smiled. “Good morning.”
She seemed pleased to see him. What did that mean?
Her smile faded. “Is something amiss?”
Tristan broke out into a cold sweat. He tried to pull together his mask of flippancy but only managed to feel more desperate. He glanced at Elizabeth.
His sister-in-law stood. “I believe I am in need of a cup of tea.” She glided out.
Tristan balled his fists. “Did I misunderstand you yesterday?”
Leticia’s brow puckered and true confusion touched her eyes. “About what?”
He rubbed at the space between his eyes and pushed his fingers through his hair. “About…what we said…after we kissed.”
Her expression softened, and though a faint blush pinked her cheeks, no shame revealed itself in her face. “About me finally realizing that I love you?”
The wind rushed out of his lungs. He struggled a moment to breathe. “Do you?”
She came around the desk and placed a hand on his chest, the other touching his cheek. “I always have. I was slow to realize it. I do love you, Tristan—so very much.” Her eyes darted between his, searching, probing. Gently, she asked, “What is it?”
“Why did you kiss Bradbury after I left?” Giving voice to his question scraped out the inside of his heart, leaving him ragged and empty.
She paled. “Oh, heaven above. How did you find out about that?” True guilt wrote itself all over her face.
He stepped back out of her touch. “I saw you. I came back for my gloves, and I saw you…and him…”
She pressed her hand over her mouth and let out a strangled noise. “I’m so sorry you saw that. But—”
“Stop.” He laughed sharply. “All this time you were so worried I’d betray you, and I was trying so hard to prove to you I wouldn’t, it never occurred to me you would betray me. Or did you plan on leading us both on a merry chase until you decided which one you wanted? Have you been kissing Kensington, too?”
Her guilty expression stepped back and hurt took center stage. “You don’t think I was leading you on?”
“Either that, or I have a different definition of the word love.” His words came out bitter.
Leticia frowned and her gaze darted to the door. “Do you smell smoke?”
“Fire! There’s a fire!” Peter’s panicked voice boomed through the school.
Tristan rushed to the main room, Leticia next to him.
Peter bounded toward them, pointing to the narrow staircase leading down to the ground level. “The kitchen!”
Tristan and Peter, followed by the other footman, raced to the kitchen stairs, but smoke billowed up, too thick to breathe. Covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, Tristan took the stairs two at a time. Squinting through eyes tearing from smoke, he glanced around. The entire kitchen burned from multiple locations. The back door stood open, the frame splintered as if someone had kicked it in, and an oily liquid moved across the floor leading from a broken lamp on the floor.
Coughing and blinking, his face burning from the blistering heat, Tristan backed up the stairs.
Peter pushed past him, using a blanket to try to put out the fire, but flames leaped up all around him.
“It’s too late,” Tristan shouted. “The whole thing is ablaze. We need to get everyone out of the building and organize a bucket brigade.” He raced up the stairs.
Swearing, Peter followed. “Everyone out of the building. Get out now! Matilda! Get the children!”
Mrs. Harper sprang into action. Leticia raced to the schoolroom. Within minutes, they had collected the frightened children and ushered them to safety across the street. Elizabeth rushed out, her arms loaded with papers and a satchel. Outside, a small bucket brigade had formed with Peter at its head.
“Do you have fire insurance?” Tristan called to Leticia.
“Yes!” She pointed to a distinctive plaque on the outside wall.
“Someone already ran to fetch them!” the footman yelled.
Leticia, Elizabeth, and Mrs. Harper kept the children together and tried to calm them while Tristan, Peter, and several neighbors joined the brigade to douse the flames. Finally, a modern fire engine with a water pump arrived and poured water on the blaze.
To let the firefighters work, Tristan backed off and wandered to Leticia. She stood with her arms around two children, three more clutching her skirts, all staring in fascination at the billowing smoke. Silent tears streamed down Leticia’s cheeks. A grim Mrs. Harper quietly comforted children gathered around her. Peter went to the teacher and stood next to her, not touching her but sending concerned and sympathetic looks her direction.
“It’s all gone,” Leticia said. “Everything—furniture, books…the pianoforte.”
As the firefighters quenched the blaze, impotent smoke billowed into the sky. Volunteers wiped their brows, no doubt sighing in relief that the flames had not damaged their homes or businesses, and drifted away. The school children left one by one. Leticia, Elizabeth, Tristan, Mrs. Harper, and Peter remained alone but together.
“There’s nothing left for us to do here,” Tristan said.
No one had the heart to respond.
Again, Tristan spoke, “It’s time to go home.”
Elizabeth’s coach carried the silent, ashen-faced group to Mrs. Tallier’s house. Though Elizabeth offered to give him a ride home, Tristan declined. He walked. He still had not yet resolved anything with Leticia. Seeing her so bereft at the loss of the school had softened his heart toward her, but the truth remained; she had kissed Lord Bradbury after pledging herself to Tristan.
What did it mean? Had it been anyone less virtuous than Leticia, he might have dismissed it as a farewell kiss. But she’d looked so guilty when he confronted her that it could not have been anything so simple.