The silence that followed was thick with outrage.
“Collect them?” Lady Gillray repeated faintly, “You speak as if she were already…already…”
“My betrothed,” Tristan supplied, “she is. The announcement will appear in tomorrow’s papers.”
Lord Dreadford’s face turned a curious shade of crimson.
“Surely you jest, sir. The chit is scarcely fit for such an honor. I myself…”
“Wished to ruin her?” Tristan’s tone was mild, but it froze the room. “I am aware.”
Those three words carried a menace worse than a shaken fist. They were spoken in the same tone as a blade whispering from its sheath.
Lady Dreadford gave a strangled sound. “My husband…!”
“Your husband,” Tristan said, his gaze slicing toward her, “is fortunate that I prefer not to dirty my gloves twice in one week.”
Dreadford lurched to his feet, fists clenching. “You dare insult me!”
Tristan took a step forward. “I do. And if you so much as breathe a word of my fiancée’s name in any company again, I will ensure the world knows precisely what kind of hospitality you offer to young women. But the slander against your name will not matter to you because you will be dead.”
Dreadford blanched. Lady Dreadford clutched his sleeve and hissed.
“Sit down, you fool!”
Lady Gillray rose unsteadily. “You have no right, Your Grace! Christine is my ward until she marries, and only with my consent. You cannot simply steal her away…”
Tristan turned, his voice quiet but lethal. “Do not speak of theft. You bartered her virtue for favor. You shackled her with work and humiliation. You will not touch her life again.”
Her lips trembled. “You would threaten me?”
“I do not threaten,” he said, “I state terms. Refuse them, and I shall see your name in every scandal sheet from here to Edinburgh. The story of how Lady Gillray sought to sell her ward to Lord Dreadford might amuse the Dowager Duchess’s acquaintances.”
Her face went the color of old linen. “You would not dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” He smiled without warmth, “Try me. Please.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the rain whispering against the glass. Then Lady Dreadford gathered her husband and swept out, muttering about impropriety and ill breeding. The door clicked shut behind them. Lady Gillray sagged into her chair, clutching at the armrest.
“You will regret this.”
“Unlikely,” Tristan said, “my regrets are reserved for the living.”
He turned and strode from the room before she could reply. The butler stood frozen in the hall like a decorative column. Tristan passed him, already done with the house and everything in it. He was halfway down the front steps and across the drive to where his carriage awaited when a soft cry stopped him.
“Your Grace, please, wait!”
A maid had slipped out the servants’ door, breathless and pale, clutching her apron. She looked barely twenty. Her cap was crooked, and rain had dampened her curls. She kept to a corner of the house, out of the view of any of its windows. Tristan glanced at those panes of soft light, seeing no faces, and walked to where the girl stood.
“What is it?” he demanded.
She dropped into a curtsey so deep she nearly lost her balance.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I thought you should know. For Christine’s sake, I mean Lady Christine, she gave me leave to use her name. She is my friend, you see. Her ladyship, Lady Gillray, I mean, intends to go to a magistrate tonight. She says you’ve taken Lady Christine against her will, and that Lord and Lady Dreadford will swear to it. Sir Jeffrey Sharpe, his name is. I heard her dictating the invitation to dinner.”
Tristan stilled. “Kidnapping,” he said softly, “how creative.”
The maid swallowed. “She says she’ll have the Bow Street men at your door before the week is out.”
