forty-two
An afternoon of enquiries at his gentlemen’s club had brought little information to Tristan. Or rather, the lack of information pointed to one person. The person he’d suspected all along. He’d hoped he was wrong, but his fear had become real.
In his study, he waited for George to arrive after he’d sent for him. He flexed his fingers open and closed them. The night had left him tired and sore, but a sense of freedom made him breathe better. And more than freedom, hope. Hope for a future without him being a slave to The Octagon. A future with Effie next to him. A future of love.
George walked into the study, casting him a worried glance. “What’s the hurry? Did something happen? Is it Rowan?”
“Rowan is all right.” Tristan straightened, ignoring his stiff back. “I’ll be brief and go straight to the point. You must stop.”
George was clever enough not to insult Tristan’s intelligence and ask him what he meant.
“Winchester deserves it. He’s an arrogant coward who hides his insecurity behind his title.”
“You can’t?—”
George raised his voice. “Winchester almost killed you and your brother!”
He thumped the desk but regretted it as pain bit him. “Winchester has his responsibility, but destroying him financially won’t change anything, and I care about Effie. I care more about her than about getting my revenge.”
The truth in his own words surprised him. At first, he’d agreed to stop his attack on Winchester only because he wanted to please Effie. But now, his need for revenge was gone, replaced by love for her and the wish to move forwards, have a family with her, and make her happy. He wasn’t sorry for that.
George slouched his posture. “I’m actually happy to hear you’ve found someone you care about.”
He stood in front of George. “Then stop the attack.”
“I’m so angry with Winchester.” George clenched a fist tightly. “I know I’m not the most reputable businessman, but I would never risk people’s lives.”
“I’m angry too, but you can’t live on anger. Anger can only destroy, and I’m more interested in building.”
The door opened, and Rowan entered. “Good evening.”
“Lad.” George’s tone and expression softened.
Tristan rushed to offer him a chair, but Rowan waved him off.
“I don’t need it.” Rowan swallowed, propping himself up on the crutch. “I heard the conversation.”
George exhaled, composing himself. “A conversation that wasn’t for children.”
“Crutches or shrapnel aren’t for children, either, or so Dr. O’Neil said, yet here I am.” Rowan walked to George. “And I’m not a child. Lady Effie is a fine lady. She doesn’t deserve your anger.”
“I’m directing my anger towards her father,” George said. “I don’t want to hurt Lady Effie.”
“She’ll get hurt as well.” Rowan tapped his crutch to touch his bad leg. “As it happened to me. I agree with Tristan.” He glanced at him, and there wasn’t a trace of fear or anger in his face. “Innocent people get hurt when you attack someone only for revenge. If you didn’t learn that after the bombing, then there will be other boys like me.”
George glanced everywhere but at Rowan. “I have nothing to do with the bomb. That was Winchester and the anarchists.”
“I want you to stop hurting Lady Effie,” Rowan said with determination.
He squeezed Rowan’s shoulder and was surprised when he didn’t recoil. His brother smiled at him, and a quiet conversation was exchanged between them.
“We care about you, Uncle George,” Rowan said. “After Father died, you stayed with us and took care of us. We play together. You help me with my homework. Don’t we mean anything to you?”
George worked his jaw as his gaze became suspiciously shiny.
Rowan wasn’t finished. “When my mother left, you went after her because you didn’t want to see me crying. Tristan told me how at Christmas you always shared dinner with him and Papa, even when they didn’t have a penny. We’re your family. Can’t you find another way to confront Lord Winchester?” Rowan asked. “A way that doesn’t hurt Lady Effie or my brother?”
“I’m not hurting Tristan. Quite the opposite.” George frowned.
