twenty-five
The house was in turmoil the next morning as Effie tried to have breakfast in the sunroom. She’d believed that Papa had overreacted about the situation of their finances, but he’d been right.
Tristan’s aggressive attack was quickly bringing her family to its knees. Papa’s bank accounts had been frozen overnight. Letters of complaints from business associates kept pouring in like confetti at a wedding. The footmen were talking about searching for new employment. A maid had already left, and even Doyle was worried. In the midst of the chaos, Papa was deeply asleep, thanks to one of Dr. O’Neil’s sleeping potions.
She had no time to waste.
Tristan’s revenge had to stop before her family was completely destroyed. Her father would have another fit once he woke up. She would find something to bargain with if Tristan listened to her.
After changing into a dark green morning dress, she slid out of the house almost without anyone noticing.
The crisp air turned into mist around her mouth, and a strong gust of wind slammed against her chest as if it wanted to shove her back home.
Her determination wavered. She might not be able to make Tristan see reason. Perhaps she was overestimating her influence on him, but they understood each other a little. He wouldn’t be completely unsympathetic to her pleas.
She walked at a fast pace along the pavement. Her determination kept floating up and down with each step. But the closer she walked to his house, the less frightened she felt. She wouldn’t leave his house until she spoke to him.
Harris didn’t look surprised to see her when he opened the door. “My lady.” His tone was apologetic.
“Is Lord Montcrest receiving calls? Please.”
Harris must have pitied her because he showed her to the drawing room and exhaled. “Please wait here, my lady.” He loitered. “His Lordship is a good man. Please, my lady, don’t believe he isn’t.”
“I know his heart. I do.”
With another sigh, he left her alone in the room that smelled of beeswax. Maybe it was Papa’s suddenly uncertain financial situation, but the austere furniture and heavy drapes seemed to close in on her.
She paced between the Italian dark silk sofa and a sophisticated Louis XVI-style table, needing to steel herself for the imminent confrontation.
“Effie.” His deep voice sounded calm and composed, the opposite of how she felt.
Despite her state of agitation, a shiver ran down her back upon seeing him again in all his masculine charm. He was the same, yet he’d changed.
His facial muscles were more defined. Well, all his muscles were more defined if the way his jacket stretched across his shoulders was any indication. But the tension in his neck enhanced his dark-circled eyes.
“I’m not surprised to see you here.” From his flat tone, she couldn’t understand if he was glad or annoyed to see her.
“Thank you for seeing me.” There was no point in not being polite. Attacking him immediately wouldn’t end well.
He stretched out an arm towards the sofa. “I guess the reason for your visit has to do with your father.”
“You guessed right.” She ignored the seat. “Please, Tristan, stop. We can’t take any more of your attacks. My father is the shadow of himself. He had a fit yesterday. I thought he was dying of a heart attack.”
He remained deadpan. “He’s responsible for a bombing.”
“He isn’t a murderer. He should have gone to the police, yes, and he didn’t do it, but not because he wanted to hurt people. That’s what you refuse to understand.”
“His action, or in this case, inaction, has consequences.”
“You’ve punished him enough. You’ve made your point. Stop.”
His icy blue eyes didn’t show any mercy. “Rowan might not recover the full use of his left leg. Tell me, Effie, what’s the price of a boy with a permanent limp?”
“I’m sorry about Rowan. I’m devastated by what happened to him.” She shook with emotion. “My heart breaks for him. But being ferocious to my father won’t change anything.”
“The police don’t want to prosecute him. Someone must teach him a lesson.”
“Someone who? You?”
