thirty-three
The moment Effie left Tristan’s bedroom, she let out a shaky breath. Stubborn, impossible man. She was shaking from head to toe.
“That was brave of you, my lady,” Harris said after he closed the door. “He needed a scolding.”
She felt anything but brave. “When was Lord Montcrest attacked?”
“Attacked?” His striped eyebrows went up.
“Obviously, thugs beat him.”
Harris clasped his hands in front of him. “His Lordship wasn’t attacked.”
“He said the same thing, which doesn’t make any sense. How did he get those bruises? Although his face is strangely fine. I know he’s involved in bare-knuckle fights, but not even illegal rings are that brutal.”
He shifted his position. “I can’t say more. His Lordship will tell you the whole story if he’s ready to. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Twenty minutes later, after a cup of excellent tea and nothing but silence from Harris, Dr. O’Neil called her.
“My lady.” The doctor let her and Harris into the bedroom.
“How is Lord Montcrest?” she asked.
Tristan’s jaw was so clenched she feared it might snap.
Dr. O’Neil glanced at him before speaking. “The ribs aren’t broken, maybe badly bruised, but they should heal in a couple of weeks. The concussion will require a bit longer, three weeks perhaps. Every patient is different. I prescribed a balm to be applied to the bump and the ribs. Valerian for the pain, light food, and rest.” He angled towards the scowling marquess. “If you can convince His Lordship to do so.”
Tristan muttered something, but she ignored him.
“I can and I will. Thank you, Doctor. May I have a word with Lord Montcrest in private?” She waited for the butler and the doctor to leave before sitting on the bed next to Tristan. “The truth.”
He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. “I told you the truth. I wasn’t attacked.”
“The second part of the story, then.”
“It’s not of your concern.”
She thumped the bed. “Honestly, I have treated mules less obstinate than you are, and donkeys less an ass than you.”
He worked his jaw. “You truly know how to make me feel better.”
“I’m trying to help you, and before you say you don’t need my help, let me tell you that you do. Or you wouldn’t be in that bed now, looking like my grandfather after a bout of pneumonia.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to despise me,” he whispered.
“Not if you tell me the truth. I could never despise you.” She put her hand over his, careful not to touch his bruised knuckles. “Trust me and tell me everything.”
There was a long pause, and she feared he wouldn’t say anything.
He lowered his gaze. “As you guessed, I box in an illegal ring.”
The bedsheet covered the mess on his torso, but the sight of his bruises was well imprinted in her memory.
“How many times do you box?”
He lifted a shoulder. “When I want to.”
