A Duke but No Gentleman (23 page)

“Oh, dear me, I do not know where that boy has wandered off to,” the older woman said with false cheer. “Perhaps Tristan wanted a word with Lord Ludsthorpe before he departed to one of his clubs. Or he might be downstairs raiding the stock of brandy in the library. I do not know about you but I would not mind a sip or two.”

Lady Ludsthorpe sat down abruptly next to Imogene on the sofa.

“I dislike brandy.”

Her stomach churned as her thoughts drifted back to Lord Norgrave pouring brandy down her throat—of the glass shattering and Imogene sitting beside Tristan's aunt with dried blood on her hands. The elegantly attired countess was a reminder that her dress was in tatters. All she wanted to do was pull the hood over her head and hide, but she did not wish to insult her hostess. The lady probably thought her behavior quite odd as it was. She brought her hand to her face and smoothed the hair from her cheek.

“I hope you do not mind that I took the liberty of having the servants heat some water for a bath. You will feel better once you have washed and put on fresh clothing.”

It was going to take more than hot water and soap to make her feel clean. Her arms and wrists ached from the marquess's fingers as he had held her down. Imogene did not realize she had whimpered until she noted the compassionate tears in Lady Ludsthorpe's eyes.

“It was wrong of Tristan to bring me here.”

The lady gently clasped Imogene's hand. “I do not always approve of the decisions my nephew makes, but he was correct to bring you to me. If you are done with your tea, I will show you the bedchamber I had prepared for you. Many of our guests have proclaimed it the best room in the house.”

Imogene found herself gently maneuvered from the drawing room to the bedchamber upstairs while the countess prattled on about her adult children, Lord Ludsthorpe, and the new cabinet she had recently ordered for the library. She had always marveled at Tristan's talent for coaxing the people around him to do what he wanted, but he clearly had been taught by the best.

“You must be overly warm in that old cloak. Why don't you remove it, and we will find something more comfortable.”

Her hand tightened around the fabric she was clutching, preventing the countess from peeling back the flaps. The condition of the dress was more revealing than the bruises on her face. “Lady Ludsthorpe—”

“Ruth. You may call me by my given name, or simply Aunt Ruth. Over the years, I have collected a fair share of nieces and nephews who are not related to me by blood. It would also please me if we were friends.”

Somehow she had undone the clasp and pried the woolen fabric from Imogene's fingers. The cloak fell away and dropped to the floor. The countess bit her lower lip as concern filled her brown eyes. “Oh, dear, I do believe the dress is beyond repair. With your permission, I will have it torn into rags and burned. We will find you another dress. Among my three daughters, I am positive we have a dress that will fit you.”

Imogene would like nothing more than to see the dress she was wearing burned until it was ash. “You are too generous, my lady.” At the older woman's chastening glance, she amended, “Aunt Ruth.”

A soft knock at the door had Imogene taking a step backward.

“Yes?” Lady Ludsthorpe called out.

“Madam, the physician has arrived,” the butler said from the other side of the closed door.

“You never mentioned that you had summoned a physician.” Imogene crouched down and gathered the discarded cloak. She clutched it to her bosom as if it could conceal the damage done. “Is this why Tristan vanished without a word? Is he responsible for bringing the man here?”

The countess took the cloak from her. “Do not be angry at my nephew. He is worried about you. If Tristan had not sent for his man, I would have asked our family physician to tend to your wounds.”

“What was done to me cannot be cured with tonics and bleeding, Lady Ludsthorpe!” she said, knowing she was being unreasonable. With the butler and the physician standing just outside the bedchamber, she felt trapped. “I beg of you, please send him away.”

Having raised five children, the older woman was familiar with tantrums. “Be sensible, Imogene. You must be examined for the sake of your health. Think of your family … and Tristan. He blames himself for failing to protect you from Norgrave.”

Imogene's expression was sullen as she glared at the countess. “Tristan is not responsible for the marquess's actions.”

“A logical assumption, I concur. However, my nephew has known Norgrave since they were boys. They have watched over each other for most of their lives. It was simple to overlook the flaws in his friend's character because love and loyalty blinded him.”

Until this evening, when he had discovered the depths of Norgrave's depravity.

Was he angry enough to confront his friend? Tristan had been so attentive since he discovered her curled up on the floor of his mother's bedchamber. Imogene could not believe he would abandon her. More likely, he was waiting downstairs in his uncle's library.

Still, she could not resist asking, “Ruth, where is your nephew?”

“I do not know,” was her evasive reply, which had Imogene's eyes narrowing with suspicion. “He promised to return to you, and he is a gentleman who keeps his word. We can discuss this further after the physician has inspected your injuries.”

Imogene stared at the door as if she expected to see Norgrave at the threshold. She shuddered, but to the countess's immense relief, she nodded.

Lady Ludsthorpe gave her an approving look. “All will be well, my dear. You'll see. I will even stay so you will not be alone.”

She straightened her shoulders. Tristan had called her brave. If she could not do it for herself, she would find the courage for his sake. “I would like that very much.”

 

Chapter Eighteen

Tristan expected to spend half the night searching for Norgrave, but it had only taken three stops and a bribe to one of his servants to discover the man's whereabouts. He had rented several rooms at his favorite club, the Acropolis, where he indulged in forbidden pleasures and satiated some of his more perverse appetites.

His name and another bribe granted him entry into the private club. While he was not a member, over the years, he and Norgrave had ended many evenings at the Acropolis. When he was younger, the lavish decadence of the establishment and the willing participants encouraged him to explore the darker side of his nature. It had been intoxicating and addictive, so much so, that he began to distance himself from this particular vice, while Norgrave had only been drawn deeper into this world.

No one paid attention to him as he climbed the stairs. Norgrave had selected one of the finest rooms in the establishment. He had told the proprietor that he was celebrating and had asked for three companions for the evening. Tristan did not have to deduce the reasons for his former friend's good mood.

Tristan used the spare key the proprietor had given him to unlock the door to the chamber.

Music filled the air. The marquess was indeed in high spirits. He had hired musicians who were playing a lively tune. A large table had been carried in and it was heavily laden with food and bottles of wine. The food and drink encouraged other patrons to join the festivities. Tristan counted at least eight females in various states of undress. There were four men in the room, too, but he did not recognize any of them.

A bare-breasted blonde weaved toward him. “'Allo, stranger! My, you are a handsome one,” she said, offering him a drunken leer. “The bed is already occupied, but I know of an alcove.”

The woman had consumed too much wine to be reasonable. Tristan removed her curious hand from the front of his breeches and gallantly kissed it so she would not be offended. “I have some other business I must attend to first, why don't you wait for me in the alcove?”

Her eyes were mere slits. With luck, she would fall asleep and forget all about him. “It will cost ye, but you will not regret it.”

“I rarely do,” he murmured, but the drunken temptress was already staggering away to do his bidding.

Tristan headed for the double doors that would open into the bedchamber. He opened one of the doors and stepped inside. Fully naked, Norgrave was standing next to the bed with his back to the door. Although he could see only glimpses of her, the marquess was not alone. He had positioned a woman facedown on the mattress. The energetic, rhythmic thrust of the man's hips did not deter Tristan from entering the room and shutting the door. Wearing only a thin chemise, another woman was reclining on the long sofa while her female companion's dark head was nestled between her thighs.

She glanced back and smiled at Tristan's approach. “My lord, you did not tell us that you've invited your friend.”

Norgrave's head snapped in his direction. Without slowing his pace, he said, “Blackbern, I was not aware that you had returned. Join us!”

It wasn't the marquess's lack of modesty that disturbed Tristan, it was the glimpse of the ugly cut on his face that was disquieting. He thought of the blood on Imogene and the bed, the wound on her hand. She had not accepted Norgrave's abuse meekly, and he had not walked away unscathed. A surgeon had stitched up the deep sections of the gash. The side of his face was swollen and discolored, and an infection might spare him the trouble of murdering the coldhearted scoundrel.

His former friend grunted and his shoulders rippled and bowed as he spilled his seed into the woman. It was not the first time that he considered Norgrave arrogant and reckless. Tristan wondered how many bastards the man had sired. The thought that Imogene might be carrying the marquess's child fueled his fury.

Norgrave slapped his lover on her arse and she cried out in surprise before she crawled to the other side of the bed to avoid another slap. “Be a dear, and get my friend a drink. He prefers brandy.”

“I did not come to drink with you,” Tristan said, his gaze shifting to the two women on the sofa. “Perhaps we should speak privately.”

“Why? I have no secrets.” The marquess slipped his hand into the sleeve of a red silk banyan with blue flowers and worked his other arm into the other. He did not bother to fasten the buttons down the front. Tristan glanced down at the man's turgid cock with a raised brow. The man's confidence was something he once envied, but now he felt nothing but disgust.

Norgrave plucked the glass of brandy from the woman's hands as she walked by him. “Well, if you don't want the brandy, then I will claim it.”

Whether it was intentional or not, his double entendre spurred Tristan into action. His fist connected with the man's jaw, sending him backward and into the fireplace mantel. He heard the three women cry out in surprise and alarm, and there was movement behind him.

Norgrave's pained expression relaxed into speculation as he rubbed his sore jaw. “Leave us.”

The women hastily slipped out of the bedchamber, but neither of the two men observed their departure.

“You're bleeding,” Tristan said dispassionately. He walked over to the table and picked up a linen napkin that had been discarded. He tossed it at the marquess. “That is a nasty gash.”

“Would you believe I cut myself shaving without a mirror?” Norgrave pressed the cloth to his cheek.

Tristan lunged and seized the loose cloth flaps of the open banyan. He slammed Norgrave against the mantel. “You must have been astounded when Imogene fought back. It's a pity she didn't cut your throat, though there is a certain justice to her marring your handsome face, don't you think?”

Tristan tightened his hold and pulled him closer so he could pivot the marquess away from the fireplace. He sent him careening into a table.

Norgrave toppled over the table and spun around to confront him. “Have you lost your head? Whatever the lady told you is a lie.”

“I know about the message you sent Imogene. Duplicating my handwriting was simple enough. You knew it was the only way Imogene would agree to meet you. What you didn't count on was that she replied to the note she thought I had written to her.”

A dry chuckle rumbled in Norgrave's throat. “Did you actually see the note that she claimed I wrote in your handwriting? You have it all wrong, my friend. Imogene is making fools out of us both. I regret telling you this since you are fond of the minx. Nevertheless, the lady invited me to join her at your mother's house. If she wrote you, she did so with the deliberate intention of pitting us against each other.”

He stalked toward his former friend. “I went to the house and found her, you filthy piece of excrement. You cannot lie your way out of this.”

Norgrave picked up a vase and wildly swung it at Tristan's head. It missed breaking over his skull, but it struck him in the shoulder. The vase broke on impact, and he felt one of the sharp edges slice into his shoulder. With a roar, he collided into the marquess and they both fell to the floor.

For a few minutes it was a balanced battle with no clear victor. However, the man who always prided himself in abiding by the rules was no longer interested in playing fair. He grabbed Norgrave by the testicles and twisted. The man bleated like a wounded goat, too blinded by the pain to even roll away.

Tristan drove his elbow into the man's stomach. He wanted to beat the man to death with his bare hands. He managed to hit him again, before the man kicked him away.

Norgrave staggered to his feet and sneered. “I never knew you were such a dirty fighter, Tristan. Shouldn't you be issuing a formal challenge and demanding that I choose my seconds?”

“No challenge,” Tristan rasped, his collarbone throbbing from the blow. “You have no honor to defend. I suppose I will have to be satisfied with beating you bloody.”

Norgrave landed a brutal punch, and Tristan's vision dimmed at the edges. He grabbed for the banyan, and gravity caused them to fall. The marquess landed on top, and he took advantage of his position. Tristan twisted his head to evade the man's fists, but he took several blows to the face and shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he espied a small shard from the shattered vase within reach and he grabbed it. The piece was too fragile to be lethal, but the shallow cuts across Norgrave's abdomen gained him his freedom.