Long-legged strides carried him rapidly through the upper gallery and down the corridor past Corinna's and Juliana's rooms. The two of them had to run—decorously, of course—to keep up. Reaching Alexandra's door before them, he twisted the knob and pushed it open.
Then slammed it closed.
He turned to his sisters. "Get rid of them," he gritted out, referring to the nosy guests making their leisurely way up the stairs and through the upper gallery. "Now."
"Why?" Corinna asked.
"Just do as I say for once, will you?"
Juliana's hazel eyes were as round as saucers. "They're both in there, aren't they?"
"Brilliant deduction. I'll give you your prize later. Now, go—"
He whirled to face the door as it opened again, from the inside this time, revealing a sleepy-eyed Tristan wearing a dressing gown. An improvement over a moment ago, when all Griffin had seen of the man was a head and bare shoulders peeking from under the blankets.
The blankets on his sister's feminine Chippendale bed.
"Get back in there!" Griffin whispered, reaching to pull the door shut again, quietly this time.
"Aha." Lady St. Quentin's triumphant voice was unmistakable. "I knew it!" Elbowing past the other approaching guests, she made her way to the door and pushed on it.
It reopened with an ominous creak. Inside, Alexandra cowered in her bed.
"You're ruined, girl," Lady St. Quentin crowed. "Ruined!"
"She is not," Corinna protested, throwing Griffin a desperate, apologetic glance.
But it was too late. The crowd rushed to see, forming a loose semicircle in front of the door.
Alexandra was ruined.
"I sleepwalked in here," Tristan said quietly, as though he and Griffin were the only ones there. A nerve jumped in his clenched jaw. "Unaware of my own actions."
"Balderdash!" Lady St. Quentin exclaimed. "I've never heard such a pathetic excuse. It won't save her reputation; that I can promise."
"Stubble it," Griffin said dangerously. All the whispering behind him wasn't helping him think straight. He glared at Tristan. It was some consolation to learn Alexandra hadn't invited the man into her bed, but of all the damned, unexpected… "You still sleepwalk?"
"Infrequently, but yes."
"You didn't have to stay once you got here," he bit out.
"You're right. My sincerest apologies. I'll leave now." Tristan started from the room.
"No, you won't." Griffin stopped him with an outstretched hand flat against his chest. "You stayed the night, you'll stay now. You'll marry my sister. By special license. Tomorrow."
Gasps rose from the onlookers. Tristan glanced down at Griffin's hand, then stepped back. "If that's what you wish."
Griffin's arm dropped to his side. "It's not what I wish, but it's what must be done."
"Nonsense," Lady St. Quentin cut in. "You cannot marry your sister to a murderer." Reaching back into the cluster of spectators, she pulled her son stumbling through to the front. "My Roger will be happy to marry her."
Her Roger looked mortified.
"For her dowry?" Griffin asked Roger's mother pointedly.
"Does it matter?" she returned.
Griffin's gaze flicked to where his white-faced sister sat motionless on the bed, her blue covers clutched under her chin. "Do you wish to marry Sir Rog—"
"You cannot let the chit decide this for herself," Lady St. Quentin scoffed.
Was there another woman in England as irritating? "As a matter of fact, I can should I choose to do so. And I can certainly solicit her opinion." Drawing a calming breath, he turned back to Alexandra. "Do you wish to marry Sir Roger St. Quentin?"
She shook her head infinitesimally.
"No," Juliana said for her. "She most certainly does not."
Griffin and Lady St. Quentin sent her matching glares.
"I'll marry her," came another voice. Lord Shelton stepped out of the clutch of gawkers.
Despite his own distress, Griffin felt sympathy for the man. If he knew Alexandra's mind, Shelton was about to be publicly refused. He looked back to her. "Do you wish to marry Lord Shelton?"
"No," Juliana started at the same time Alexandra said, "I'm sorry."
Thin and shaky, her voice barely carried from the room to the corridor. "My apologies, Lord Shelton. I'm honored by your offer, but I don't think we would be happy together." Suddenly, her eyes flashed—Griffin would swear he saw red in the medium brown. "And Lord Hawkridge is no murderer," she added loudly and perfectly clearly.
Griffin stood silent, cursing the fates that had put him in charge of his siblings. Two perfectly acceptable men had offered for his disgraced sister. If he forced one of them on her, this scandal would eventually blow over. She'd be miserable all her days, but their sisters would be able to marry well. If he allowed her to wed Tristan…
He felt everyone's eyes on him while his own vision swam. Never in his life had he found it so hard to make a decision. Thank God he wasn't on a battlefield with the enemy bearing down…although, given the antagonistic mood of some of those around him, that analogy wasn't so far off.
Rachael stepped close and laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing him away and down the corridor. The guests all turned to watch as she walked him to the end so they wouldn't be able to overhear.
"Your first instinct was good," she said quietly. "Let her marry the man she loves."
His gaze flicked to the curious onlookers. "But—"
"I, too, once thought this union inadvisable. But now that I've seen them together—"
"What they feel for each other has little bearing on the repercussions of this match."
"Have faith in her. She has faith in him."
Griffin had faith in Tristan, too—but that wasn't the point. "The ton doesn't mirror that faith."
"Will you allow that to influence your decision? That isn't the Griffin I remember. The one I imagined riding into battle with his principles held before him like a shield."
That idealistic youth, Griffin feared, was long gone. He stared at her. "You never thought of me that way. You thought I was a reckless rascal."
"Perhaps. I do recall you once telling me to ask for forgiveness, not for permission. But you were
