What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (13 page)

Guilt flared. “Before coming into your chamber, I heard footsteps padding along the hall. I left my room and ventured all the way down to the staircase.” Like an unsuspecting fool, he had fallen for the simplest of traps. “Someone could have easily waited in one of the other rooms. They would have had ample opportunity to enter this concealed chamber through the door in my chamber.”

Isabella gazed about the secret room. “How could I not know it was here? Surely the servants are aware.” She visibly shivered. “Oh, and to think someone could have been watching me while I slept or bathed. I think I would rather it was a ghost.”

Feeling a modicum of guilt for finding pleasure in the thought of watching her bathe, he shook the vision from his head.

She appeared forlorn, her expression one of hopelessness. Tristan stepped towards her, took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “Sometimes reality is far more gruesome than any imagined horrors. But only the truth can free you from your shackles. Take comfort in the knowledge that we are making progress, that we will uncover every dastardly plot so you may live in peace and comfort.”

Isabella smiled weakly as she placed her hand over his. “Thank you, Tristan. Thank you for coming here to help me when I suspect it is the last thing you wanted to do.”

Being with Isabella was the only thing he had ever wanted. “Our investigation is far from over. I am afraid you will have to tolerate me a little while longer.”

“There is nothing sufferable about spending time with you,” she said in a tone that made the hairs at his nape jump to attention. “I enjoy your company. I always have.”

He felt the familiar pang in his chest, the familiar tug in his abdomen. Love and lust coursed through his veins. For the first time in years, he did not want to hear the truth from her lips. To be set free was the last thing he wanted. Being bound to her was all he lived for. He did not care what her reasons were for marrying Lord Fernall.

One way or another, he would find a way to make her his again.

Chapter 10

The atmosphere in the drawing room thrummed with palpable tension.

Isabella sat with her spine straight, her chin raised, her mouth stretched thin as she stared at her servants’ solemn faces. They stood in a line, their hands held in front of them, their demeanour giving the impression they would be shot if they so much as blinked or breathed.

She glanced at Tristan standing in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. His curt nod gave her the confidence to continue.

“Well, what have you to say?” When they failed to respond, she said, “Then I shall take your silence as an admission of guilt. As you have declined the opportunity to offer an explanation, you must all collect your things at once and leave this house immediately.”

It was an idle threat. The servants were in Henry’s employ. She could not simply dismiss them without consulting him first. Even so, Molly’s whimper gave her a little faith that they were all close to confessing.

“It’s not our fault, my lady,” Molly cried. “What else were we to do?”

Mrs. Birch nudged the maid. “Since Lord Fernall’s death, we have been warned not to mention the secret room. We were told not to remind you of the things that went on here.”

“It is not the secret room that concerns me.” One of the people in front of her had led a systematic campaign to frighten her out of her wits. “Which one of you covered my dress with wine and placed it in my bed? Which one of you sullied the wall with your cruel threats?” The sudden rush of anger forced her to her feet. “Which one of you sought to torment a lonely woman into believing her life was in danger?”

A sob caught in her throat and she swallowed it down.

Sedgewick bowed. “My lady, I am not to blame for these unfortunate events. My position in this household commands respect, and I would do nothing to hinder my position.”

“What? Do your lofty manners prevent you from playing cards in the drawing room and drinking my sherry?” Isabella mocked.

Sedgewick’s cheeks turned berry red. “A regrettable incident that will not happen again, my lady.”

Isabella noted the piece of cloth tied around Molly’s finger. “I am told the paint smeared over the wall in the master chamber burns when it comes into contact with the skin. Is that not correct, Lord Morford?”

“It is, Lady Fernall. Perhaps we should consider your maid’s obvious injury to her finger as an admission of guilt.”

“No, my lady,” Molly cried holding up the offending article. “I scalded it yesterday when heating the water for his lordship’s bath.” Her frantic gaze shot to Mrs. Birch. “Tell them it wasn’t me who ruined the wallpaper. Tell them we had no choice but to do what Mr. Blackwood said.”

“For goodness sake, girl.” Mrs. Birch shook her head and with a grunt of resignation stepped forward. “Mr. Blackwood told us what we had to do.”

Tristan straightened. “Did Mr. Blackwood say why you were to terrify your mistress?” The muscles in his cheek twitched. Anger radiated from him, hot and fiery. “Make no mistake. What you have done here could be regarded as deception, deception with the intent to cause harm.”

The colour drained from their faces; their complexions turned ashen, their eyes wide with alarm.

“Causing my lady harm was never our intention.” Mrs. Birch cleared her throat and turned her attention to Isabella. “Mr. Blackwood said Lord Fernall resents his father for forcing you to stay in this house. Lord Fernall thinks you should reside at Grangefields, a more respectable abode. This house is no place for a lady.”

“Well, why did he not say so instead of devising such a ridiculous charade?”

“You’ll have to ask his lordship. Mr. Blackwood is the one who passed on his instruction.”

“And what of the hound I hear howling outside my window at night?”

Mrs. Birch lowered her gaze. “It’s my nephew’s dog. Mr. Blackwood trained him to sit in the same spot by burying fresh meat.”

Isabella flopped down onto the gilt-framed settee. She was so tired. Since her mother’s death she had struggled to settle, struggled to call any place her home. Her life during the last five years had been an awful lie. A marriage of convenience simply to ease her pain, to prove a point. A loveless arrangement to a gentleman known for his rakish behaviour and utter lack of morals.

Isabella stared at her housekeeper. “Was there a point in all of this where you questioned if what you were doing was wrong?”

Mrs. Birch nodded. “Mr. Blackwood can be very persuasive. He insisted it was for the best. We could see it was causing you distress which is the only reason we went to such great lengths last night.”

Isabella could not even rouse the energy to pity them.

“You may all leave us,” she said in a tone as cold as her heart. “Resume your duties until I tell you otherwise. I shall confer with Lord Fernall and decide what is to be done here.”

The women offered a curtsy, Sedgewick a low bow, before retreating sombrely from the room.

Tristan came to sit beside her. “They were acting on instruction,” he said. “I’m afraid their loyalty lies with the gentleman who employs them.”

Isabella sighed; she was not so naive as to suppose it would be any different. “Perhaps they felt they were acting in everyone’s best interest. But it reaffirms my need to find an alternative place to reside. I refuse to be beholden to Henry.”

Tristan placed his hand over hers as they lay in her lap. “Do not be too hasty. We shall discuss the matter with Lord Fernall. Only then will you know how best to proceed.”

She looked up into his piercing blue eyes. “We? You intend to accompany me when I call on Henry?”

“If that is what you want.”

Emotions were a strange thing. Tristan had broken her heart, smashed it into a million tiny pieces. Now, every kind word and gesture went some way to help heal the damaged organ. Would it ever be whole again? Would she ever be capable of loving with the same passionate intensity?

“I do not know what to do.” She glanced down at the large masculine hand enveloping hers. His warm touch made her pulse race a little too rapidly; it also brought a measure of peace, serenity. “Perhaps it is best not to think about it too much. They say a calm mind is a path to wisdom.”

Tristan stood, walked over to the window are stared at the view beyond. “I suggest we stay here for the time being.”

Her heart fluttered up to her throat. “Stay here?”

“I am certainly in no rush to return to London. Give yourself another day or two before you call on Henry Fernall.”

He had promised to help her, and he had, but whilst they had solved the mystery of the haunting there was still the matter of murder to consider.

“The hauntings turned out to be nothing more than the work of an overbearing peer, but I am still convinced a murderer is lurking in our midst.”

He turned to face h
er. “One thing is clear. The feigned hauntings bear no relation to Lord Fernall’s death, or to Andrew’s death for that matter. Perhaps they were both accidents. Perhaps fear played havoc with your imagination.”

Isabella shook her head and clenched her jaw with a level of determination she rarely expressed. “You’re wrong. Andrew believed me. He made enquiries, spoke to a few gentlemen who knew Samuel well. He kept a notebook—”

“I’m certain Andrew would have said or done anything just to spend more time in your company.” His bitter tone sliced through the air. “Andrew always had an ulterior motive for everything he did.”

She came to her feet and closed the gap between them. “Why can you not accept that he had changed? Do not mistake me. I found it so hard to forgive him for dragging me away from you that night at the coaching inn.”

The mere mention of the night they eloped roused a host of painful memories. With the assistance of his coachman, Lord Morford had held Tristan at bay whilst Andrew had picked her up and bundled her into his carriage. She had cried until there were no tears left to shed. She had sworn never to forgive them for their treachery.

But loneliness and despair had overshadowed all other emotions.

“I will never forgive him.” Tristan’s expression darkened, and he narrowed his gaze. “But you do not need to pretend anymore. Andrew was your saviour, and that is why you were able to bear his company when I could not stand to look at him.”

“My saviour?” She struggled to understand his meaning. “Yes, he helped me when Samuel died, when I had no one to turn to for guidance and support. In doing so, I forgave him for informing your mother of our elopement. I forgave him for ruining my life.”

Tristan rubbed his neck as he gave a contemptuous snort. “I cannot believe I am about to defend my brother, but you are the only person responsible for ruining your life. Andrew did not force you to marry Lord Fernall.”

Isabella swallowed down the hard lump in her throat. She clenched her fists for fear of slapping him. “No, Andrew did not force me into the arms of another man. You did, with your cold words and blatant disregard.”

Tristan stared at her blankly. “I recall the last words spoken between us were at the coaching inn. I called out, told you I loved you. I told you no one would ever keep us apart.”

Hearing the words fall from his lips brought the pain of the last five years flooding back. “But you said your affections for me stemmed from your need to defy your parents. You were reckless and thrived on the thrill that came with disobeying their wishes.”

His mouth hung open; his frown created two deep furrows between his brows. “I never said that. Why would I say such a thing when it is not true?”

Her mind raced. Her chest grew tight, her face hot. “You said so in your letter.”

“What letter?”

She struggled to breathe. “The letter you wrote to me on the night your father brought us both back to Kempston Hall.”

“I am at a loss.” He shook his head. “Why would I write to you when we prided ourselves on being so open and honest with one another?”

Panic flared. “Then be honest with me now.”

“Trust me when I say I did not write to you.”

She put her hand to the base of her throat. “But I have your letter here with me.” She carried it around with her, had read it only the day before. She read it whenever she needed reminding that he did not want her. “It bears your signature.”

There was a moment of silence.

The colour drained from his cheeks until his skin took on a deathly pallor. “Then I suggest you go and fetch this letter, Isabella,” he sucked in a ragged breath, “for I fear we have both been cruelly deceived.”

Chapter 11

Tristan paced back and forth while he waited for Isabella to return to the drawing room. He stopped, sat down on the settee, held his head in his hands as he attempted to make sense of their conversation.

One innocent comment, said in a fit of frustration, had now put everything he believed to be true into question. He rocked to ease the pressure building in his head. He could not bear to acknowledge the agonising ache wreaking havoc with his heart.

God, he hoped he was wrong. Living with the thought of her not wanting him had been torturous. To live knowing there had been a perfidious plan to keep them apart would be unbearable.