What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (14 page)

The door flew open. Isabella darted into the room in a state of agitation. “Here,” she said waving the heavily creased paper in the air. “This is the letter you sent to me.”

Tristan jumped to his feet and closed the gap between them. With hesitant fingers, he took the letter from her hand. He was desperate to read it, yet he knew the words would bring nothing but pain.

He tried to assess the faded script logically: it was not written in his hand. The long, confident flourishes were the mark of an arrogant man. Sucking in a breath, he read the first line. There was nothing untoward. The tone conveyed a warmth of feeling: she meant the world to him, which was why he had no option but to let her go.

My father was right. We are like kin. The love I feel is not what a man should feel for his wife. I made a mistake.

“Hell and damnation!” He covered his mouth with his hand for fear of bringing Satan’s curse down on everyone.

Isabella shuffled closer. Her flustered demeanour revealed an impatience for answers. “What is it, Tristan? Tell me. Now do you remember writing it?”

It is best that you leave here, that you leave Kempston Hall, for to be together will only serve to bring us both unnecessary pain.

Tristan tried to swallow, but his jaw held firm, locked and frozen in so rigid a position he was in danger of cracking the bone. Fury, red and hot, coursed through his veins. His vision grew hazy, the words on the paper lost in a blur.

“I did not write this.” He wanted to shout as a way to release the pent-up emotion. But despair washed over him like a giant wave sweeping away all traces of anger. “I did not write this,” he repeated quietly.

She grasped his arm. “What do you mean? Of course you wrote it.” She blinked rapidly, her eyes overly bright. “You mentioned our walks in the garden. You spoke of our plans to wed.”

Tristan shook his head. “I did not write it, Isabella.”

“Then who—” She broke on a sob. Clutching her throat, she stared at him, confusion and fear giving way to anguish. “What are you saying? You … you did not want me to leave Kempston? You did not want us to part?”

His throat was so tight he could barely speak. “I loved you. Why would I have wanted any of those things?”

Time stopped momentarily.

A heart-wrenching cry burst from Isabella’s lips. “No! Please Lord, no.” Her knees buckled; her legs gave way, and she crumpled to a heap on the floor. “Please, it cannot be true.” She bowed her head, her body shaking as she sobbed uncontrollably.

In his dazed state, it took him a few seconds to react. He knelt down, put his hand on her shoulder. Damn, he could not stop the water welling in his eyes.

“Come,” he said knowing he had to remain calm for both their sakes. “Let me help you to your feet. Let us sit and talk.”

Despite the painful emotions, vengeance flamed to life in his chest. Someone would pay. At this precise moment, he didn’t care who.

He cupped her elbow, brought them both to their feet. She fell into his arms as her legs struggled to support her weight. For a time he held her there, rubbed his hand over her back in small circular motions until her breathing slowed.

“Tell me it is not true,” she muttered into his chest. “I can live with loss but I cannot live with this.” She pulled away and looked up at him, her puffy red eyes revealing the extent of her sorrow. “Do you know what hurts me most of all?”

“No.” The word was quieter than a whisper.

“You went away believing I did not love you.”

He sighed as he brushed a lock of ebony hair from her face. “I was told you had made a mistake. I woke to find you gone, soon discovered you had married.”

She closed her eyes briefly as another tear fell. “And so … so you ran away to France. You’ve spent five years believing I abandoned you to marry another. I can understand why you did not want to come home.”

He would have done anything to avoid seeing her again. He should have had more faith. “Mr. Chandler told me that illogical behaviour often stems from a misunderstanding. I would have questioned your motives for leaving had I been given more time.”

“Then I am the one to blame.” She shook her head vigorously. “I should have come to you. I should have demanded an explanation before running off into the night. My only defence is that I was vulnerable, a young girl without family, a young girl so easily manipulated by those she thought she could trust.”

“We are not to blame,” he said firmly. The guilt was not theirs to bear. “Someone ruined our lives for their own purpose, and I will not rest until I discover the reason why.”

She gave a weak smile. “Then know that I feel the same way. But all is not lost. We have salvaged something from the wreckage. You came to my aid when I needed help even though you were convinced I had abandoned you to marry another. That is the sign of a true friend, Tristan. Whatever wickedness was at play here, they have not succeeded in their effort to keep us apart. Despite all we believed to be true, we were able to put our differences aside and come together.”

“And together we will find the answers. We will discover the truth.” He glanced at the drinks tray, at the amber liquid calling to him from the decanter. “I’m in need of a drink, and then we shall sit down and relive the painful memories of that night.”

“Then I shall join you,” she said dabbing the corner of her eye with the pad of her finger. “We must be honest with each other now, though I know it will hurt.”

He poured himself a glass of brandy, her a sherry, remained silent through the process for his mind continued to recall the gut-wrenching moment his mother told him Isabella had married Lord Fernall.

“These things are for the best,” his mother had said. “The girl obviously doesn’t care for you.”

Those words had been a lie.

Someone had written the letter on his behalf. While the motive for such an evil betrayal eluded him, there were but three people with the opportunity to deceive. His father and brother were dead. With only his mother left to question, he had to accept there was a possibility he would never discover the truth.

“I keep replaying the events over in my mind,” Isabella said as he handed her the glass of sherry before sitting in the chair opposite. “I find myself forced to question Andrew’s motives for being so kind to me these last few years. And I do not want to think ill of him when he is not here to defend himself.”

“Based on what we know, it is fair to say that at least one member of my family was involved in the deception.” He swallowed his brandy, let the warmth of the spirit soothe him. “Andrew was spoilt, often jealous. It would not surprise me to learn he acted out of spite. He was the only person who knew of our elopement. He expected us to leave Kempston in the dead of night, which was why I chose to hire a carriage and leave at noon.”

“You meant to give us a few hours start?”

“I knew he would not think to alert my parents until we failed to come down for dinner.”

She smiled. “You never mentioned any of this at the time.”

He inclined his head respectfully. “As the gentleman, it was my responsibility to ensure I planned for every eventuality. The mistakes I made were foolish when I think back now. Marcus would chastise me for my naivety. But I was just a boy, desperately trying to be a man.”

“We were young and in love, of course we were naive and foolish.” She took a sip of her sherry. “Do you ever wonder what our lives would have been like had your father not discovered us at the coaching inn?”

Wonder?

He had spent many hours awake at night dreaming of just that.

“We would have married, lived in a remote village far away from society’s prying eyes. I would have been disowned for bringing shame on my family, forced to work to support you.” It was a rather grim view, but they were the thoughts of a broken man. “Things would have been difficult, but I hope we could have been happy.”

She put her hand to the base of her throat and swallowed. “I would have been happy as long as we were together.”

He snorted. The contemptuous sound revealed his belief that the reality would have been so far removed from the stories told in romantic poetry. “Fate obviously had other things in store for us.”

“And yet we are here together now.”

He rubbed his chin as he considered her comment. A few months ago, he would have cursed and protested with uncontrollable vehemence at the mere suggestion of spending the night at her house. “Then we must be grateful for something.”

A faint blush touched her cheeks. “So we have spent the last two days in each other’s company, both feeling abandoned and betrayed, yet neither of us said anything.”

“Pride can be both a blessing and a curse.”

They fell silent. A minute passed. Isabella stared at the swirling pattern on the Persian rug, her eyes wide, glassy.

“I married Lord Fernall out of spite,” she eventually said, her tone somewhat detached. “I wanted to show you that I could be a lady, someone worthy of respect. I wanted to hurt you but, in the end, I only hurt myself.”

She had hurt him. The news had cut him to the bone. “But why did you leave that night? Why not wait?”

Isabella shrugged. “Lord Fernall had made your father an offer for me weeks before. Your father had not mentioned it to me as he felt I was not ready for marriage. You see, he had promised my mother he would care for me like a daughter—”

Tristan shot to his feet. Their father had insisted they treat her as kin. “Good Lord, do you think we—” he could not speak the words.

“I am not your father’s daughter, Tristan.” Her confident chuckle settled his racing heart. “We were living in Italy when I was conceived.”

He dropped into the chair, unable to suppress his sigh of relief. “Forgive my interruption. You were saying that my father did not think you ready for marriage.”

“When he entered my chamber with your letter in his hand, he looked so lost, so forlorn. He apologised, repeatedly, cursed under his breath for having failed my mother. My heart went out to him.” She put her hand to her chest. “Marrying a gentleman with a title and money seemed like the only way to appease him. Your father was a kind, quiet man, and as such did not know he was selling me to a gentleman with questionable morals.”

“But you left Kempston that night.”

“Lord Morford thought time away would help me to think more clearly. He wanted me to meet Lord Fernall before I made my final decision. And he knew my heart was broken, thought he was acting in the way any caring gentleman would.”

Tristan raked his hand through his hair. “If only he would have come to me and questioned my motives.” At the very least he had expected his father to berate him for his foolishness.

“If only I would have stayed at Kempston for one more night. If only Andrew had kept our secret.” She gave a sad sigh. “Your father wanted to speak to you. But he was angry. I begged him to wait.”

It was evident from Isabella’s recount that his father had acted genuinely, believing his son had indeed written the letter. A wave of sadness washed over him. By the time his father returned to Kempston, Tristan was sailing to France. They had not spoken again. No doubt his father assumed his lust for adventure was the reason behind him abandoning Isabella.

“Do you believe my father was guilty of any duplicity?” From the way she had spoken, he knew the answer, but he would hear her opinion.

“No. He acted with compassion. I’m confident he had my best interests at heart. Like me, he was perhaps blinded by Samuel’s kind countenance, by his reassurances that he would be a dutiful husband.”

Tristan cursed inwardly. There was only one person capable of manipulation and deception. There was only one person devious and shrewd enough to carry out such a dastardly plan — his mother.

“I know I said we should not rush back to London, but under the circumstances, I feel I must leave Highley Grange today.”

Isabella caught her breath on a gasp. “Today!” A look of disappointment flashed in her brown eyes. “Can it not wait?”

Tristan shook his head. He had waited five years to discover the reason for his love’s betrayal. He would not rest until the person responsible had confessed. “I must speak to my mother. I must know the part she played in all of this.”

Isabella sighed, her solemn countenance tugged at his heart. “I understand.”

“Come back to London with me.” Logic played no part in his suggestion. But the more he thought of it, the more it made perfect sense. “Once I have spoken to my mother we will continue our investigation into Lord Fernall’s death. There is no more to be done here,” he said waving his arm about the room. “We will begin with Henry Fernall. Learn more about these sordid parties.”

A smile touched the corners of her lips. “I would reside in Brook Street, of course.”

His heart swelled at the prospect of them working together. Once he had made his position clear to Miss Smythe, he would be free to pay court to Isabella. “If someone did murder Lord Fernall then we must lure them out of the shadows. Perhaps Andrew stumbled upon a piece of information, and the culprit was forced to silence him. Either way, being seen out together will soon confirm or quash the theory.”

She shuffled to the edge of the chair, her excitement evident in the way she clasped her hands to her chest. “We could go to balls, the theatre, stroll through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.”