What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (22 page)

It seemed Mr. Chandler did have some redeeming qualities.

“After the sacrifice he has made to save Miss Smythe, I’m confident there is good in him. If the lady is willing, she may find there is a respectable gentleman buried beneath the bravado and arrogant façade.”

Tristan shook his head. “I’m just not sure she has the strength of will to deal with him. The lady likes embroidery and sewing, whilst Chandler is responsible for tearing the material of many ladies undergarments.”

Mr. Chandler oozed charisma. A man with his voracious appetite would know how to please his wife. “The quiet ones are often the most surprising. You would be amazed how far a woman will go to protect what is hers.”

He raised a quizzical brow. “And how far would you go to protect what we have?”

In an instant, the air about them pulsed with a sensual intensity.

She smiled. It was a covert way of asking what he meant to her. “There is nothing I would not do for you.” She met his heated gaze, conveyed a lifetime’s worth of love.

He seemed pleased with her answer, yet she knew he all he wanted was to hear a more definitive declaration.

“Then know that I feel the same.” There was a moment of silence before Tristan rubbed his dimpled chin and said, “One thing does disturb me about the whole thing.”

“Are you still referring to the incident with Miss Smythe,” Isabella said with a mocking snigger, “or to the hauntings, the suspicious deaths or your mother’s plot to ruin our lives?”

“It all sounds so unbelievable when you say it like that. No, I was referring to the incident with Miss Smythe. When I found her near the fountain, her gown was torn at the shoulder. She said a gentleman accosted her.” He removed his hat, placed it on the seat next to him and scratched his head. “There is no doubt my mother played a part, but who ripped Miss Smythe’s gown?”

“Whoever he was, I suspect your mother paid him handsomely in return for his assistance.” Indeed, there were a handful of men who had gambled away their souls on the turn of a card. “With some persuasion, I am sure your mother will reveal his identity. And no doubt Mr. Chandler will have something to say about the matter.”

Tristan cradled his head in his hands. “Damn it all. I cannot help but feel responsible for what happened. What if it ends in disaster? Two lives ruined, and for what?”

It was not like him to have such a cynical approach.

“And what if it is the making of them,” she said with an air of confidence. “From your earlier account, they seemed perfectly content when you left the garden.” Yes, Mr. Chandler was reckless, but she was convinced Miss Smythe would prove to be a calming influence. “We will give them our support and help in any way we can.”

“We?” His eyes twinkled with the boyish charm she so loved. “Does that mean you intend to see more of me?”

His words roused various lascivious images. The sudden pulsing between her thighs made her shiver. “I should like to see a lot more of you,” she said, knowing he would hear the hitch of desire in her voice.

“That can easily be arranged.”

Isabella shook her head. “You really are incorrigible.”

“Isn’t that one of the things you love about me?”

“Perhaps.”

Tristan chuckled. “In my haste to tell you of Chandler’s predicament, I did not ask how you fared with Henry Fernall.”

Isabella tutted and waved her hand to show her frustration. “The gentleman is a selfish prig. He wanted me out of Highley Grange so he could use the house to entertain his mistress.”

Tristan’s expression darkened. “You do realise I could call him out for what he has done to you.”

Panic flared. “Oh, he is simply not worth bothering about.” Good Lord. She could not cope with the thought she might lose Tristan again. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash. One way or another bad fortune will find him.”

Tristan did not seem appeased. “At the very least I will have a few things to say on the matter, and I do not expect it to be pleasant.”

A warm feeling filled her chest. To feel cherished, loved and protected was all she had ever wanted. “Henry did say something of interest. It so happens that Mr. Blackwood has been acting rather strangely of late,” she said in a bid to distract his mind from thoughts of fights and duels. “He disappears for hours when he should be working.”

Tristan shrugged. “A man who would orchestrate the terrible things that happened to you undoubtedly has loose morals.”

“But Henry said Mr. Blackwood flits from place to place.”

“It is feasible that he would take a short term tenancy when in town or use a guest house. That way he is not liable for rent when staying at Highley Grange.”

Tristan’s points were logical. Yet she could not shake the feeling that Mr. Blackwood had something to hide. “When I questioned Henry about the missing items he denied any involvement.”

“Please tell me you did not expect him to confess.” Tristan snorted. “He would not want it known he had arranged for someone to steal items from his own home. People are suspicious by nature and would suspect fraudulent activity.”

“What need has Henry for a silver pin pot and candlestick? He could buy a hundred if he so wished.” Indeed, he had ample funds to purchase a house in Cambridge to entertain his mistress. Then again, her stepson was nothing if not frugal. “No. I am convinced Mr. Blackwood has stolen the items. Of course, Henry cannot say anything to him. Not unless he wants to risk others discovering the deplorable methods he used to get rid of me.”

“I suppose a haunted house provides the perfect opportunity to pilfer, for one can then blame it on the ghost.”

She chuckled. But a few days ago, she would have trembled in fear at the mere mention of haunted houses. “I don’t care about Henry’s missing possessions. But I care that Mr. Blackwood has taken my brooch. It belonged to my mother.” And she cared that Mr. Blackwood had played her for a fool. A sudden thought entered her head, and she gasped. “Do you think Mr. Blackwood stole from Samuel whilst working at Highley Grange?”

A debauched party would provide a perfect opportunity to steal from guests too inebriated to remember where they had put their snuff box.

“It is possible.”

She attempted to gauge what he was thinking. “But you are not convinced that is the case?”

“I did not say that. It is just impossible to prove.”

It was easy to prove if they found Mr. Blackwood in possession of stolen goods.

“I do know where we might find the scoundrel,” Isabella said with a hint of intrigue. “Mr. Blackwood has taken lodgings on Gerrard Street, above the drapers.”

Tristan leant forward. “Are you suggesting we pay the gentleman a visit?” There was a wild glint in his eye that forced her to question the sense of such a plan. “I must say I am rather impatient to hear him try to defend his actions.”

It was perhaps unwise to visit the home of a man who could have committed murder to protect his secret.

“I am confident we will not be in any danger.” She kept her tone even so as not to reveal her fear. There was every chance Tristan would insist on taking her home to Brook Street before heading off in search of Mr. Blackwood.

Tristan cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should wait—”

“No.”

He raised a brow. “I’ll not put you at risk. We do not know enough about the gentleman to make an informed decision.”

Isabella raised her chin. “We go together, or we do not go at all.”

“When I have dropped you at Brook Street, there is nothing stopping me from asking your coachman to take a detour on my way home.”

“But it is a mile in the opposite direction.” She moistened her lips, cast him her most sensual smile. “Besides, are you not staying the night with me in Brook Street? If you leave, I may be asleep by the time you return. There is every possibility the servants will fail to hear you knocking.”

Inhaling deeply, he sat back in the seat and folded his arms across his chest. “Good God, woman, you certainly know how to get your own way.”

The carriage rumbled to a halt on the corner of Gerrard and Wardour Street. The time was fast approaching midnight. There were but a few gentlemen ambling home, their inability to walk in a straight line proof of an evening spent in pursuit of pleasure.

Tristan stepped down to the pavement. “Wait further along the street,” he called up to Dawes perched atop his box seat. “Wait near the turning into Gerrard Place.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He held out his hand to Isabella, savoured the frisson of awareness that always accompanied any physical contact.

“There is every chance Mr. Blackwood will not be at home,” Isabella said as she stepped down to join him on the pavement. “For all we know he has returned to Highley Grange. As I said, he does seem rather keen to avoid me, and our paths rarely cross.”

Tristan tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. They watched the carriage rattle away at a slow pace and disappear into the veil of mist. “Should that be the case, I suggest we make the journey to Hoddesdon tonight. We could catch him unawares, give him less of an opportunity to flee.”

“I agree. I am rather keen to find some closure,” she said with a sad sigh as she scanned the row of houses to their right. “I doubt we will ever know if Andrew’s death was an accident or not. But at least we will know what part Mr. Blackwood played in it all.”

They passed the tea shop, milliners, and piano-forte maker before stopping outside the drapers. Peering in through the small square window panes, Tristan could see the rolls of material displayed behind the counter. He stepped back and surveyed the windows on the two upper floors. All was dark. There was not even a faint flicker of candlelight.

Tristan glanced at the weathered black door to the left, which no doubt provided access to the rooms above. “The best we can do is knock on the first door we come to and hope they have heard of Mr. Blackwood.”

“One look at our attire and they will know we have not come to rob them.”

Tristan opened the door. It led into a narrow hallway, and they climbed the stone stairs to the first floor. “Will you recognise Mr. Blackwood when you see him?”

“I have met him a handful of times over the years, but it has been at least three months since our paths have crossed at Highley Grange.”

In itself, that was suspicious. Or perhaps the man had stolen Isabella’s brooch and knew he would struggle to look her in the eye without revealing his guilt.

There were two doors on the first-floor landing. They knocked on the one nearest to the stairs, heard groans and grumbles emanating from within when they knocked for the third time.

“What have I told you drunkards about—” The woman stopped abruptly. She opened the door fully and met their gaze. With a quick glance at the quality of Isabella’s vibrant gown, her filthy scowl became a beaming smile, despite the absence of a front tooth. “What can I do for you fine people at this very late hour?”

Isabella placed her hand on his arm, a gesture to inform him of her desire to address the woman. “We are looking for someone,” she said. “A Mr. Blackwood. We were told he lives here.”

The woman narrowed her gaze and scratched the greying hair at her temple. “A Mr. Blackwood you say? Does he have thick dark eyebrows that meet in the middle?”

“I would not say they were entirely thick, but they do meet just above the bridge of his nose.”

“Does he have a large mole on his cheek?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Isabella said with a sigh.

The woman rubbed her chin as she glanced up at the ceiling. “Does he have—”

“Good heavens,” Tristan interrupted. “Can you just tell us if you know of him or not.”

“He … he did live here, but now he’s moved.”

“When?” Tristan stepped closer. “Do you know where we might find him?”

“You’re not the first to come here looking for him. I could tell by Blackwood’s shifty stare he was up to no good.” With a mischievous glint in her eye, the woman said, “It can get mighty cold at night.” She took the ends of her shawl, wrapped them across her chest and shivered. “It doesn’t help having the door open all this time.”

Isabella nudged him.

He raised a brow in enquiry and through a series of animated facial expressions revealed he did not have so much as a coin on his person.

The woman raised her chin as she was obviously well-versed when it came to silent communication. “You know, it’s not just woollen gloves what keeps your hands warm.”

It did not take a genius to decipherer her meaning.

Isabella held her hand out. “What about these gloves? Do you think they will help keep the cold at bay? You may have them if you can tell us where we might find Mr. Blackwood.”

Clasping her hands to her chest, the woman gasped. “Oh, how kind of you, madam, to think of an old woman in her hour of need.”

Tugging the gloves at the ends of the fingers, Isabella pulled them off. She clutched them in her hand. “Mr. Blackwood’s address and they are yours.”

“Church Street.”

Isabella offered the woman her silk gloves. “And the number.”

“It’s behind the modiste. Number twelve, on the ground floor. I do some sewing for her when she’s running behind. That’s how I know he’s moved there.”