What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (24 page)

Blackwood’s anxious gaze drifted back and forth between them.

“There is every chance we have been followed here,” Isabella said. “Whilst we are running about blindly, the perpetrator will always be two steps ahead.”

Mr. Blackwood dragged his hand down his face and sighed deeply. “I … I know who killed Lord Fernall—”

“My husband was murdered?” Isabella shot to her feet. She clutched her throat and then dropped back onto the sofa. “I knew something was amiss. Was it his son, Henry Fernall?”

“No, my lady. But don’t ask me for a name.”

Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but it took a moment for him to form the words. “And did the same person murder my brother?”

Mr. Blackwood shook his head. “Your brother’s accident happened just as they said. I was to ride with him back to London. But I was late and attempted to catch up with him near Hoddesdon.”

Tristan dragged his hand down his face. Relief flowed through him. Nothing would bring his brother back but knowing his death was an accident was perhaps easier to bear.

“I had told him about the night Lord Fernall died,” Mr. Blackwood continued. Now he had begun his story the words flowed freely. “I’d not wanted to tell a soul, but his lordship had a commanding way about him. He wanted me to go to London, to confront the gentleman responsible. But I avoided him, hid in the woods opposite the gates and watched him leave without me.”

“Were you afraid to speak up?” Isabella asked, her tone soft, serene.

“I’m the only witness. I didn’t want to reveal what I saw that night. But his lordship asked too many questions, prodding and probing until my mind was a jumbled mess.”

Tristan suspected it would not take a great deal of effort to push the man to his limits.

“But something made you change your mind,” Tristan said, “else you would not have attempted to follow my brother.”

Mr. Blackwood shrugged. “I kept thinking, what if the scoundrel came back to Highley Grange? What if he thought to silence us all?”

“Did you not think to tell the current Lord Fernall what you saw?” Isabella said.

“At the time I had no proof. Besides, he is not an easy gentleman to talk to.”

“And so you saw my brother fall from his horse?”

Blackwood nodded. “He was dead by the time I got to him. I thought to get help, but then I remembered the notebook.” He hung his head. “I stole it from his saddle bag. When I heard the pounding of horse’s hooves I made it away through the woods.”

Isabella sighed. “And you have been running ever since.”

Tristan’s thoughts turned to Andrew’s notes. “Do you still have my brother’s book?”

Blackwood simply nodded.

“Why did you not think to bring it to me?”

“How could I when it was the only thing keeping me alive,” Blackwood implored.

Isabella sat forward. “The murderer knows you have the book?”

“I don’t know what game Lord Morford was playing,” Blackwood said, “but after his death, the gentleman came back to Highley Grange. He knew of my involvement, and I have used the notebook to blackmail him into staying away.”

“A gentleman you say.” Tristan had suspected a disgruntled guest was the likely candidate. “Has this gentleman not made some attempt to recover the book?”

“One night, I returned to the gatehouse to find the place had been ransacked. I have been mugged twice in the space of a month. It is why I must move, why I cannot be seen to follow a routine.”

Everything was beginning to make more sense. “Is that why you wanted Lady Fernall to leave Highley Grange? Is it because you fear what the gentleman might do in his desperation to find the notebook?”

Blackwood nodded. “The gentleman is unstable I fear.”

“And you are certain Lord Fernall did not simply trip and fall down the stairs?” Tristan had to ask the question. An innocent man would be just as determined to obtain slanderous material.

“Lord Fernall did not fall down the stairs.” Blackwood’s eyes grew large and wide. “The gentleman came up behind him and snapped his neck as though it was nothing more than a twig.”

“Good Lord!” Tristan could not hide his shock. It took a cold, callous man to behave in such a vicious manner. “And you bore witness to the crime.”

“I shouldn’t have been in the house, but I’d taken Molly back to her room after … well … Mrs. Birch had locked the outer door leading to the servants’ quarters and so we’d come through the main hall. On my way back, I heard the boards creaking on the landing and so hid at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Did you not hear a conversation?” Isabella asked. “Did the gentleman not give a reason for killing my husband?”

“The gentleman crept up behind him. Lord Fernall was too slow to react. The gentleman caught his lordship before he hit the floor.”

An eerie silence filled the room. Tristan presumed their minds were busy imagining the macabre scene.

Blackwood suddenly jumped in his chair. “I do remember the gentleman saying something, though I thought both things odd at the time.”

“Yes,” they replied in unison, hanging on Blackwood’s every word.

“As he twisted Lord Fernall’s neck he said it was a little trick he had learnt in India. Then he threw Lord Fernall over his shoulder as though he was a sack of grain, carried him down the stairs and laid his body out on the floor. I hung back in the shadows, kept my hand across my mouth fearing he would hear me breathe.”

“In India?” Tristan clarified.

“Yes,” Blackwood replied. “And as he stood over the body he said that the Devil reaps what he sows. Then he walked out of the front door.”

“India,” Tristan repeated.

“Does that mean something to you?” Isabella asked.

“It is just that I know someone who has recently returned from India,” he said rubbing his chin as the suspicious part of his mind grew more alert. “Perhaps it is simply a coincidence. After all, there must be many people who make such a journey.”

“Samuel died two years ago. I doubt we are talking about the same person,” Isabella said confidently.

She was right, of course. Besides, Mr. Fellows struck him as a man who lacked the strength to undo the knot in his cravat, let alone break a man’s neck with his bare hands.

“How recently?” Blackwood said, chewing on his fingernail while he waited for a reply.

“Excuse me?”

“This person you are acquainted with, how recently did he return from India?”

“I’m not sure. A few months ago.” Tristan shrugged. “I barely know the gentleman, but Mr. Fellows is far too affable—” He stopped abruptly, aware of the look of horror on Mr. Blackwood’s face. “What is it?”

Blackwood gulped. “Mr. Fellows? But that is the name of the gentleman who murdered Lord Fernall.”

Chapter 20

“Do you think the plan will work?” Isabella rubbed the fine layer of mist from the carriage window with the tips of her fingers. She peered out into the dimly lit street, watched Mr. Blackwood’s hazy form disappear through a cloud of fog. “What if Mr. Fellows is not at home?”

“Then Blackwood will leave a note for him to meet us in Green Park.”

Doubt surfaced. “Mr. Blackwood scuttled away so quickly I do wonder if he will come back.” Indeed, the man had been fraught with fear at the thought of confronting a murderer.

“Blackwood has nowhere else to go,” Tristan said with an air of confidence as he lounged back against the squab. “He has neither the funds nor the resourcefulness to hide indefinitely. And I have a feeling it will only be a matter of time before Mr. Fellows discovers where he has hidden the notebook.”

Isabella sat back in the seat. Staring out of the window only served to make the time pass more slowly. “I have seen Andrew examining his notes numerous times during his visits to Highley Grange, but he refused to disclose the information. I know he told me he was making enquiries, but I did not imagine he would discover anything of interest.”

“I must say I am rather intrigued to read what he has written. Hopefully, there will be something we can use against Mr. Fellows.”

“We can only pray.” She dismissed the frisson of fear coursing through her. Should Mr. Fellows discover the extent of their involvement, they would be forever looking over their shoulders, too. “I shall be relieved to see an end to it all.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with an amused grin. “I rather enjoyed our ghost hunting in the dead of night. I particularly enjoyed kissing away your fears. And watching you writhe restlessly in your sleep, that delightful cotton nightdress getting wrapped around your shapely thighs.”

His playful tone helped to ease her anxiety. “You observed me sleeping?”

“What else was I to do stuck in a rickety chair for hours?”

“But you said you could sleep anywhere.”

Tristan grinned. “I can unless there is a tempting beauty lying but a few feet away, calling out to me during her whimsical dreams.”

Panic flared. “What … what did I say?”

Tristan rubbed his chin as he stared thoughtfully at a point beyond her shoulder. “You said something about how pleased you were to have me home.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Had I been talking about you I would have said something far more salacious, though I am pleased you found a modicum of pleasure whilst cramped in the chair.” Her most memorable moment had occurred a little later. “I much preferred our early evening activities. Who would have thought that a waltz in a musty drawing room could be so stimulating.”

His heated gaze bored into her soul. “When we return to Brook Street we will have to work on improving our line.”

Desire unfurled. “How can one improve on perfection?”

“We could try a new dance. Something novel yet equally as satisfying.”

Had they been alone, she was confident they would not have waited another second to fall into each other’s arms.

With the highly charged feeling of unsated desire in the air, they fell into a companionable silence, though she suspected they were both lost in amorous thoughts.

She could not help but stare at him. Tristan closed his eyes, his breathing slowing to a calm, relaxed rate. Mere days ago she thought they would never share a civil word. Now, they had indulged their deepest passions, shared their darkest desires. Joining with him had been the most precious, most fulfilling moment of her life.

The sudden creak of the carriage door as it flew open dragged her out of her reverie.

Mr. Blackwood clambered inside, his ragged breathing evidence he had run all the way back to the conveyance.

“Did you speak to him?” Tristan straightened, closed the door and thumped the roof to alert Dawes of their intention to leave.

The carriage lurched forward almost immediately.

“Quick, you must h-hurry,” Mr. Blackwood stammered as he grabbed onto the edge of the seat to stop himself falling forward. “He cannot know we are together.”

“You spoke to Mr. Fellows?” Tristan reiterated.

Mr. Blackwood nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes. He has agreed to meet me near the D-dead Man’s Tree in Green Park.”

“The Dead Man’s Tree?” She had heard that the park was once a haunt for highwaymen, a place renowned for notorious duels. “That sounds rather ominous.”

“Some refer to it as the Tree of Death,” Tristan said. “It is a popular place for those who wish to end their lives … prematurely.”

Despite his tactful explanation, she recoiled as she imagined stumbling upon a stiff body swaying from a bough.

“There is something so sinister about excessive facial hair,” Mr. Blackwood randomly said as he shivered visibly. “Mr. Fellows’ bushy side-whiskers give him a menacing aura. I swear, had I the notebook in my possession he would have broken my neck on the doorstep.”

Isabella stared at Mr. Blackwood sitting opposite. Had the man never glanced in the mirror? Did he not know his eyebrows were just as strange and forbidding?

Tristan cast Mr. Blackwood a sidelong glance. “Did you inform him you wished to make an exchange?”

“Yes. He promised two hundred pounds for the book. I told him … I told him I planned to move away, that I have a cousin in Lancashire and had no desire to return to the city. I told him I am tired of hiding in the shadows.”

“Did he believe you?”

Mr. Blackwood shrugged.

Tristan removed his pocket watch and angled the face towards the window. “It is just past three. Did you tell him to meet you at five?”

“Yes, five as you suggested.”

“Then you will need to tell us where you hid the notebook, Mr. Blackwood,” Isabella said. She understood his need for secrecy but time was of the essence. “We must retrieve it if we are to meet Mr. Fellows.”

It was Tristan who spoke. “Er, Mr. Blackwood has told me where he has hidden the book. I have already informed Dawes of our destination.”

“Oh.” No one had thought to mention it to her. “Is it far?”

“No. Just off Grosvenor Square.”

It suddenly occurred to her that Tristan had not mentioned what he intended to do once at Green Park. “If the notebook contains the proof needed to substantiate the allegations against Mr. Fellows, why do we need to meet him in the park? Surely it is best to go straight to the authorities.”