What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (25 page)

Tristan shuffled in his seat. “We cannot trust the authorities to act quickly enough. With Mr. Blackwood being the only witness, Mr. Fellows could easily find a way to manipulate him. Equally, the book may prove to be useless. No. I’m afraid we need a confession.”

She suspected he meant to say something far more sinister than
manipulate
but did not wish to frighten Mr. Blackwood any more than was necessary. “It will only be our word against his. If you don’t mind me saying, it is all very speculative considering we do not know what is written in the notebook.”

“We don’t need to know,” Tristan replied. “Fellows believes the book incriminates him. We will use it as a bargaining tool to force him to admit his crimes. And the word of two peers will help to bolster our cause.”

“Two peers?”

The carriage rumbled to a halt before Tristan could answer. Isabella wiped the window and peered at the imposing townhouse. The tall Doric columns supporting the portico looked familiar, as did the brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

“But this is Lord Fernall’s house,” she said, her high-pitched tone revealing her surprise.

“I … I have been overseeing the renovations to the upper rooms,” Mr. Blackwood informed. “I thought it a perfect place to hide the notebook. Should anything untoward happen to me, then I hoped Lord Fernall might one day stumble upon it and discover what really happened to his father.”

“I assume Lord Fernall knows nothing of this.” She sat back to give Tristan the opportunity to open the door. “Are we to inform him of our intentions or are we to sneak through the servants’ quarters in the hope we are not noticed?”

“We need Lord Fernall’s help.” Tristan opened the door and vaulted down to the pavement. He smiled as he offered her his hand. “I’m afraid we’ve no choice but to knock the front door.”

Chapter 21

They were shown into Lord Fernall’s study. Saunders went to rouse his master who had returned home but an hour before.

“I thought the butler was about to slam the door in our faces,” Tristan said pulling out the chair for her to sit. “That was until you introduced yourself.”

It was the first time she had ever been thankful for bearing the Fernall name. “I have been to this house many times, but I believe Saunders has only worked here for a little over a year.”

Tristan paced back and forth in the space to the right of her chair as they waited for Lord Fernall. He grumbled and sighed whenever he removed his pocket watch and glanced at the face. Mr. Blackwood hovered to her left, his breathing far too laboured for a man standing motionless.

“There is a perfectly good clock on the mantelpiece,” she said. Tristan’s fidgeting was starting to make her anxious. It did not take much to unnerve Mr. Blackwood. Indeed, she noted beads of perspiration on his brow, noted him wincing as he pressed his fingers to his temple.

Tristan tucked the offending item back into his pocket. “There is something about the ritual of checking one’s watch that appears to accelerate time.”

“It is all in the mind,” she countered.

The clip of brisk footsteps echoing through the hall captured their attention. Lord Fernall entered. The gentleman had obviously dressed in a hurry and had not quite managed to force his arm through the sleeve of his coat.

“What is the meaning of calling at such a late hour?” Henry’s irate gaze drifted over them as he fumbled with his attire. When his penetrating stare settled on Mr. Blackwood, a muttered curse fell from his lips. He turned to her. “Have I not already explained my reasons for acting as I did? There was no need to drag poor Mr. Blackwood from his bed.”

With a sudden wave of rage, Tristan stepped forward. “I should beat you to a pulp for what you have done to Isabella. What sort of gentleman terrifies a woman in her home?”

Henry’s face flamed berry red. “Not that I have to explain myself to you,” he began, “but I believed I was acting in Lady Fernall’s best interest.”

“Nonsense.” Tristan squared his shoulders. “You wanted to throw her out to make way for your mistress?”

Henry glanced at Mr. Blackwood. “This is hardly the place to discuss such matters. I did not drag myself out of bed for you to berate me for my failures.” He turned to face her. “I thought we had come to an agreement.”

She stood, purely because she refused to be spoken down to, even literally. “We are not here to
discuss the ghostly goings on at Highley Grange. We are here because we have proof that someone murdered your father, and we need your help to ensure justice is served.”

Henry frowned until his brows practically overhung his lids. He took two steps back, shook his head numerous times as though that would help to solve the problem with his hearing.

“Murdered?” he repeated. “Is this some sort of joke? Is this your way of exacting your revenge for me wanting you to leave Highley Grange?”

“It is all true, my lord.” Mr. Blackwood stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “I witnessed the event. I saw the man who murdered your father.”

“Wait a minute.” Henry rubbed his temple. “You witnessed my father’s death and yet did not think to mention it before?”

“There was no proof, nothing but my word. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” Mr. Blackwood looked to his feet. “It was cowardly of me to remain silent. I know that now.”

“I have always suspected foul play,” Isabella said lifting her chin. “But my opinion was partly based on the suspicious incidents occurring at the Grange.”

Tristan cleared his throat. “In a bid to settle Lady Fernall’s fears my brother conducted an investigation. He wrote everything down in a notebook which Mr. Blackwood retrieved upon my brother’s death and which is now hidden somewhere in this house. The murderer wants it, and has arranged to meet Mr. Blackwood in order to make a trade.”

Henry’s eyes grew large and wide as his curious gaze scanned the room. “You left the notebook here?” he snapped. “Good Lord. There is a criminal on the loose, and you left an incriminating piece of evidence in my house.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. Judging by the flash of fear in his eyes he appeared grateful his head was still firmly attached to his body. “And are you here to reclaim this book?”

Mr. Blackwood shuffled from one foot to the other. “It is hidden under the boards in what will be the new master chamber. We must take it with us.”

“Then go and get it this instant.” Henry’s frantic hand movements revealed his impatience.

Mr. Blackwood scuttled from the room.

They waited in silence.

The tension in the air felt heavy and oppressive.

Henry paced back and forth in a military fashion, whilst Tristan’s clenched jaw and disapproving stare conveyed an emotion that could best be described as menacing.

Mr. Blackwood’s frantic steps could be heard racing through the hall, but he slowed to a walking pace as he entered the study. “Here … here it is.” He waved the small leather-bound book, first at Tristan and then at Henry, not knowing what to do. No doubt his loyalty to his employer would play a hand in forcing his decision.

“The notebook belongs to Lord Morford,” Isabella said in a bid to bring clarity to the situation. “It is his by rights, regardless of where it has been kept.”

The corners of Tristan’s mouth curved up into a discreet grin as their gazes locked. His blue eyes sparkled with a vitality that stole her breath.

“Then give it to him,” Henry snapped as he shooed Mr. Blackwood away. “I am tired and in need of my bed.”

Tristan took the notebook. He ran his fingers over the brown leather, placed his palm flat on the cover as though it still contained the essence of his brother. With a shake of the head, he flipped the book open and scanned the pages, stopped periodically and traced various words with the tip of his finger.

She moved to his side, resisted the urge to touch his arm, to peer over his shoulder. Regardless of Andrew’s failings, it must hurt to read the words, knowing he would never have another opportunity to hear his brother’s voice.

“Is it what we suspected?” she asked softly. “Is there anything we can use to support Mr. Blackwood’s statement?”

Tristan looked up at her. It was not pain she saw in his eyes but rather a glint of satisfaction that suggested Andrew had been thorough in his investigation. “We have the times and dates of passage for numerous trips to India. We have a list of all the gentlemen who attended Samuel Fernall’s events at Highley Grange, one of whom is Mr. Fellows. We—”

“Mr. Fellows?” Henry interjected. “The gentleman with the extravagant side-whiskers?”

“Have you had dealings with the gentleman before?” Isabella asked. She could not imagine Henry participating in his father’s debauched games.

Henry cleared his throat. “I know he attended various parties at the Grange. Upon my father’s wishes, I threw him out when he became … shall we say rather loud and uncooperative.”

“Good Lord.” Tristan sucked in a breath as he studied one particular page.

“What is it?” Isabella put her hand to her throat as she anticipated his reply.

Tristan glanced up at Henry, pursed his lips as confusion marred his brow. “Are you aware of any other children your father may have sired?”

Pulling himself up to his full height, Henry said, “I am the only heir.”

“That does not answer the question.” Tristan cocked a brow in mild reproof. “You either know, or you don’t.”

Henry’s arrogant façade faltered. “I am aware he was unfaithful to my mother, that he had numerous illegitimate offspring dotted about here and there.”

“I was not aware,” Isabella said feeling a little disgruntled. She was surprised. Samuel had never felt the need to hide the licentious part of his character.

Tristan handed her the notebook. “It makes for interesting reading.”

With some hesitation, she flicked through the first few leaves. There were pages of times, dates, the names of ships travelling to Madras. Mr. Fellows had left for India mere days after Samuel’s death, returned a month before Andrew met his demise. There were pages of names, some peers, some she recognised. Andrew had taken statements from those whose dissipated antics were well known.

To say Andrew had done a thorough job was an understatement.

She turned the page and read the first few lines of what appeared to be a witness statement. Indeed, the time, date and location were recorded. “There is a testimony from a servant who worked for Mrs. Fellows. How on earth did Andrew get the maid to speak?”

Tristan shrugged. “If you read on, you will see that the servant was tending to Mrs. Fellows just before she died. The nurse heard Mrs. Fellows tell her son that he was illegitimate.”

Henry scoffed. “If you are about to say that Mr. Fellows is my father’s son, then I already suspected as much.”

“What?” Tristan and Isabella said in unison.

A folded piece of paper fell from the notebook onto the floor. Tristan picked it up.

“I overheard an argument about money,” Henry informed in a matter-of-fact tone. “I assumed it was over a gambling debt. But no doubt Mr. Fellows sought financial compensation.”

She turned to Tristan, who was busy scanning the paper. “Is it anything of interest?”

Tristan stared at her though she could not gauge his mood. “It is certainly interesting, but it does not pertain to the case.”

“May I see it?” She held out her hand, sensed his slight hesitation.

“Certainly. I believe it belongs to you.”

Isabella took the paper, peeled back the folds to find a sketch of a naked woman. Focusing on the woman’s eyes, she knew the figure was drawn in her likeness.

Henry stifled a yawn. “If you have what you came for can I retire to my bed?”

Tristan sucked in a breath. “Are you not the least bit interested in catching the man who murdered your father?”

“Good Lord, no. It was only a matter of time before one of his dissipated guests finished him off.”

Isabella was struggling to focus on the conversation. She did not care that Andrew had made the sketch. But she feared Tristan would question how his brother came to possess such insight.

“I need you to come with us,” Tristan said. “Should Mr. Fellows elude us, he may come here. The man is dangerous and unpredictable. I would not be at all surprised to find that you and the delightful Mrs. Forester are the casualties of a horrific carriage accident. Then again, house fires are common and hide any evidence of foul play.”

Henry gulped. “Why … why should Mr. Fellows care what I think?”

“You’re a witness. You can attest to the argument, to the volatile nature of his relationship with your father. You had the notebook in your possession.” Tristan raised a brow. “Just think how grateful Mrs. Forester will be when she learns you captured a criminal in order to protect her.”

Henry appeared to ponder the comment. “What would I have to do?”

“Nothing. You just need to bear witness to the conversation. You may tell Mrs. Forester what you wish. I will not discredit your account.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

“Very well.” Henry inclined his head. “Give me a moment and I shall come with you.”