What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (26 page)

While they waited for Henry to return, Isabella took the opportunity to speak to Tristan.

“I had no idea Andrew had made this sketch,” she said taking his arm and pulling him to the furthest corner of the study.

“You mean you did not pose for him?” There was not a trace of suspicion or anger in his tone.

“Of course not.” She could not hide the panic in her voice. “Please tell me you did not think I would do such a thing?”

A smile touched his lips. “In the first instance, I trust your word. In the second, it is evident that my brother has never seen you naked.” He moistened his lips as he stared at her mouth. “Your hips are far more curvaceous, your breasts are fuller, more—”

“Yes.Yes.” She waved her hand in the air as relief coursed through her. “You do not have to go into detail.”

He took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers. “I want you to do something for me.” His tone revealed a slight apprehension.

“You know I would do anything you asked.”

“I do not want you to come to Green Park. I want you to wait for me in Brook Street.”

She swallowed down the sudden pain in her throat. “But why? I will not be a burden.”

His eyes grew bright, filled with affection. “You could never be a burden, but I cannot concentrate on the task if I am worrying about you.”

“I don’t think I can bear to sit there waiting, not knowing what has happened to you.”

“Nothing will happen to me. We will deal with Mr. Fellows and then put this all behind us. It will be over in a few hours and we shall spend the rest of the day making up for the years we have missed.”

He looked so worried, so tormented, that she felt she had no choice but to agree. “I do not want to hinder you in any way. It would break me if you got hurt because you were looking after me.”

Henry Fernall marched into the study. “Let us get this over with.”

A hint of cologne drifted through the air; the woody aroma made her nose itch.

“We are not going to meet royalty,” Tristan scoffed.

“One should always leave the house looking their best.” Henry tugged at the lapels of his clean coat. “One never knows whom they might meet.”

After spending a few minutes copying some of Andrew’s notes onto a separate piece of paper, they departed for Brook Street.

During the five-minute carriage ride, no one spoke. Henry Fernall used the opportunity to take a quick nap. Mr. Blackwood spent the time nibbling his fingernails. Isabella sat next to Tristan. Beneath the satin folds of her gown, they held hands.

Had Henry Fernall not agreed to accompany him, Isabella would have insisted on going, too. But she did not want to be a distraction, nor did she wish to spend time in Henry’s company.

“Promise me you will be careful.” Isabella stood in the doorway of the house in Brook Street. She put her hand on Tristan’s chest in the hope it would bring some comfort. Her heart thumped wildly against her ribs. The time for complete honesty was upon them. “Now we have been reunited I cannot bear the thought of living without you.”

Tristan closed the small gap between them. “You will never be without me.” He took her chin between his finger and thumb and stared deeply into her eyes. “I’m in love with you,” he said softly. “Indeed, I have never stopped loving you.”

She almost choked on the surge of raw emotion bubbling in her throat. “You are the love of my life. You are my life. Hurry back to me.”

Tristan smiled though she could see a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. “With any luck, I shall be back in a few hours and then we can put this business behind us and start again.”

“Perhaps I should come, too.”

With tender strokes, he caressed her cheek. “We have already discussed it a hundred times or more. I completely misread Mr. Fellows’ character. I have no notion what the gentleman is capable of, and so I need to know you are safe.”

“I know. It is just that the time passes so slowly when you are waiting. I shall be beside myself with worry.”

Regardless of the fact that they were standing in the doorway, he kissed her once on the mouth. “I’ll be back soon.”

Chapter 22

The carriage rattled along the streets on its way to Green Park. Blackwood held onto the leather roof strap, his trance-like gaze following the dark shadows outside as they raced past the window.

Tristan studied Lord Fernall’s grim expression before checking his pocket watch. “Good, we should have time to take our positions before Fellows arrives.”

Lord Fernall folded his arms across his chest. “Do you have a plan?”

“Of course. Mr. Blackwood will demand an explanation for your father’s murder before he agrees to hand over the notebook. We will hide in the shrubbery until satisfied we have heard enough and then take him into custody.”

Tristan had to admit it was a pretty poor plan. But, from experience, he knew success was often down to luck rather than strategy.

Henry Fernall scoffed. “What? You expect Blackwood here to conduct a coherent conversation. The man is a quivering wreck.”

Blackwood tore his gaze away from the window. “I … I have no choice in the … the matter.”

Tristan dragged his hand down his face and sighed. Bloody hell. What had seemed like a logical solution to their problem now felt like the naive plot of a novice.

“Have a little faith,” Tristan replied in a bid to rouse some confidence in his own ability to succeed.

The carriage rumbled to a halt near the north gate. They alighted quickly, the grey blanket of fog proving to be an advantage as they hoped to be in position before Mr. Fellows arrived.

“The tree is just inside the entrance,” Blackwood said pointing to an eerie shadow in the gloom. “They say many a passerby has stumbled upon a body dangling from a bough.”

Lord Fernall muttered under his breath. “Do you always speak such gibberish?”

As they approached the tree, Tristan felt the hairs on his nape jump to attention. A frosty chill shivered through him. The muscles in his abdomen grew uncomfortably tight. The natural flow of the earth’s rhythm felt disturbed. Many people said dogs could sense the ominous shift in the atmosphere, said that they whined and yelped to alert their owners of the invisible yet menacing presence.

“Whilst it appears to look like any other tree in the park,” Tristan began, “I cannot help but feel repelled by it.”

Blackwood stared up at the lowest branch. The wood was smooth in places, light in colour where the bark had worn away. “Do you know what they say about the Dead Man’s Tree?”

“No,” Lord Fernall said with a sigh. “But I am sure you’re going to enlighten us with one of your bizarre tales.”

“They say the spirits of the dead walk this path.” Blackwood’s voice was but an octave higher than a whisper. “Their sad souls linger. People have seen strange shadows, figures in shrouds, a man dressed as a cavalier wielding his sword.”

Lord Fernall snorted. “And this morning they will see two fools crouching behind the shrubbery.”

“Talking of shrubbery,” Tristan began as he checked his watch for the umpteenth time, “we should take our places.” He gestured to the row of shrubs four feet or so in front of the tree. “We shall hide here. Mr. Blackwood shall stand in front.”

Despite a few moans and mumbles, they took their positions.

“We look utterly ridiculous,” Lord Fernall complained as he knelt down next to Tristan. “I don’t know why I agreed to come.”

“It is almost five. We will not have long to wait.”

Minutes passed.

Mr. Blackwood paced back and forth.

A low groan breezed past Tristan’s ear. He turned to Lord Fernall. “You need to remain quiet.”

Lord Fernall glanced back over his shoulder. “That was not me.”

They waited.

“Any sign of him?” Tristan whispered, eager to move from behind the large shrub. It was as though a dark and dangerous presence hovered over him, pressing him down into the earth.

“No.”

Tristan checked his watch. Fellows was fifteen minutes late.

“I cannot feel my feet,” Lord Fernall grumbled. “How much longer must we crouch here like street urchins scouring for scraps?”

“As long as it takes,” Tristan said through clenched teeth, trying desperately not to punch the arrogant lord for his indifference to their plight.

Blackwood cleared his throat. “Wait. I think he’s coming.”

Through a gap made in the foliage, Tristan witnessed Mr. Fellows approach. The hazy black figure appeared to float through the fog, the image growing more prominent as he came closer. At a distance, one could not detect his features. Indeed, he looked faceless. A nobody. A hulking soulless mass.

Blackwood sucked in a breath, muttered a croaky curse.

Good Lord! Tristan hoped the man could hold his nerve.

As Fellows came closer, he noticed that the gentleman’s coat radiated a golden glow. Tristan blinked to focus. His heart flew up to his throat, thumped wildly in his neck until he struggled to breathe. What had looked like one huge distorted figure now proved to be that of two people.

Isabella.

Fellows came to a stop a few feet away from Mr. Blackwood. With his left hand, he held Isabella close to his body, aimed the pistol in his right hand at her stomach.

“Ah, Mr. Blackwood. Forgive me if I kept you waiting. I am usually so punctual, but my hackney was forced to make a call in Brook Street to collect the necessary provisions.”

The blood roared in Tristan’s ears. He blinked rapidly in an attempt to focus. Isabella appeared unharmed. Her lips were drawn thin, though it was not fear that flashed in her eyes; he saw anger.

“Do … do you have my money?” Blackwood stammered.

Fellows grinned. “Do you have my notebook?”

Blackwood held up the brown book. “Let Lady Fernall go and we can make our trade.”

Fellows chuckled. “I am afraid that will not be possible. If I am to leave on the next ship to Calcutta, then I must have some assurance you will not intervene. No, Lady Fernall will be coming with me.”

Despite Lord Fernall tugging violently on the sleeve of his coat, Tristan could not contain his volatile emotions. “The hell she will.” Tristan marched around the overgrown bush to stand at Mr. Blackwood’s side.

Fellows tutted. “I did wonder which bush you had chosen to hide behind. Do you take me for a fool, Lord Morford?”

“Only a fool would think he could get away with murder,” Tristan countered. It was hard to take the man seriously when his side-whiskers filled his face. “How did you know I was there?”

Fellows shrugged. “I followed Mr. Blackwood to Lady Fernall’s carriage. Even through the fog, I recognised her coachman sitting atop his box. As a gentleman, I assumed you would take the lady home before coming to our assignation. You really are rather predictable.”

Tristan’s mind raced ahead. Fellows did not know Lord Fernall was hiding behind the bush. He said a silent prayer, hoping the lord’s reluctance to participate, coupled with his cowardly nature, would cause him to remain hidden.

“I lack your expertise when it comes to criminal activity.” Tristan stared at Isabella. She read his silent plea, nodded inconspicuously as a means of reassurance. “As you appear to have the upper hand, perhaps you might enlighten us as to your intentions.”

“I want the notebook. I intend to leave here with Lady Fernall. She will remain my companion until I am safely aboard ship. You will not attempt to follow me, but will accept my word that she will be released unharmed.”

Tristan snorted. “Why would I trust you when you have lied and deceived me these last few days? You have entered my home under false pretences, merely to pry.” Indeed, the man had been left alone for an hour in Tristan’s study giving him ample time to rummage through the desk drawers.

“Desperate men do desperate things.”

“So you had no real interest in Miss Smythe?” Tristan was determined to keep Mr. Fellows talking. Hearing his confession would ease Tristan’s conscience. Whilst all the evidence indicated Fellows was guilty, he could not rely solely on the word of Mr. Blackwood. Nor could he completely trust Andrew’s attempt at uncovering a motive.

“Miss Smythe is a delight, but needs must. I am sure Mr. Chandler will be thrilled to have her on his arm.”

“What did my mother pay you to attack Miss Smythe in the Holbrooks’ garden?”

“She did not pay me.” Fellows’ eyes flashed with amusement. “When she told me of her plan, I was grateful for the opportunity to distract you. Your mother is a woman riddled with resentment. She would do anything to prevent you from marrying this delightful creature at my side. Who do you think told me Lady Fernall lived in Brook Street?”

Isabella gasped.

Damn it all.

His mother had left him no choice. She could stay in Ripon indefinitely. When he married Isabella, he would not have his mother interfering.

“Does my mother know that you killed Lord Fernall?”

“She sees me as a friend and ally, one who cares about Miss Smythe’s happiness. She has no interest in anything beyond that.” He gestured to the notebook in Mr. Blackwood’s hand. “Now, sunrise is fast approaching. You will give me the notebook and we shall be on our way.”