What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (27 page)

Tristan suppressed his agitation; he had to find a way to stall him.

“Do you know what is written in the notebook?”

Fellows narrowed his gaze. “I’m sure you have read it, so I have nothing to hide. Your brother intimated it contained numerous witness statements proving my illegitimacy.”

“You were heard arguing with Lord Fernall over money. You’re listed as a participant in the sordid parties he held at Highley Grange. You were seen breaking his neck and carrying him down the stairs.”

“All conjecture. You have no proof.”

“The notebook is proof,” Isabella said quietly.

“There are statements from peers, from the servants who tended your mother.” He gestured to Mr. Blackwood. “We can all attest to your guilt.”

Fellows glanced down at the pistol in his hand. “I think you forget that I hold the winning card in this game. If I am to hang for one murder, then I may as well hang for two.”

Tristan’s steely reserve wavered, but he held firm. “I suppose a man capable of murdering his own father is capable of anything,” he said, though the thought of doing away with his mother had some appeal.

“He was not my father,” Mr. Fellows snapped, suddenly appearing more than a little disgruntled. “My father was a decent, honest man, kind and considerate. He was not a debauched heathen who would sell his soul if he thought it would enhance his pleasure.”

“Pleasure was what my husband lived for,” Isabella said. “There were times when he drove me to despair, times when I thought to kill him myself.”

Fellows snorted. “I wish you had. It would have saved me the trouble.”

The comment was perhaps as close to a confession as they would get. It would be enough to convince Lord Fernall to make a statement.

“I know he had a way of belittling those around him,” Isabella said with an air of melancholy. “He had a way of making others feel worthless.”

“When I refused to participate in his dissipated games, he said I was too weak, spineless, that he was ashamed I was his son.”

“I understand.” She spoke softly: her tone held a musical quality like a soothing melody drifting on a breeze. “He once told me he was ashamed that I was his wife. When I questioned his own morals and values he told me he would tell all those he knew how inadequate I had proved to be, that I was a failure.”

Tristan’s heart ached for her. Although he knew she spoke in order to extract information from Mr. Fellows, he could sense the truth in her words.

“He was a spiteful, selfish prig. When I discovered the true character of the man, I begged him to keep the nature of our relationship a secret,” Fellows grumbled. “But he taunted me, threatened to tell all those he knew that I had a penchant for debauchery. He put his arm around me and said …” Fellows broke off on a curse.

“What did he say?” Isabella asked.

“He said that wickedness is in the blood.”

Well, Samuel Fernall had been right about that.

“Then you must prove him wrong, Mr. Fellows,” Isabella said with an air of determination.

“It is too late. I’ve no choice but to return to India.” Fellows pushed Isabella forward, jabbed the barrel of the pistol into her side. “Give the notebook to Lady Fernall.”

“What about my money?” Blackwood asked.

“You’ll get nothing from me. If I’m to move abroad, I must be frugal. Hand over the book.”

Tristan doubted Fellows would pull the trigger, but he would not take the chance.

“Give him the notebook, Mr. Blackwood.”

Blackwood grumbled and mumbled at his side. With trembling fingers, he held the book out in front of him.

A pained groan and a sudden shuffling from behind the bush captured their attention.

Lord Fernall shot up, punching wildly at the air.

Tristan muttered a curse.

“Forgive me,” Fernall said, his face twisted into a grimace. “Someone prodded me in the back with something sharp.” He gestured to a point over his shoulder. “The blighter pinched me on the arm.”

Someone? There was not a soul in the park.

Fellows stared at him for the longest time, his eyes growing wide, fearful. Lord Fernall was not a particularly handsome man but his countenance hardly proved terrifying.

“What is that?” Fellows cried, continually blinking as though attempting to clear his vision after waking from slumber.

Lord Fernall appeared most affronted. “Are you referring to me?” He stomped around the bush as though ready to unleash a torrent of abuse and came to stand at Tristan’s side.

It was then they noticed that Mr. Fellows was not looking at anyone in particular. One minute he was squinting, the next his eyes were wide again.

“What do you want with me?” Fellows thrust Isabella forward, using her body as a shield.

“We want you to let Lady Fernall go,” Tristan replied, though he had some doubt as to whether the gentleman was speaking to him. With Mr. Fellows somewhat distracted, Tristan waited for the right moment to wrestle him to the ground. He turned to Lord Fernall. “The man appears to have lost his mind.”

Lord Fernall frowned. “What is he staring at?”

With a sudden gasp, Fellows pushed Isabella to one side and pointed the pistol at the Dead Man’s Tree. His hand shook so violently he was liable to shoot any one of them.

As he waved the pistol back and forth, they all ducked and scrambled out of the line of fire.

Isabella rushed to stand at Tristan’s side. He clutched her hand briefly, resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and apologise for his terrible miscalculation. “Find some way to distract him,” he whispered.

She replied with a confident nod. “What is that over there? I see it … a tall, black shadow … it is coming towards us.”

Mr. Fellows’ frantic gaze flitted left and right.

Tristan took the opportunity to charge at him. He grabbed Fellows around the waist and took him down to the ground.

A loud crack echoed through the air.

Isabella screamed.

Tristan waited for the pain, for the draining feeling that accompanied a heavy loss of blood. He patted his chest, checked his palm fearing the skin would be stained red.

In a state of panic, Mr. Fellows scrambled to his feet. With one more glance at the tree, he raced towards the gate and disappeared into the mist.

“The ball hit the tree,” Blackwood said helping Tristan to his feet. “Quick. Mr. Fellows is getting away.”

Sucking in a ragged breath, Tristan took Isabella’s hand and made for the gate with Blackwood and Lord Fernall in tow.

“I shall be glad to be away from this place,” Lord Fernall panted as he glanced at the tree. “I am telling you there was someone behind me whilst I was hiding back there.”

Unable to suppress a smirk, Tristan said, “What do you mean? Are you saying that a ghost attacked you?”

Fernall grunted as they passed through the gate. “You may mock—”

The horses’ high-pitched squeals and a coachman’s gruff, masculine curse overpowered the sound of the peddlers’ carts rattling along the street. Numerous shrieks and cries were interspersed with what Tristan suspected was the crunch of breaking bones.

The sight of Mr. Fellows’ crumpled body sprawled across the road stopped them dead in their tracks.

Chapter 23

Tristan pulled Isabella closer. “Don’t look. It is not a pretty sight.”

She buried her head in his chest. “Oh, it is so terrible.”

“He got trampled by the horses and crushed by the carriage wheels,” someone shouted from the small crowd that had stopped to observe the horrific scene. “His neck’s broken.”

Tristan sighed. The irony was not lost on him.

The coachman rushed over to examine the body. “The man came out of nowhere. I never even got a chance to tug on the reins,” he said, as the crowd offered words of reassurance upon witnessing his distress.

“I doubt there is any point calling a doctor,” Lord Fernall said. “But we need to be sure he is dead.”

Tristan glanced at the body. Blood trickled from a wound on his head. Fellows’ eyes were open, wide, empty. Had there been even the smallest sign of life, it would have been accompanied by painful cries and groans. “He is dead. Of that I am certain.”

“What do we do now?” Isabella straightened but turned her back to the disturbing sight.

“I shall handle this,” Lord Fernall said in his usual authoritative tone. “Leave now. Mr. Blackwood will assist me.”

Suspicion flared. For a man who had shown nothing but disinterest from the moment they had knocked his door, Lord Fernall must have had an epiphany. Either that or he imagined Mrs. Forester would lavish him with attention when he described stumbling upon the distressing event.

“What will you say?” Tristan asked. It occurred to him that, whether Lord Fernall accepted the fact or not, Mr. Fellows was his brother and by rights, it was his responsibility to deal with the situation.

“My father saw fit to degrade the Fernall name. I will not add to my burden by revealing he was murdered by his illegitimate son.” Fernall cleared his throat. “Whilst I would like to wipe my hands of the whole affair, I see an opportunity to deal with things in a quiet, unassuming manner.”

“There are a number of witnesses who will say he simply ran out into the road.” Tristan glanced at the group whispering to each other and pointing at the body. “It was an accident. With such dense fog, no one will be surprised.”

“We will just be two more passing witnesses,” Lord Fernall replied. “That is if Blackwood here can hold his nerve.”

Tristan observed Mr. Blackwood whose countenance expressed nothing but relief.

“What happened to Mr. Fellows’ pistol?” Tristan asked. “There’s every chance someone heard the loud crack.”

“I have it.” Mr. Blackwood quickly opened the front of his coat to reveal the metal object tucked into the band of his breeches.

“Close your damn coat, man, before someone notices,” Lord Fernall whispered through gritted teeth.

“You will have to say you heard what sounded like a shot,” Tristan said, “suggest someone may have attempted to rob him in the park and that was why he was running.”

“We shall remain here and offer a statement.” Lord Fernall nodded. “But before you go, I would like your permission to burn the notebook. I trust that the information gleaned will be kept in confidence.”

Tristan had no desire to read of Samuel Fernall’s debauched lifestyle, nor did he wish to be in possession of an item that linked him to Mr. Fellows. Besides, the sooner they put the past behind them, the better.

“Under the circumstances,” he said, glancing once more at the crumpled body, “I doubt we shall have need of it. You may keep it providing Lady Fernall is in agreement.”

Isabella nodded. “It is of no use to me.” She tugged his arm and whispered. “What about the sketch?”

“Don’t worry.” Offering a sly smirk, Tristan tapped the breast pocket of his coat. “It is safe.” He turned his attention to Lord Fernall. “I shall call on you tomorrow to see how you fared.”

Lord Fernall inclined his head. “If I am not at home you may find me at White’s.”

They had taken but a few steps when Lord Fernall called out to Isabella. “If you still wish to remain at Highley Grange, then you have my word you will be left to live there in peace.”

She pursed her lips, remained silent for a moment. “Thank you, but I shall make my own arrangements. After all that has happened, I cannot envisage living there again.”

Lord Fernall made no protest. Indeed, a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. “As you wish. You may forward any extra expenses you incur as a consequence to my man in Jermyn Street.”

Tristan clenched his jaw. It took all the effort he possessed not to curse the pompous lord and inform him Isabella would not need his charity again.

“Thank you,” she said politely. “But my current situation is adequate for my needs.”

As they walked away, Tristan decided it was time to address her current situation, to make her an offer he hoped she would not refuse.

As previously agreed, Dawes was waiting on the corner of Bolton Street. Tristan helped Isabella into the carriage, conveyed instructions to the coachman before climbing into the conveyance.

Tristan cleared his throat. “If I ever ask you to remain at home again, you have permission to curse me to the devil.” Guilt still ate away at him when he thought of Isabella greeting a murderer at the door.

“I think I would rather be abducted by Mr. Fellows than be forced to squat behind a bush with Henry Fernall.”

He suspected her amusing comment was said purely to ease his conscience.

“Do you think it wise to call on Henry tomorrow?” Isabella continued. “Judging by the stern look on your face I thought you were about to strangle him with his cravat.”

“Trust me. I was tempted.” Indeed, it had taken a tremendous amount of willpower not to punch Henry Fernall hard in his gut. “I don’t know how he can look you in the eye when he behaved so appallingly.”