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

He narrowed his gaze. “You always did know what to say in any given situation. It is one of the things—” he stopped abruptly, waved his hand in the air. “The more we converse, the further we seem to stray from the original point.” His tone was somewhat sharper. “You said you wished to speak to me about Andrew. Am I to assume it was to pay your respects privately?”

Isabella watched him draw back behind a solid wall of ice, a defensive manoeuvre that sent a frosty chill rushing through her.

“Whilst I grieve for Andrew that is not why I was compelled to come here this evening.”

He shrugged. “Then what forced you to seek me out?”

Sucking in a breath and squaring her shoulders, she said, “I believe your brother’s death was not accidental. I believe someone murdered him.”

Tristan jerked his head back as though reeling from a hard slap. “You believe Andrew was m-murdered?” He gulped and swallowed deeply. “Why on earth would you think that?”

The story was far too complicated to condense into a sentence or two. “I cannot explain it now. But say you will meet me tomorrow in Hyde Park, and I will tell you everything.” Panic flared. She flew forward, put a hand on his arm. “You are the only person I can turn to for help.”

He stared at her black glove as though it was something foreign to him, something dirty and tainted. When his brows knitted together and a look of disdain flashed in his eyes, she knew he did not believe her.

“Andrew is dead,” he said bluntly. “Nothing I can do or say will bring him back.” He shuffled to the edge of the seat, wrapped his fingers around the handle on the carriage door. “I suggest you speak to your husband if you are in need of attention, for I cannot think of a single reason why someone would wish to hurt my brother.”

Isabella gaped at him as he opened the door and vaulted down to the pavement.

He struggled to look at her. “If I’ve any hope of being happy here, I must move forward. I cannot revisit the past. I’m sure you understand.” Without another word, he closed the door.

The clip of his shoes faded into the distance.

Isabella sat back in the seat as she struggled to make sense of her chaotic thoughts. She should have explained the catalogue of mysterious events before revealing her suspicions. Still, the mere mention of murder failed to rouse his curiosity. Indeed, he had implied she was somewhat dramatic, perhaps even deceitful.

How hypocritical of him.

He didn’t trust her. Their history obviously still weighed heavily on his mind. Perhaps he’d suspected she was the one responsible for informing his father of their elopement. Perhaps he’d doubted her desire to marry him and thought she had used any means necessary to avoid the match, and that had been the reason behind his sudden change of heart.

Something else troubled her, too.

Why would he tell her to speak to her husband?

How could he not know that Lord Fernall was dead?

Chapter 3

“Have no fear,” Matthew Chandler said slapping Tristan playfully on the back. “You’ll find no desperate debutantes here. There’s no need to scurry behind potted ferns in a bid to hide from matchmaking matrons. Trust me. Any virgin seen stepping through my door is sure to find their reputation in tatters come the morning.”

Tristan smiled as he let the decadent atmosphere soothe his anxious spirit. “There are some who would frown at the mere mention of me attending a masquerade so soon after Andrew’s death.”

He glanced around the ballroom, at the array of vibrant and somewhat indecent costumes, feeling rather more cheerful than he had of late. A few entertaining hours spent in Chandler’s townhouse was just what he needed. And his black domino afforded a certain anonymity.

“Propriety is not something my guests are overly concerned with.” Chandler’s green eyes shone with amusement. “You should make the most of the relaxed modes of decorum. Indulging one’s desires is a sure way to ease a troubled mind, my friend.”

Tristan had no intention of conducting an illicit liaison. He was simply grateful not to have Miss Smythe hanging from his coattails. “I was expected to attend Lady Padmore’s soiree, but I would prefer to stick pins in my eyes than endure another evening of fake smiles and mindless drivel.”

“I still don’t understand why you came home.” Chandler sighed. “Why give up your happiness just so an heir, which you have yet to produce I might add, can enjoy a life of wealth and prosperity long after you are dead. Spend it all now. That’s what I say. Live every day as though it could be your last.”

Tristan snorted. He admired Chandler’s honesty and relaxed attitude, but their circumstances were entirely different. “Your brother is still very much alive, possess good business acumen, is sensible enough to ensure your mother and sister never need go without. Your uncle dotes on you, pays your tailor’s bills and the repairs to your carriage. If you were forced to take your brother’s place, would you still host your exclusive parties then?”

Chandler shook his head. “Good Lord. You have been spending far too much time with your mother. Worrying is not good for the constitution. You’ll be grey and wrinkled before you reach thirty.” He draped his arm around Tristan’s shoulder and stared out over the crowded room. “You see all these people dancing, drinking and making merry. Everyone in here, bar you, has paid for the privilege.” Chandler chuckled. “Since Lord Delmont decided to retire from hosting his scandalous balls, I have been inundated with requests for membership. This is an exclusive club of sorts. Uncle Herbert hasn’t had to put his hand in his pocket for months.”

Tristan envied any man who had the courage and the wherewithal to live as he pleased. “Then I commend your efforts. But let me ask you a question. What will you do when you meet a woman you admire, one who disapproves of what you do here? Would you turn your back on a life of decadence and debauchery? Would you give it all up for love?”

“Love?” he scoffed. “I imagine love to be akin to madness, and I have no desire to spend my days in Bedlam.” Chandler brushed his mop of black hair from his brow. “Thankfully, I’m a man incapable of expressing sentiment. However, should such an unlikely occasion arise, I shall just have to hope she’s an heiress willing to trade money for aristocratic lineage.”

Tristan laughed. It was refreshing to spend time with someone with such loose morals.

“Come.” Chandler continued. “I’ll not leave you alone to wilt like a wallflower in the corner. If we cannot find a woman to spark your interest, we will drown your sorrows in a bottle of brandy.”

Tristan was about to surrender to his friend’s profligate suggestion when he noticed Chandler’s footman waving at them from the stairs. “It appears your footman wishes you to acknowledge him. Either that or he is so happy in his employment he wants the whole world to know.”

“Do I detect a hint of humour?” Chandler gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs. “See. You are beginning to sound more like your old self by the minute.”

After witnessing an exchange of nods and odd hand gestures, Tristan watched the footman return to his post. “I assume you could make sense of his ticks and twitches.”

Chandler nodded. “Of course. We have an interloper at the door. A lady seeking admittance. My footmen know not to turn away such a ravishing beauty for something as trivial as lacking an invitation.”

“How do you know she’s a ravishing beauty?” Tristan asked somewhat baffled.

“It is simple,” Chandler informed. “When Dodson touches his finger to his cheek, that means she is beautiful. When he pats his chest, that means she has the assets required to tempt a man to sin.”

“Good Lord.” Despite the licentious nature of the conversation, Tristan found it far more interesting than talk of ribbons and pins. “So have you given Dodson permission to let her in?”

“You should know I would never want a lady to leave here dissatisfied.” Chandler raised an arrogant brow. “It would be disastrous for my reputation. Now, don’t tear your gaze away from the stairs. Our beauty is about to make her entrance. Perhaps it might be my lady love, my heiress come to save me from a life as a dissolute rake.”

Tristan did not envy anyone forced to make a late appearance. To descend a flight of stairs whilst a hundred pairs of eyes searched for every flaw or imperfection required a certain amount of courage.

He stood next to Chandler and watched with interest. The blood pumped through his veins at far too rapid a rate. The hairs at his nape jumped to attention. He felt excited, alive.

It felt so damn good.

As the mysterious beauty came through the double doors at the top of the stairs, Tristan sucked in a breath. Dressed in a close-fitting black silk gown, her face obscured by a black jewelled mask, the lady was utterly captivating.

“Most people believe black to be a morbid colour,” Chandler said, his eyes fixed on the lady before them. “Some would say it is rather dull and uninspiring. But I say it creates an air of wickedness, an element of intrigue that speaks to the hearts of men.”

Tristan stared. “Hearts? Are you certain that is the word you wished to use?”

“Watch how she scans the crowd,” Chandler said, his rich tone conveying the fact he found the sight highly stimulating. “Watch how she holds her neck defiantly, a warning to those who dare to question her right to be here.”

“Do … do you know her?” Tristan struggled to force the words from his mouth.

Chandler turned to look at him, his brows drawn together. “Are you telling me that you don’t? If so, I suggest you look a little closer. Indeed, her attendance here tonight is not a coincidence.” He turned his attention back to the lady on the stairs, rubbed his chin and said, “How interesting.”

Tristan blinked, narrowed his gaze and stared beyond the glittering mask and rouged lips. Her ebony hair was tied back in a loose knot at her nape. The style was simple. It reflected a relaxed attitude, a lack of vanity so opposed to the sensual aura she radiated. As he noted the narrow shape of her chin, the creamy hue of her skin, he felt the familiar tightening in his abdomen that only ever occurred with one woman. Whilst her eyes were hidden behind the delicate mask, he would stake his life that they were a dark, chocolate brown.

“Isabella.” He had not intended to say her name out loud.

“Indeed,” Chandler said with a hint of intrigue.

“What the bloody hell is she doing here?” Only one thought took prominence. Had she come to meet a lover? Jealousy slithered through him.

Chandler cast him a look of disappointment. “What do you think she’s doing here? Lord above, all that time spent sleeping with monks has affected your brain.”

“I was not sleeping with monks,” he snapped. He was not sleeping with anyone.

“Do not underestimate the power of the pious,” Chandler chuckled. “Their holy essence lingers in the shadows waiting to numb the senses of unsuspecting gentlemen.”

“Have no fear on that score. I am immune.” Tristan snorted. Chandler would be shocked to learn of all the things he had done whilst working for the Crown. “During my time in France, I committed many sins against the Lord. All in the name of justice, of course.”

His work with Marcus Danbury had resulted in countless fights and brawls, often with pistols and swords, occasionally resulting in death. His wild escapades had moulded his character, made him the man he was today. Not the preened, pretentious prig he saw in the mirror, but the man strong enough to fight for a cause.

“Well, I’m somewhat pleased to hear you finally found the courage to seek refuge in another woman’s arms.”

Tristan turned to him. He could not suppress the dark cloud descending. “There has never been anyone else. It has always been Isabella.”

“Holy heaven.” Chandler rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “There is a small part of me that is curious to know what it feels like to be that obsessed with a woman. Do you sleep at night? Does the intense feeling of longing ever subside?”

“No.”

“Good Lord! Then you’re in need of more than a drink.”

Tristan watched Isabella hovering on the opposite side of the room, waiting to see who she spoke to, but he struggled to keep her in his line of sight. “What is she doing here, Matthew?” He sighed as he brushed his hand through his hair. But the sudden urge to protect her grew fierce. “Lord Fernall is a blasted idiot. Why would he allow her to venture out on her own at night?”

“I’m confused,” Chandler said. “Are you speaking of her stepson? It does sound ludicrous that I should refer to Henry as such when they are practically the same age.”

Tristan frowned. “I was not speaking of Henry Fernall, but of her husband.”

Chandler slapped his hand to his chest and stepped back. “Her husband?” he repeated. “But Lord Fernall is dead. Surely you knew.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Tristan repeated the words over and over in his mind for fear he had misheard.

“Dead!” Tristan shook his head. “But you must be mistaken. My mother would have told me.” He had seen Henry Fernall at the theatre, but in the crush they had not had a chance to speak. “Someone would have mentioned the fact.”

Chandler shrugged. “People probably assumed you knew. As did I.”

Tristan stared out across the sea of heads to find Isabella still standing alone. Why the bloody hell hadn’t she mentioned it when she’d asked to speak to him in her carriage. Whilst he was annoyed that she had not had the decency to offer her condolences for Andrew’s death, he was guilty of the same crime.