What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (5 page)

Just thinking about her time at Highley Grange sent shivers rippling through her. “In the two days prior, we experienced various unexplainable events — strange noises, the sound of footsteps pacing the landing in the dead of night. And then there was a spate of accidents. The horse Samuel had ridden for years threw him unexpectedly. He was walking outside when two tiles slipped from the roof, missing his head by mere inches. I believe someone or something forced him from his bed that night and pushed him down the stairs.”

Tristan leant closer, his interest in the topic evident. “Something? You cannot mean an animal, which leads me to conclude you mean a …” Even an erratic wave of his hand failed to help him say the word.

“A ghost. A phantom. The spirit of his first wife.”

“Surely you’re not serious?”

Raising her chin, she attempted to rouse an element of confidence even though she knew her assumptions were evidence of an unstable mind. “I understand it is hard for you to comprehend,” she said, noting the way his bottom lip almost touched his chin. “Had our situations been reversed, I would have tried to find a rational explanation for the sinister events. But I have witnessed things, terrible things that defy all logic and reason.”

Tristan sat back. “What sort of terrible things?”

“I should start by explaining that we were not at Grangefields, the Fernall’s family home, but at Highley Grange. It is a house Samuel bought for the sole purpose of entertaining, for those times when he wished for privacy to host his sordid parties. Ordinarily, I would not have been permitted to reside there. But Samuel often found it amusing to taunt those closest to him and I believe, that in those last few days, he feared being alone.”

A feminine screech sliced through the air, making them both jump to their feet. She grabbed Tristan’s sleeve as her frantic gaze scoured the mass of green foliage and tall shrubbery.

Had the wailing widow followed her to London?

Tristan placed his hand over hers. “It is nothing to cause alarm. It is just a few amorous guests lurking behind the hedgerow.”

The heat from his hand penetrated her gloves. The friendly gesture was remarkably soothing. Indeed, for a moment she almost forgot she was utterly alone in the world.

She was about to speak when Mr. Chandler sauntered out from behind the topiary hedge. A lady in the guise of a shepherdess hung from one arm. A dishevelled nun, wearing a grass-stained grey tunic, clutched the other.

“You were right to decline my offer,” Mr. Chandler called out as the trio strolled back towards the house. “When a man is starving, the last thing he ought to do is share his meal.”

Tristan turned to her and snorted in amusement. “Chandler is a rogue though I cannot help but like him.”

“He does appear to have a certain appeal. I’m sure you would have preferred to frolic in the bushes with his companions than hear my morbid tale.” A pang of jealousy caused a pain in her chest. Rather than feel disgruntled, she welcomed the feeling for it meant her heart wasn’t completely dead.

“Whilst I enjoy Chandler’s company, we have very different views on courtship.”

Once, she had presumed to know Tristan’s character. But she would not make the same mistake again. “Well, you do not have to explain yourself to me.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the air.

“You were telling me about the terrible things you witnessed at Highley Grange,” he eventually reminded her.

A host of inconceivable images flashed into her mind. “Have you ever seen a ghost? Have you ever seen a spectre disappear before your eyes?” The gravity of her situation lent for a more direct approach.

Tristan jerked his head back in astonishment. “No. But I am of the mind that the living are far more terrifying than the dead.” He offered his arm. “Shall we walk? It is not a conversation to have whilst people are lingering in the bushes. By its very nature, the topic would see us both locked away in Bedlam.”

She threaded her arm through his. They followed the path around the perimeter of the manicured lawn, until the music spilling out from the ballroom became quieter, less of a din.

“The living may be more terrifying,” she said, “but at least one can form a rational opinion of what they see. With the dead, one cannot apply the same logic.” Indeed, she still struggled to find an explanation for what she had witnessed. “I saw an image of a woman dressed in a white shroud. She stood at the end of a long corridor, pointed her bony finger at me and whispered for me to ‘get out’. I buried my head in my hands and when I found the courage to look up she was gone. Suppressing all fear and by sheer strength of will, I took a candlestick in hand and wandered down the empty corridor. I checked all the rooms but found no one.”

Tristan inhaled deeply. “That does not mean that this woman in white was a ghost.
The mind is a precarious thing. Bleak thoughts bring on bouts of melancholy. One’s mood can affect one’s interpretation.”

Was he implying she had imagined the whole thing?

“What, you believe my fragile emotions played some part in how I perceived the situation?”

He glanced heavenward. “Look up at the sky and tell me what you see. Be specific, detailed.”

Isabella stared at him for a moment. It was an odd request. But he had listened patiently to her story, and so she chose to afford him a similar courtesy.

She glanced up at the night sky but struggled to concentrate knowing he was watching her. “The sky is dark,” she began.

“Be more specific. Describe exactly what you see.”

“Very well.” She huffed as she craned her neck. “I see a cold black canopy. I see a … a crescent moon shaped like a farmer’s scythe: pointed, sharp, the blade a perfect arch. I see bright stars smothered by dark, ominous-looking clouds.”

When she lowered her gaze, he was facing her.

“Then you see sadness and despair,” he said, his sorrowful tone evoking those feelings. “Our perception can alter our view of reality. Your mind has convinced you that there are evil spirits at work, and so everything you see is twisted in order to confirm and support your theory.”

She shook her head. “But what of the items that disappear from my dressing table? What of the widow’s wails that wake me at night? What of the hound? I lie hidden behind the bed drapes imagining the terrifying sight beyond. I know if I find the courage to venture to the window, the beast will be sitting on the grass staring up at me. I know his beady black gaze will lock with mine as he bares his teeth, snarls and growls.”

“Isabella.” He put a hesitant hand to her cheek. Her throat grew tight, the lump so large she could hardly breathe. It took a tremendous effort not to close her eyes and take comfort from his touch. “I would lay odds the servants are responsible for the pilfering. No doubt the dog belongs to a local farmer. There is no devil at work. A ghost is not responsible for causing your anxiety. But if one considers your husband’s death, coupled with these odd events, then the obvious conclusion is that someone did intentionally cause him harm.”

“Andrew thought so, too. Now he is dead.”

Tristan’s hand slipped from her cheek. “Andrew fell off his horse.” His tone carried a hint of frustration. “It was an accident. A foolish one perhaps, but an accident all the same.”

She raised her chin defiantly. “An accident that occurred within ten minutes of him leaving Highley Grange.”

“Highley Grange?” A deep frown marred his brow, and she sensed him withdraw. “But my mother informed me he died on the road near Hoddesdon.”

“Yes. The Grange is less than half a mile from Hoddesdon.”

Tristan stepped back. He winced, rubbed the back of his neck over and over as though trying to ease an aching muscle. “You’re certain of this?”

“A gentleman who was travelling to Cambridge stopped to help him. He took one look at Andrew and knew he had broken his neck.” An icy chill ran through her as she recalled the memory. “Choosing not to move the body, he rode to the Grange to fetch help, what with it being the only house on that stretch of road. I sent Sedgewick into Hoddesdon to bring Dr. Monroe.”

Tristan dragged his hand down his face. “Andrew was an accomplished rider. Was there any explanation for the accident? My mother has been too distraught to discuss the finer details.”

“No. I recall someone mentioned they had found a dead fox on the road. It was suggested the creature startled the horse which consequently led to Andrew falling. His death was ruled an accident. The doctor dealt with everything. He informed the necessary authorities. We were required to give a brief statement. That was all.”

Muttering a string of curses, Tristan turned away. “Why the hell has no one told me any of this?” He paced back and forth; the sharp sound of crunching gravel underfoot conveyed frustration.

“I can only assume you’re right. Your mother cannot bear to talk about that night.” Isabella did not want to revisit the night, either. “Having lost one son, securing an heir seems to be her only focus. Perhaps having something else to think about has helped to ease her grief.”

He threw his hands in the air. “Despite the need to protect her feelings and honour her wishes, I will not rest until I know the truth.”

The tension thrumming in the air about them was almost tangible.

She so desperately wanted to ease his torment, thought of laying her hand on his chest to calm the heart she suspected thumped wildly within. But she kept her arms close to her side.

“I have not been back to Highley Grange for a month.” She could not envisage going back there again. “I am renting a house in Brook Street and—”

He swung around. “You’re unaccompanied whilst here in town?”

As a widow, it was quite acceptable. “I did not want to stay with Henry.” Samuel’s son and heir regarded her with disdain. He made no secret of the fact he disapproved of her marriage to his father. “And I knew if I wrote to you, you would not travel to see me.”

“Perhaps not.”

As they had not spoken since the night he had informed her they could only ever be friends, she would not have asked to stay in Bedford Square, either.

“I cannot afford to remain in town indefinitely. I must return h-home—” The sob almost choked her when she tried to suppress the sound. It was selfish of her to cry when he was the one who had lost his brother in so cruel a way. “I know I must go back, Tristan, but I am frightened.”

Without a word, he caught her wrist and pulled her to his chest. “I will help you find the person responsible for these crimes,” he said as he held her close. “You will go home, and you will live without fear. I promise you that.”

The hard shell around her heart splintered and cracked. She closed her eyes and inhaled the spicy masculine scent that made her head spin. She let the heat radiating from his body soothe her cold, tired limbs. Encompassed tightly in his arms was the only place she had ever felt safe.

He stepped back, cupped her face with both hands. “I will help you,” he repeated. “We will begin by returning to Highley Grange. Pack your things tonight. In the morning, I will meet you in Hoddesdon, opposite the Blue Boar Inn.”

“You’re … you’re coming home with me?” Isabella swallowed as she imagined them spending their days strolling in the garden, and their nights huddled around the fire.

He nodded. “Mention it to no one.”

That would not pose a problem. She had no friends amongst society.

“But what will you tell your mother?”

He shrugged. “I’ll say I'm going to Kempston Hall on business.”

An overwhelming sense of gratitude swelled in her chest. “Do you mean it? I cannot thank you enough, Tristan. After all that has happened, I never expected—”

He placed his finger on her lips. “Let us not speak of the past anymore. It will only hinder our progress. Let us accept that we share the same goal, accept that we can work together as friends.”

There was a time when she would have told him to go to the devil. But she needed him. She always had.

“You do realise that in offering your assistance you could potentially be risking your life.”

“We do not know that for certain,” he said confidently. There was not even a flicker of doubt in his dazzling blue eyes. “Until we can establish a motive for murder we cannot be sure of anything.”

When he heard the widow wailing, when he saw the bloodhound slobbering, then he might take a different view.

“We should return to the ballroom.” She glanced back at their masks lying on the stone bench. “I have much to attend to if I am to leave in the morning.”

He inclined his head. “I suggest we meet at nine. There must be at least thirty coaches passing through Hoddesdon every day on their way to Cambridge. I should like to avoid meeting anyone who might recognise me.”

“Nine?” she raised a brow. “But you would need to leave London before six. Is that not far too early for you?”

“At the monastery we often rose before dawn. Sometimes we never slept at all.”

“Why?” She smiled in amusement. “Was it some form of penance? Were you forced to confess your sins and say your prayers?”

“No, Isabella. We did what we had to do to stay one step ahead of the smugglers and murderers.”