by Faye Hall
There was another mystery though. What had Amanda been doing out there? When he found her body, she was unconscious, a bloodied gash across her face. It was obvious she had been attacked by someone or something, but who?
His mind suddenly so much clearer than it had been a week ago, he slipped a note on his meal tray to send for Douglas. When the lawyer arrived at his door, asking what he wanted, Tristen instructed him to find out who might have wanted to impersonate him that night in the hope of tricking Jacob.
The next day, Douglas unlocked the doors. “I need you to come to your father’s study and look at some papers.”
Tristen stalled. “Aren’t you worried I’m still an addict?”
“You always will be,” Douglas explained. “But for now you’re clean, and if we work together, we should be able to keep you that way.”
He left his room, following Douglas to the study. Going inside, he took a seat at what had once been his father’s desk.
“Did you bring me papers to sign?”
“It’s only Wednesday,” Douglas replied. “I’ll bring those papers in a few days. I brought you something else I thought you might be interested in.” He handed over several sheets of parchment. “Copies of all the properties Bastian Tanner owns and leases, along with the dealers he does business with.”
Tristen laid the papers on the desk in front of him and glanced over the names. He knew most of them as his father had done business with them too. As for the leased properties, he knew these too, and that they were little better than barren paddocks of wasteland and dying livestock. They certainly weren’t anything of value to a man not willing, or able, to work his fingers to the bone. Shuffling the papers in his hands, he looked at the second and third pieces of parchment, his eyes scanning names of hotels and establishments that had nothing to do with cattle business.
“What is this?” he asked.
“I thought they might just give you the reason you needed to beat your addiction and keep living a little longer.”
Tristen looked at him, genuinely confused.
“The names on those last two pages are the places Bastian frequents weekly,” Douglas continued. “He spends more money in them than he could ever make.”
Tristen looked again at what was written on the papers in his hands. He knew these places and their reputations. “Most of these are molly houses though.”
Douglas nodded.
“I don’t understand,” Tristen said. “I was told Bastian was engaged to Amalie.”
“He is,” Douglas replied. “But as I told you, their match was not for love.”
Tristen eyed him intently. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Douglas took a seat opposite him. “Before your father died, he told me that Amalie’s father was being blackmailed. Whoever it was demanding money, claimed to have seen Michael Fergus leaving a molly house.”
“I don’t believe it,” Tristen gasped. “Surely there was no merit in the claim?”
Douglas pursed his lips. “There must have been because your father asked me to follow Michael, both to see who could have been blackmailing him and to see if the accusations had merit.”
Tristen sat back in his chair. “Why would my father care who Amalie’s father was sleeping with?”
“He didn’t, but he did care to know if one of his business partners risked going bankrupt.”
“So what did you find out?” Tristen asked.
“I saw Michael Fergus and Bastian together in one of the clubs. They were sitting at the bar sharing a drink and talking. A few days later, Amalie’s engagement was announced.”
“Why would two men meet in a molly house to discuss wedding plans?” Tristen asked. “Men go to such places when they would rather enjoy each other’s company over that of a woman’s.”
Douglas nodded. Suddenly, the obvious dawned on Tristen.
“Are you saying you found proof that both Bastian and Amalie’s father frequented a molly house?”
Douglas shook his head. “I’m saying Bastian was having an affair with Michael Fergus and threatened to tell about it if he wasn’t paid.”
“So why is Amalie marrying him? I mean, why would her father allow it given his relationship with Bastian?”
Douglas leaned forward across the desk. “Have you any idea how much Amalie stands to inherit upon the death of her father?”
“She will inherit nothing,” Tristen said solemnly.
“You must be mistaken.”
Tristen shook his head. “Jacob told me before he died that his father had squandered much of the family fortune. If the old man dies, what little is left of the money shall pay out his expenses and not much else. The only thing stopping them from falling into complete ruin is their good name. That’s why he’s been in such a hurry to find Amalie a husband. He needs to sell her off to the highest bidder before he loses everything.”
“You can be sure of this?” Douglas asked.
“Certain,” Tristen replied. “I also know that Bastian’s own inheritance is even less.”
“None of this makes any sense. Amalie’s marriage was arranged so her family might replenish some of their wealth. Bastian is blackmailing old man Fergus to laden his own pockets with money. Yet you’re telling me that neither man has any wealth to speak of?”
Tristen nodded, knowing such information must be hard to grasp. “Does Amalie know that her fiancé prefers the company of men?” he asked, turning the direction of the conversation toward something that concerned him far more than money.
Douglas shook his head. “Not that I know of, but if their marriage goes ahead, I imagine she will find out very quickly.”
“Someone needs to tell her,” Tristen insisted. “She needs to know who she’s getting herself involved with.”
“While her father is alive there is no point,” Douglas stated. “If you go to him now, whatever you say will just sound like desperate words from a desperate man. Remember that what remains of the Fergus family are convinced it was you who lit the fire who killed Jacob.”
“I need you to help me prove otherwise,” Tristen pleaded. “Do whatever you have to. Pay whatever you have to. There has to be someone out there who saw someone running from the cottage that night.”
Douglas nodded. “I will ask, but I can’t promise I’ll find anything. Most people are convinced that it was you who lit the fire.”
Tristen reached for pen and paper. “I have to at least try to make Amalie listen to me and believe my innocence until you can prove it. Just because she has turned her back on me doesn’t mean I must do the same to her.”
Douglas reached for his hand, stopping him from writing. “And what exactly will you say to her?” he asked. “Have you thought about that? You can’t just tell her that her fiancé prefers men without her wondering exactly how you might know such a thing. If you care for Amalie as much as you claim to, then tell her that. Plead your innocence in the death of her brother. The rest will follow suit.”
He stared at Douglas, irritated to know there was sense in what he was just told. The man Tristen used to be could easily discredit another without his own reputation coming into question. He wasn’t that man any more though. To Amalie, he was a monster. Fidgeting with the pen, he thought carefully about what he needed her to know most.
“Before the fire, I told Jacob about me and Amalie,” he confessed to Douglas. “Jacob told me then that his sister was pregnant.”
Douglas moved his hand back away from his. “I didn’t know you knew about the baby.”
Tristen’s gaze narrowed. “How did you know?”
Douglas stalled, and Tristen knew he was hiding something.
“Just tell me,” Tristen insisted.
“A doctor was called to the Fergus station. When he got there, Amalie was lying on the bed writhing in pain, her skirts covered in blood.”
“What happened?” Tristen gasped, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.
Douglas shrugged. “No one k
nows for sure, but the doctor was certain she’d been pregnant and the blood came from a miscarriage.”
What he heard broke his heart. Not only had he lost Amalie, but their baby too. “How is she?” he asked, fearful what the answer might be.
“From what I’ve been told, she is recovering, but I don’t know much more.”
Tristen placed the pen on the paper in front of him. He knew what he needed to write now. Amalie needed to know that she wasn’t alone, and that he still loved her as much at this moment as he did when they started their affair. He needed to tell her that he had planned to ask for her hand in marriage the night of the fire, and if she could bring herself to live with what he had become, his offer was still there.
When he finished penning the words, Tristen folded the paper and placed it in an envelope. Sealing it, he held it out to Douglas. “I will write a letter a week and give it to you every Friday when we’ve finished our business.”
“I am no message boy,” the lawyer reminded him.
Tristen glared at him. “I am paying you well enough to be whatever I need you to be.”
Douglas took the letter. “You could deliver this yourself, you know. A passionate plea from the heart, face-to-face, will mean so much more than just ink and parchment.”
Tristen shook his head. “If she looks at me, all she will see is a monster. I can’t bear to watch her turn away from me again. Besides, I’ve been told that if I go to the Fergus estate again, I’ll be shot on sight.”
“And what of Bastian?” Douglas asked. “You obviously enquired about his business details for a reason.”
“Keep an eye on him,” he ordered Douglas. “If I’m right and he has been having an affair with Michael Fergus to gain access to his family’s wealth, it won’t take long for him to learn the old man has nothing to take. When that happens, I dread to think what he will do.”
“And what about the properties Bastian’s involved with?” the lawyer asked.
Tristen stayed silent, suddenly feeling something other than apathy. It was time Bastian learned that simply owning a property didn’t make a man powerful or a good businessman. His father had been right, a man had to struggle to succeed, and that was exactly what Tristen intended to make Bastian do.
“Take it all,” he finally instructed Douglas.
Chapter 6
Bastian was quickly losing control of everything. After the death of his father, he was certain he would have inherited his father’s businesses and properties. Never could he have imagined that his father’s claim of bankruptcy would mean every single thing they owned would be repossessed and sold off to the highest bidder.
Desperate to regain control over his father’s enterprise, he went to the auction house to try to locate the deed papers so he could steal them back before they could be sold. After the auctioneer discovered him rummaging through one of the offices out back, Bastian was promptly ushered out of the building. Struggling against the men dragging him from the establishment, he demanded to know about his family’s properties. As he was thrown onto the dusty ground, he was told quite abruptly that they had been sold off prior to the auction to Tristen Brone.
Thinking he might still be able to find his way out of the financial ruin he now found himself in, he went to the bank to see about selling some of the smaller assets he had managed to acquire over the years, including several failed property ventures and the shabby, little hovel in town his father had signed over to him a few years ago. He was furious to learn that the bank would no longer loan him any more money, and were in fact calling in his debts and selling off what he owned to cover the exuberant amount of money he owed them. Struggling to control his anger, he demanded to know who bought up everything he had lied and cheated to obtain. As Tristen’s name rolled off the bank manager’s tongue, Bastian had to pull on all his strength to stop from reaching over and strangling the man with his own tie.
Being given only a few days to pack up his stuff and move from the town house to other lodgings, Bastian grew desperate. He began calling in every favor he could, but no one was able to give him the funds he needed. Finally, he managed to gather up some money by blackmailing several of his ex-lovers, enough at least to rent a room for a few nights at the Anabranch Hotel.
He planned to go see Michael Fergus and see if he could get his marriage to Amalie brought forward. He was certain once he was married, the dowry she would bring with her would be sufficient to get him back on his feet. Then a note arrived for him from the Fergus estate. Fearing he was losing control over the old man, he immediately went to remind him of the power he held over him. By the time he reined his horse in at the back of the Fergus estate, his temper was soaring.
Storming into the back entrance of the house, Bastian hurried to Michael’s study. Without knocking, he barged inside and threw the folded piece of parchment in his hand down on the desk.
“What the hell is this?”
Old man Fergus glanced up from the papers he was reviewing. “Were you unable to read it?”
“Of course I could read it, you old fool!” Bastian roared. “Have you lost your mind though? You can’t just send me a note to say you have canceled my engagement to Amalie.”
Michael’s attention returned to the papers before him. “I assure you my mind is quite clear,” he retorted. “As for the engagement, I will not stand idly by and watch you slowly kill my daughter just so you can take possession of what you think she will inherit.”
Bastian leaned across the desk toward him threateningly. “Need I remind you how easily I could destroy you in a single moment? If one word of our affair gets out—”
“Affair?” The old man looked up at him, appearing more confident than he had been in months. “That would imply we were lovers, something I can say for certain we never have been.”
“We shared a bed,” Bastian hissed.
Michael shook his head. “No, we didn’t. We shared a fuck in some dark, dingy room at a bawdy house in town.”
Bastian straightened. “I don’t have to stay here and listen to this.” He turned away from the old man and stormed toward the door.
“Did I mention that I have hired an investigator to look into the fire that killed my son?” Michael called out, stopping him in his steps.
Bastian turned back to him. “I’ve already told you what happened that night. I told you I saw Tristen light the fire.”
“I know what you told me, but due to some recent business contacts I have rekindled, and their information, I find myself untrusting of any information you give of that night.”
“What are you saying?”
Michael got up from his seat and walked around behind Bastian, leaning into him. “I’m saying that I think you lit that fire to kill my son. I suppose you thought that with him dead you had a better chance of getting everything I owned. If my investigator comes back with anything linking you to the fire, I’m going straight to the police.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Bastian watched as the old man walked toward the door.
“I think it best if I call one of the servants to escort you out,” he muttered. “After all, if you were capable of lighting that fire, there’s nothing to stop you from lurking in this house and stabbing both me and my daughter in our sleep.” Michael ducked his head out the door to call a servant.
An investigator? Bastian couldn’t allow that to happen, nor could he afford for Michael to take Amalie and her properties away from him. Taking this split second as his opportunity, Bastian stepped toward the desk, reaching in his pocket for the bottle of digitalis hidden there. Uncorking it, he poured several drops into the half-full glass of whiskey on the desk before quickly hiding the vial back in his jacket.
“What are you doing?” Michael yelled from behind him.
Bastian turned to face him. “I just thought to see who these rekindled business partners were you spoke of, and how they would react to dealing with a person who frequents a molly house.”
The old man
laughed. “Your father was right. You really are a foolish boy. Good business doesn’t depend on who you’re rogering.”
Bastian raised his brow. “And what of your reputation?”
“Fuck my reputation!” the old man yelled. “If I find you are guilty of murdering my son, I will happily hand you over to the police. You can tell them what you want about me. I don’t care a sod for my reputation. All I care is that you pay for the sins you have committed.”
Just as Bastian lunged toward the old man, his hands raised toward his throat, two large men stormed into the office and grabbed him by the arms, dragging him from the room.
“Let me go, you bastards!” he yelled.
The men didn’t listen though. They just continued to drag him through the house and out the back door, throwing him in the direction of his horse. Stumbling to stay on his feet, Bastian immediately regained his balance and, standing upright, straightened his clothes. Old man Fergus would learn not to betray him.
Bastian knew he could no longer rely on his engagement to Amalie to safeguard his financial future. It was only a matter of time before her father told her about the annulment. Pulling himself up into the saddle, he kicked the animal in the flanks and steered it in the direction of the Heather estate. Without the Fergus money to sustain his lifestyle, he needed to ensure Albert didn’t back out of their business deal. He wanted those papers signed today so he could get the old bastard’s money into the account he’d opened.
* * * *
Amalie left her bed and walked to her father’s study, her steps slow as she was still quite tender from being assaulted. “May I come in?” she asked softly from the open doorway.
The old man looked up from his desk, eying her over his glasses. “The doctor insisted you needed rest.”
She nodded, gingerly stepping into the study and making her way over to where her father sat. “And I have been.”